***
When the second half starts, I line up again. Same field. Same lights. Same noise.
But everything is different.
The game doesn’t feel loud anymore.
It feels clear.
I play sharper.
Not because I’ve let go.
Because I finally admit what I’ve been holding back.
I'm in love with her.
I didn’t mean for it to happen.
But it did.
Not the way the contract outlined. Not the way PR could spin.
Stupidly. Deeply.
And I ran.
After the game, the locker room empties in waves. Noise fades. Lights dim.
I sit alone on the bench, helmet at my feet, sweat cooling on my skin. My body aches. My chest aches worse.
“I didn't trust her,” I whisper. “And when I saw her with someone else, I jumped to conclusions.”
The words don’t make it better.
I close my eyes.
Because for the first time since I walked out of that penthouse, I understand exactly what I may have walked away from.
And I don't know if there is a way back.
Chapter thirty-one
Lila
Isit at my vanity with my elbows braced on the glass, staring through blurry, sleepless eyes. My makeup brushes are lined up neatly where I left them yesterday. Untouched. My hair is still in the loose, uneven braid I slept in, strands slipping free like they’ve given up on discipline entirely.
I feel the same way.
My phone buzzes again. And again. Calendar alerts. Messages from assistants. Gentle reminders escalating into urgent ones.
Pull it together. Show up. Be Lila Hart.
My chest tightens until it hurts to breathe.
All I can see is Cam walking out of the penthouse.
I tried to rehearse last night. Tried to drown it out with music the way I always do. But every chord sounded wrong. Every lyric bent toward him like a compass needle.
