Page 67 of Broken Blades

The sound hit my chest like a physical thing.

The whispers started before the couple even committed to approaching. I felt them coming—that particular shift in energy when recognition settled and someone decided social boundaries didn't apply to athletes in public spaces.

The guy leaned over from the adjacent table, all easy confidence and charming smile. "Hey man, sorry to interrupt—huge fan." His gaze slid sideways, landing on Chastity with open appreciation. "And your girl's gorgeous, by the way."

Chastity's entire face went crimson. Not the soft pink from earlier embarrassment. Full scarlet that crept down her throat and disappeared beneath the neckline of that black dress.

Something dark and territorial coiled in my chest. Not because he'd interrupted dinner. Not because the compliment was inappropriate—it wasn't, technically.

Because she reacted. Flushed and ducked her head and looked pleased for exactly two seconds before catching herself.

She'd responded to another man's attention.

And I hated it.

My smile stayed polite. Surface-level professional. The expression that kept fans happy while revealing absolutely nothing about what I was actually thinking. "I know."

The words came out flat. Possessive. Unapologetic.

The guy blinked. Processed. His smile faltered slightly as he registered the shift in temperature at our table.

"Right. Well. Uh, enjoy your night."

He retreated back to his own date while I watched him go, tracking the movement with the same cold assessment I used to clock opposing forwards crossing the blue line.

Chastity stared at me like I'd physically struck her. Not offended. Not flattered. Something sharper. More dangerous. Confusion mixed with awareness mixed with that pull I could see her fighting every time we occupied the same space.

"You can't just say things like that." Her whisper carried weight despite the low volume.

I reached for my water glass. Kept my expression neutral. "Why? It's part of the act."

The food arrived, and we settled into the rhythm of eating. Talking. Bickering over nothing—whether the wine she'd ordered was too sweet, whether my steak was too rare, whether the couple three tables over had been arguing or just talking passionately in Italian.

Normal things.

Date things.

Things that shouldn't feel this easy.

I leaned closer to point out something on the menu she'd been studying with unnecessary concentration—probably avoiding eye contact. My shoulder brushed hers. Close enough to smell that floral perfume again. Close enough to notice the way her pulse jumped at her throat.

"The scallops are good here." My voice dropped lower than necessary. Intimate. Like we were sharing secrets instead of dinner recommendations.

She glanced up, eyes wide. "How do you know?"

"I've been here before."

"With...?" She trailed off. Caught herself. Looked away quickly like she hadn't just asked about my dating history.

I almost smiled. "Alone."

"Oh."

That single syllable carried weight. Relief? Satisfaction? I couldn't tell and shouldn't care.

"You come to romantic restaurants alone?" Her tone shifted—teasing now. Lighter. The defensive edge from earlier dissolving into something dangerously close to playfulness.

"The steak's good. Location's irrelevant."