Chapter 7 The Donor Smile
L ena had three different smiles for donor events.
The first was the Welcome to Westbridge smile.
Bright. Warm. Polished enough to look effortless. She used it at the entrance, usually beside a table with name tags, branded programs, and someone’s wife asking whether the flowers were locally sourced.
The second was the Thank you for your generous support smile.
Softer. Grateful. Just humble enough to make people with too much money feel noble for spending it near tennis courts.
The third was the Please stop speaking before I commit a felony smile.
That one was her best work.
It looked almost exactly like the first two, which was why it had saved her father’s career, the program’s funding, and Lena’s criminal record more times than anyone knew.
She was wearing the third smile now.
Hard.
Because Carter Wells, son of one of Westbridge Tennis’s biggest donors, had just placed his hand on her bare arm and said, “It’s sweet your dad lets you help out with all this.”
Lets.
Lena felt the word slide under her skin like a splinter.
Around them, the booster garden party shimmered beneath soft white tents and string lights.
The grass had been trimmed within an inch of its life.
Champagne glasses caught the late-afternoon sun.
Women in pastel dresses laughed politely near tables of tiny food that had no business being called dinner.
Men in linen jackets discussed championship odds like Nico’s wrist and future were stock options.
Everything smelled like expensive perfume, cut grass, and money pretending to be tradition.
Lena smiled at Carter.
The felony smile.
“It keeps me busy,” she said.
Carter grinned like she had said something adorable.
He had perfect teeth, a navy blazer, and the kind of confidence only grown in households where failure was treated as a temporary scheduling issue.
“I bet,” he said. “Social media is a whole thing now, right?”
A whole thing.
Lena imagined pouring champagne into his loafers.
Instead, she laughed lightly.
“It is.”
Across the lawn, her father stood with two trustees and Talia, looking exactly like the kind of man people trusted with their sons, donations, and public image. Coach Hart’s attention flicked toward Lena once, checking.
She straightened automatically.
Then hated herself for it.
Carter’s hand was still on her arm.
“You know,” he said, leaning closer, “I was surprised when I saw the posts about you and Reyes.”
Lena’s spine stiffened.
“Were you?”
“Yeah. I mean, no offense, but he doesn’t seem like your type.”
No offense.
People loved putting that in front of offensive things, like a napkin under a spill.
Lena kept smiling. “And what is my type?”
Carter’s gaze traveled down her dress.
Slowly.
Lena’s stomach turned.
“Someone easier,” he said.
Before Lena could answer, a shadow fell across them.
Warm.
Solid.
Dangerous.
Nico Reyes stepped beside her like he had been called there by every nerve in her body.
He looked nothing like the other athletes scattered across the party in polos and easy smiles.
Talia had somehow gotten him into a crisp black button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark pants, and clean shoes.
His hair was still a little unruly, because apparently not even athletic department crisis management could defeat it.
The silver chain at his throat caught one thin blade of sunlight.
He looked uncomfortable.
He looked irritated.
He looked devastating.
And his eyes were on Carter’s hand.
Specifically, where it touched Lena.
Carter noticed too late.
His hand dropped.
Lena breathed for the first time in fifteen seconds.
Nico’s palm settled at the small of her back.
The contact was light.
Barely there.
For show, she told herself.
For the donors.
For the cameras.
For the fake relationship that now required him to step into conversations like a brooding wall of bad decisions.
But his hand was warm through the thin fabric of her dress.
And he did not move it away.
“Wells,” Nico said.
Carter’s smile changed.
Not disappeared.
Changed.
It became tighter around the edges, like Nico’s presence had scratched the shine off his confidence.
“Reyes,” Carter said. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
“Clearly.”
Lena pressed her lips together.
Carter laughed once, awkwardly. “I was just catching up with Lena.”
Nico looked at her then.
Just her.
His gaze moved over her face in that unnerving way he had, like he was checking for damage no one else knew how to see.
The donor smile was still in place.
Nico’s eyes narrowed.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
“Were you?” he asked, still looking at Lena.
Her heart did something unreasonable.
She needed him to stop seeing her.
Or maybe she needed everyone else to start.
“I was explaining that social media is a whole thing,” Lena said.
Nico turned back to Carter.
Slowly.
“Sounds educational.”
Carter’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No?”
Lena touched Nico’s wrist lightly.
A warning.
A thank-you.
A please don’t commit the felony I was just considering.
His fingers flexed against her back.
But he stayed quiet.
That single restraint did something dangerous to her chest.
Carter cleared his throat. “Anyway. Nice seeing you, Lena.”
“You too,” she said brightly.
He left.
Nico watched him go.
Lena waited until Carter was safely out of earshot before whispering, “You know, for a man trying to look less threatening, looming over donors’ sons may not be our strongest strategy.”
Nico did not look sorry. “He touched you.”
“So?”
His gaze cut to hers.
Sharp.
Dark.
Immediate.
“So you looked like you wanted to stab him with a cocktail fork.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I looked perfectly pleasant.”
“You looked homicidal in cursive.”
A laugh slipped out of her.
Real and startled.
Nico’s mouth twitched.
His hand was still on her back.
She realized it at the same moment he did.
The awareness landed between them.
His fingers started to lift.
Then a camera flashed from somewhere near the bar.
Both of them froze.
Lena leaned into him before she could think better of it, letting the movement look natural, easy, girlfriend-shaped. Nico’s hand settled again, firmer this time.
The camera flashed twice more.
A girl from the student events committee grinned from behind a flower arrangement like she had just caught a royal engagement.
Nico lowered his head slightly.
“You planned this?”
Lena kept her smile aimed toward the garden. “No.”
“Liar.”
“This time, no.”
His thumb moved once against her back.
Not much.
Enough.
Lena’s breath caught.
Nico noticed.
His hand stilled instantly.
Good.
That was good.
They both needed to remember this was a performance.
A useful, temporary, public-facing performance with a quiet breakup after the championship and absolutely no private confusion.
Unfortunately, her body had not attended the planning meeting.
Across the lawn, Savannah Price glided toward them in a pale pink dress that probably cost more than Lena’s monthly grocery budget.
Savannah had the kind of beauty that looked designed for golden-hour lighting and weaponized in group photos.
Her auburn hair fell in glossy waves over one shoulder, and her smile was soft enough to cut with.
“Oh my God,” Savannah said, looking between them. “You two are adorable.”
Lena’s smile held.
Nico’s hand did not move.
Savannah’s gaze dipped to it.
Then back to Lena.
“Almost suspiciously adorable.”
There it was.
Lena felt Nico’s posture change beside her.
Just slightly.
A storm considering itself.
She tilted her head. “Suspicious?”
Savannah lifted one delicate shoulder. “I mean, it’s just fast. One week Nico is Westbridge’s angriest man, and now suddenly he’s standing in gardens with his hand on your waist.”
“At her back,” Nico said.
Both women looked at him.
He stared at Savannah. “My hand is at her back.”
Savannah blinked.
Lena wanted to laugh.
She also wanted to crawl under a dessert table and reevaluate all her life choices.
Savannah recovered quickly. “Protective. Cute.”
Nico’s face remained unreadable. “You always this interested in other people’s relationships?”
Savannah’s smile widened. “Only the ones with good lighting.”
Lena stepped in smoothly. “Savannah, are you covering the event for your campus page?”
“Of course.” Savannah lifted her phone. “Everyone loves seeing the human side of athletes.”
Nico’s jaw tightened.
Lena felt it before she saw it.
She shifted half a step closer to him, not enough to look obvious, but enough for her arm to brush his.
His attention flicked to her.
Just for a second.
Then he relaxed by one degree.
Savannah noticed that too.
Of course she did.
“It’s sweet,” Savannah said. “Lena has always been so good at making the program look perfect.”
The compliment was wrapped beautifully.
The blade still showed.
Lena’s smile warmed. “I prefer making it look honest.”
Savannah’s eyes glittered. “Do you?”
Nico said, “She does.”
Lena looked at him.
He was still watching Savannah, face calm, voice low and certain.
Not for the campaign.
Not for optics.
Just belief.
The words hit Lena harder than they should have.
Savannah’s gaze moved between them again, sharper now. “Well. I’m happy for you both. Really.”
“No, you’re not,” Nico said.
Lena inhaled.
Savannah’s smile froze.
Nico looked at her like he had just commented on the weather. “But thanks.”
Savannah gave a short laugh, then leaned toward Lena and lowered her voice in a way designed to still be heard.
“Careful, Lena. Some guys like being rescued more than they like the rescuer.”
Then she walked away.
Lena stayed still.
Nico’s hand left her back.
The absence was immediate.
Cold.
Annoying.
“She’s wrong,” he said.
Lena looked up at him. “About what?”
His eyes met hers.
“The rescue part.”
Something soft and dangerous unfolded beneath her ribs.
Before she could answer, her father’s voice sounded behind them.
“Lena.”
Every inch of her went tense.
Nico noticed.
His gaze flicked over her shoulder.
Coach Hart stood a few feet away, his expression controlled in a way that made Lena want to smooth her dress and apologize for things she had not done.
“Can I speak to you?” he asked.
It was not really a question.
Lena turned fully, putting a careful amount of space between herself and Nico.
“Of course.”
Her father’s eyes moved to Nico. “Reyes.”
“Coach.”
A beat passed between them.
Hard.
Measuring.
Coach Hart looked back at Lena. “Now.”
Nico’s jaw shifted, but he said nothing.
Lena followed her father toward the edge of the garden, near a row of hedges trimmed so perfectly they looked afraid to grow.
The music from the tent softened behind them.
Her father stopped beside a stone path and turned to face her.
For a moment, he did not speak.
That was worse.
Lena folded her hands loosely in front of her. “If this is about Savannah, I handled it.”
“This is not about Savannah.”
“Then Carter?”
His brows drew together. “What about Carter?”
Of course.
He had not seen that part.
Or he had seen and not understood.
Lena let it go. “Nothing.”
Her father’s gaze sharpened. “You are selling this too well.”
The words struck exactly where he intended.
Lena’s smile came on reflex.
“Isn’t that the point?”
“No. The point is to stabilize a player’s image until championship season passes. The point is not to become the story.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?”
The softness of his voice hurt more than anger would have.
Lena looked away toward the courts beyond the garden. The sun was lower now, turning the chain-link fences gold. She had grown up in places like this. Courts. Booster tents. Her father’s shadow stretching longer than her own.
“I know what I’m doing,” she said.
Her father sighed. “Lena.”
One word.
Again.
The one that made her feel young and foolish and beloved in a way that had teeth.
“I do,” she said, firmer.
He studied her face. “Nico Reyes is not a safe place to prove a point.”
Her throat tightened. “This isn’t about proving a point.”
“Then what is it about?”
Career.
Competence.
Control.
A scholarship.
A headline.
A boy who saw through her smiles and gave away things he needed and stood between her and cameras without being asked.
Lena swallowed.
“The campaign,” she said.
Her father’s face said he did not believe her.
Worse, some small, traitorous part of Lena wondered if he was right not to.
Across the garden, her phone buzzed.
She looked down.
The gossip account had posted again.
A photo of Nico’s hand at her back.
His head angled toward her.
Her face turned up to his.
They looked intimate.
They looked real.
The caption read:
Nico Reyes, professional menace, apparently has one soft spot.
Lena stared at the photo.
Her father saw it too.
His silence became heavy beside her.
Then another comment appeared beneath the post.
The way he looks at her??? No one can fake that.
Lena’s pulse stumbled.
From across the lawn, Nico looked over.
Their eyes met through the crowd, past champagne glasses and donor smiles and every rule they had written down to keep this from becoming dangerous.
He was not smiling.
But his gaze did something worse.
It stayed.
And Lena realized, with a sick little twist of panic, that her father was still watching her when she looked back.