Approved visibility, I remind myself. This is part of the job.
The field opens up under the lights and it’s blinding.
Cameras everywhere. Reporters already forming loose circles around players, microphones up, questions half-formed. Fans screaming names. My name. His name. Our names braided together.
My boots slip a little on the turf and my heart spikes, sharp and sudden. I steady myself and keep walking.
I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with fame.
Then—
“Lila!”
I turn.
Cam is jogging toward me, helmet dangling from one hand. His cheeks are flushed. His hair is damp with sweat. His eyes are bright in a way that makes him look younger. Freer.
Unfiltered.
For a second, the noise drops away.
It’s just him. Coming toward me like this is normal. Like I’m where he expects me to be.
My chest aches.
I step forward without thinking. Congratulations rises to my lips, obvious and sincere, and my body beats my brain to it.
I lean in and kiss his cheek.
It’s quick. Soft.
The stadium explodes.
The sound crashes back in, louder than before. Shouts. Whistles. My name screamed in delight. Cameras snapping like fireworks.
Heat floods my face.
I pull back, startled by the reaction, already reaching for a laugh, for distance, for something tidy and safe to hide behind.
But Cam’s hand closes gently around my wrist.
His eyes meet mine, and there’s no calculation there. Just adrenaline and joy and something dangerously open.
The noise fades to a dull roar. His hand stays loose around mine. Not holding.
Asking.
My heart stutters.
I could step away. Smile. Wave. Let this be the safe version. The tidy version.
I don’t.
I step into him, close the space myself, rise onto my toes. His hands come up slowly, settling at my waist.
The kiss is warm. Steady. Deep in a way that feels intentional, not overwhelming. He kisses me like he knows exactly where he is—and exactly who I am.
My hands fist in his jersey because I want to, because the ground feels far away, because this feels real enough to risk.
