Chapter 10 #2
The food arrived in waves—platters of salmon and steak and roasted vegetables that Seph had clearly ordered for the entire table without consulting anyone.
Phoenix was systematically dismantling a bread roll while Cole watched him with an expression so soft it almost hurt to look at.
Keegan and Ash had gotten into a heated debate about the true GOAT, and we all agreed with a certain someone's recent political associations, he wasn't worth our discussion.
Nancy was holding court at the far end of the table, a glass of red wine in her hand, dispensing wisdom to three rookies who hung on her every word.
It felt like family. The messy, chaotic, too-loud kind that I'd never had and had stopped believing I deserved.
Cinder must have felt it too, because at some point during the main course, his hand found my thigh under the table.
Not suggestive—just there. Warm. Anchoring.
I covered it with my own, and the cold in my fingers receded just enough that I could feel his pulse against my palm.
It was odd, because the longer his hand stayed there, the warmer I became.
"Thank you," he said quietly, almost lost beneath the noise.
"For what?"
"For texting me. For wanting me here." He paused, his thumb tracing a small circle on my leg. "I almost didn't come."
"Why not?"
"Because I keep waiting for the part where I don't belong." He said it simply, like stating a medical fact, and the matter-of-factness of it made my chest ache worse than if he'd shouted.
"You belong," I said. "Here. With me. With all of them." I nodded toward the table, where Tyson had just stolen Max's dessert and Max was threatening retribution in three languages. "This is yours if you want it."
He looked at me then—really looked—and whatever he saw made something behind his eyes soften. "I'm starting to believe that."
"Good." I squeezed his hand. "Because I'm not letting you leave."
"Possessive."
"Protective."
"Same thing, coming from you."
I grinned, and he grinned back, and for a few perfect minutes the world was just this—candlelight and laughter and the warmth of his hand beneath mine.
Dessert had barely arrived when the noise level shifted.
Not inside the room. Outside it. A commotion at the front of the restaurant, raised voices, the sharp staccato of shoes on hardwood moving too fast. My dragon snapped to attention before my brain caught up, the cold coiling tight in my chest like a spring being compressed.
The door to the private room opened.
Not the waiter. Not the hostess. A man in a dark jacket with a camera around his neck and the hungry expression of someone who'd tracked prey to its den. Behind him, two more—one with a phone already recording, another clutching a notepad.
"There he is." The first one pointed directly at Cinder. "Cinder Adair. Mr. Adair, is it true you're in a relationship with one of the players? Can you confirm which—"
The room went very, very quiet.
Every player at that table shifted. Not dramatically—not standing up or shouting—but the collective attention of twenty professional athletes swinging toward a threat was its own kind of violence.
Max set down his fork with deliberate care.
Cole straightened. Ash's expression went blank in the way that preceded something surgical.
But it was Cinder who went rigid beside me, his hand jerking off my thigh like he'd been burned. The color drained from his face so fast I thought he might pass out.
"Mr. Adair, sources say you were fired for sharing confidential—"
"Get out." Seph was on his feet, his usual laid-back energy replaced by something hard and territorial. "This is a private event. You weren't invited."
"The public has a right to know if team personnel are compromising player welfare—"
The temperature dropped.
I felt it happen—felt my dragon surge forward, felt the cold blast outward from my core like a shockwave. Frost spread across my water glass. My breath turned white. The candle nearest me flickered and went out, wax freezing solid in a heartbeat.
Cinder's head snapped toward me. I saw the recognition in his eyes—the same sharp clinical awareness that had caught my temperature drops before anyone else even noticed. But this time, instead of fear or frustration, something fierce crossed his face.
He stood up.
"Enough," he said, his voice cutting through the chaos with the same calm authority I'd heard him use during CPR, during a medical emergency, during every crisis that had tried to break him.
He wasn't loud. He didn't need to be. "You're trespassing on a private booking.
You have no authorization to film, and you have exactly thirty seconds to leave before the restaurant calls the police and I file harassment charges. "
The lead reporter blinked, thrown off by the directness. "We're just asking questions—"
"You're harassing a medical professional at a private dinner.
That's not journalism. That's stalking." Cinder's jaw was set, his hands steady even though I could see the rapid flutter of his pulse at his throat.
"And if a single frame of footage from tonight appears anywhere, every person in this room will testify to that. "
Behind the reporters, the restaurant manager appeared with two staff members and an expression that promised legal consequences. "Gentlemen. Out. Now."
The retreat was ungraceful—muttered protests, one last flash of a camera before Ash stepped into its line of sight with his broadest, most unhelpful smile—and then the door closed and the room exhaled.
Cinder turned to me immediately. His hand found my wrist under the table, fingers pressing against my pulse point with practiced precision. His eyes flicked to the frozen candle, the frost on my glass. “Breathe,” he murmured.
I stared at him, heart and hopes in my throat threatening to choke me, but I obeyed. I hung on to his hand and breathed. The ice melted. Conversation started. I caught Keegan’s satisfied expression, and it made me flush. Warm.
So warm I would have removed my sweater if that hadn’t meant letting go of Cinder’s hand.