Chapter 8 #2
“You going to admit this is a real fake date yet?”
“Nope,” she said, already turning back toward the truck. “But I will admit you’re slightly less grumpy when you’re barefoot in a field.”
I smiled before I could stop myself. Just a flicker. Barely there. But real.
The first time she tried to dribble, she tripped over the ball so hard I thought she’d fractured something.
She flopped to the grass like she’d been shot.
“Foul!” she yelled, pointing at me. “That was totally a foul.”
“You tripped over your own foot.”
“You shoved me with your aura.”
I stared down at her. “Is that even a thing?”
“It is when your aura is this aggressively smug.”
She stayed sprawled like she was expecting a ref to appear out of nowhere. I offered a hand. She took it, then pulled me down with her. We hit the ground in a tangle, both laughing.
After a second, I rolled to my back and stared at the clouds overhead. The grass was itchy. Her laugh was loud. Her hair was falling in her eyes as she sat up beside me, still grinning like she hadn’t just wiped out spectacularly.
“You good?” I asked, wiping a blade of grass off my arm.
“Emotionally or physically?”
“Neither,” I said, sitting up. “But you’ve got spunk. That counts for something.”
She gasped. “Was that… encouragement?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
She got to her feet, brushing dirt off her jeans. “All right, Coach Sunshine. One more round. I’m scoring on you.”
I stood, hands on hips. “Not a chance.”
Challenge blazed in her eyes.
We went again.
She charged the ball like it had personally offended her. I didn’t make it easy, but I didn’t go full defense either. She tripped twice, kicked the ball into my shin once, and at one point spun herself in a full circle before collapsing in giggles.
“You good?” I asked again, wheezing.
“Strategic disorientation,” she said from the ground. “You’ll never see it coming.”
Eventually, I let her score—just once.
She took it way too seriously. Threw her arms in the air, ran a victory lap, and did a celebration dance that looked like someone electrocuted a flamingo.
“You’re the worst,” I told her.
“And yet, I scored on you. History will remember this.”
That was it. I cracked.
I laughed—really laughed. Not a fake, polite chuckle. A full-body, no-holding-back kind of laugh. The kind I hadn’t felt in… too long.
She stopped mid-flap and turned toward me, clearly startled. “Did you just laugh?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I am writing this down in my notes app. Kieren Walker: embarrassed by my dance, destroyed by my skills.”
I shook my head, still smiling. My cheeks ached.
It was dumb. It was pointless.
It was the most fun I’d had in months.
For a second, I forgot it was fake.
And if it wasn’t… if this were real—I might even say I liked it. Her.
That was dangerous.
But I didn’t stop smiling.
We walked back to the truck in a lazy kind of silence, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the field.
Daphne’s ponytail bounced with each step, and she still had grass stains on her knees from her dramatic falls.
I should’ve been smug about that. Instead, I found myself kind of wishing the walk was longer.
Then I saw the car parked across the street.
Unmarked. Windows tinted. Just a little too conveniently angled.
I knew that kind of car. I’d had years of dealing with them.
Paps.
Cameron had said we might “get lucky” if we hit a public place. Bastard was probably already checking the wire.
I glanced at Daphne. She must’ve seen my face shift, because her eyebrows lifted.
“We’re being watched,” I muttered.
She didn’t miss a beat. “I figured. You’re not this charming on your own.”
I huffed out a half-laugh. Then did the only thing I could think of.
I reached for her hand.
It felt awkward, like I hadn’t done it in a decade. My palm was rough. Hers was smaller, warm, fingers curling instinctively with mine.
She glanced down. “Wow. Holding hands? You’re really committing to this.”
“Cameron said it reads well.”
“You could at least fake a smile.”
“You smile enough for both of us.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged up—just a little. That almost-smile, the one she didn’t show the cameras, not fully.
Click.
Then another.
Click. Click.
The faint sound of a shutter sliced through the quiet. That was all they needed. Just a few quick snaps to sell the image.
Couple laughing. Holding hands. Smiling like idiots.
Fake. Controlled. Clean.
Except—her grip tightened. Just slightly. Like she didn’t want to let go yet.
And I didn’t either.
Not immediately.
We kept walking like that—slow, casual, coordinated. It didn’t even feel like acting.
When we reached the truck, she dropped her hand first. But not like she was done with it—more like she didn’t know what else to do.
I opened the passenger door. She climbed in, adjusting the seatbelt, tugging her sweatshirt down over her lap like it would hide the way her hands fidgeted.
I rounded the front and slid into the driver’s side.
We didn’t speak right away.
I didn’t start the engine.
Her voice came soft, almost curious. “Do you hate this?”
I turned to her. “Hate what?”
“This. Us. Pretending. Being told to hold my hand like I’m a walking PR stunt.”
I thought about lying. About brushing it off.
But instead, I said, “I didn’t mind it.”
She looked at me. Just looked.
The tension stretched, quiet but full.
And then she smiled again—small, crooked, real. “Me neither.”
The truck was quiet.
The kind of quiet that didn’t beg to be filled—just settled around us like a weight. The engine hummed low, but otherwise, neither of them said a word. She was looking out the window, her fingers toying with the edge of her sweatshirt. I tapped my thumb against the steering wheel. Once. Twice.
Then, before I could stop myself, I asked, “Did that guy from Kalamazoo ever apologize?”
Her head turned slowly. “What?”
“You know. The one who got in your face after the game. The one I—” I didn’t finish the sentence.
Daphne exhaled through her nose, dry and unimpressed. “No. Guys like him don’t say sorry. They act like it was a joke you didn’t get.”
I gripped the steering wheel tighter. My jaw clenched so hard it ached.
If I saw that guy again, it wouldn’t just be a punch.
I didn’t say that out loud, but I could feel the thought burning behind my eyes. Some people didn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt. Some people needed consequences.
She must’ve noticed the shift in me because she glanced over.
“You don’t have to keep playing bodyguard, you know.”
“Didn’t say I was.”
She didn’t respond right away. Just kept looking at me, something unreadable in her expression.
And that silence between us? It changed. Tilted.
Still quiet. Still unspoken.
But heavier.
Softer.
Dangerous in a way I couldn’t name.
This wasn’t fake. Not right now. Not in the way she looked at me, or the way I suddenly couldn’t look away.
My fingers relaxed from the wheel, just barely.
“I don’t need protecting,” she added after a beat.
I nodded. “I know.”
But I still would.
Even if she didn’t ask.
Even if it made things messy.
Even if it ruined whatever this was turning into.
Because someone needed to have her back.
And I wasn’t sure I trusted anyone else to do it right.
Not anymore.