The play rolls. I block clean. Release faster than usual. Catch in stride. Drive forward.
Another click.
Another clip. Same thing. Sharper feet. Better angles. Less hesitation.
Coach doesn’t look at me. “You played better with her in the building.”
He clicks again. Yardage numbers pop up. Metrics. Clean, unforgiving proof.
A second coach clears his throat. “It’s a positive,” he clears his throat. “This time. But your practices lately have been less than stellar.”
Coach Stenson adds, finally turning to me, “Don’t bring the drama onto the field.”
“It’s not like that,” I say, too fast.
He lifts a brow. “Doesn’t matter what it’s like. It matters what it looks like.”
The screen freezes on a shot of us after the win. Her kissing my cheek. Me smiling like an idiot.
“You’ve had a lot of exposure,” he continues. “Good and bad. You stay centered. Or I bench you.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
The meeting ends. No congratulations. No praise.
Just a warning dressed like advice.
I leave the facility long after most of the team is gone. The parking lot is quiet. Too quiet.
I sit in my truck with my head against the steering wheel and let the silence press in.
Pop stars burn hot but leave fast. Don’t get distracted. Stay professional. She’s good PR, bad focus. Stay centered or sit out.
It all blends into one truth I don’t want.
I’m falling for her.
Harder than I planned. Faster than I can manage.
And if I let this keep going, I could lose everything I’ve spent my life working for.
So I make the choice.
When I walk into the penthouse later, she looks up from the couch. Hope flickers.
“Hey,” she says softly.
I hesitate. Too long.
“Long day,” I say.
Her face falls. Just a little.
Just enough.
In my room, I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, hands clasped so tight my fingers ache.
The contract is temporary. The noise will die down. The lawsuit has already been dropped. My reputation is recovering.
