For once, everything felt… easy. No noise, no headlines, no crowd waiting for me to screw up. Just her. Just us.
She wandered in a few minutes later, wearing my shirt and rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“You always this domestic after a win?” she teased, voice rough with sleep.
“Only when the victory’s worth celebrating,” I said.
She laughed softly and stole a sip of coffee straight from my mug. “You’re insufferable.”
“Still here, though.”
She shook her head, smiling as she leaned against the counter beside me. It was light, playful, normal—and for the first time in a long damn time, I was happy. Really, honestly happy.
When she went to shower, I grabbed my phone from the counter. A notification blinked—Cam. Figures. The man had the worst timing in human history.
“Morning, Cam,” I said, pressing the phone to my ear.
His voice was clipped, urgent. “Turn on the news.”
I frowned. “Why? It’s too early for that?—”
“Just do it.”
Something in his tone made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I fumbled for the remote and flipped to the sports channel.
The headline hit me like a punch:
STORM STAR STEALS TEAMMATE’S GIRL — TEAM IN DAMAGE CONTROL MODE.
My stomach dropped.
The screen filled with photos—grainy but clear enough. Me and Ellery, mid-kiss. Her hands in my hair, my hands on her hips.
I just stared. Coffee forgotten, pulse hammering in my ears.
Cam’s voice crackled through the phone. “You see it?”
“Yeah,” I managed. My throat felt tight.
“Management wants you at headquarters in an hour. No statements, no posts, no clever comments.”
I pressed my fingers against my temple. “They’re calling it an affair.”
“They’re calling it worse than that,” he said. “You’ll keep your mouth shut and let PR do its job.”
I paced the kitchen; the floorboards creaking under my bare feet. The coffee had gone cold on the counter. The sound of Ellery humming in the shower floated down the hallway, too gentle for the mess unraveling in my hands.
“Cam,” I said quietly, “she’s not part of this circus.”
He hesitated, and that half-second pause told me everything. “Every article has her name. She’s collateral damage now. I’m sorry.”
Collateral damage.
The words hit harder than anything else. Like she was a casualty of a war she didn’t even start.
I sank onto a stool, staring at the phone like it might burn through the counter. My jaw clenched until it hurt. Every camera in that ballroom, and I hadn’t seen a single one. Every smile, every handshake, every step out that door with her hand in mine—flashed, frozen, turned into a weapon.
She hadn’t asked for this. She hadn’t deserved it.
