Not with anyone.
Especially not with someone whose life sparkles as brightly, and dangerously, as Lila Hart’s.
***
Brent walks onto the field like bad news.
Fast. Purposeful. With a look on his face that says he’s already had this conversation in his head and didn’t enjoy any version of it.
He cuts across the field, dodging a loose football and a kid sprinting the wrong direction, phone still in his hand like it’s glued there. He gives a quick nod to a volunteer, then stops in front of me, lowering his voice without bothering to soften his tone.
“I need to talk to you.”
“This is supposed to be a kids’ clinic,” I mutter.
“And you'll get right back to it,” he says. “Right after our brief discussion.”
I take a breath and glance back at the field. The kids are laughing again, chasing each other in uneven lines.
“They want a statement by Friday,” Brent says.
Of course they do.
“Who’s they?” I ask, even though I already know.
“The league. The team. Everyone with money attached to your name,” he replies. “They want stability indicators.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “That phrase should come with a warning label.”
Brent doesn’t smile. “You know what it means.”
I do.
It means they want proof that I’m not unraveling. Proof that I won’t become a liability they have to explain away.
My stomach sinks.
“No,” I say immediately. “I’m not doing the ERS match. I’m not playing pretend with some woman just to calm the fanbase on social media.”
Brent’s jaw tightens. “This isn’t about social media.”
“Everything is about social media,” I shoot back.
He steps closer, lowering his voice further. “This is about your NFL contract. Your reputation. Your career.”
I turn away from him and watch a kid launch a football far too hard, then look stunned when it sails over everyone’s head.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say. “I shouldn’t have to prove I’m stable because someone else lied.”
Brent exhales slowly. “You're handing your enemies ammunition.”
I clench my fists, the anger sharp and familiar. “So the solution is to stick me next to a woman and hope people calm down?”
“The solution,” Brent says, “is to give them something predictable. Steady. Something that doesn’t feed the cycle.”
My jaw tightens. “You mean optics.”
He doesn’t deny it. “I mean survival.”
