Chapter 9 #2
I tapped the first comment to open the full thread. It spiraled—memes, reaction videos, a slideshow of our worst moments with romantic captions. Someone mocked up a fake magazine cover with us in matching, terrible sweaters, the headline screaming ROM-COM OF THE SEASON.
A notification floated up. Nora had sent three more texts. Talia wanted a scanned copy of the contract. Mom wanted reassurance that I was eating enough. My producer wanted a list of story angles.
I took a breath and forced my fingers to do what they were supposed to: work.
I thumbed a quick message to Talia—reading.
will send you my version of the timeline.
keep legal on standby.—and a short, carefully neutral reply to Cameron’s latest: soft rollout confirmed.
coordinating schedule. Efficient. Clean. Unemotional.
Then I closed the laptop and sat very still, letting the ridiculousness of it settle like dust.
The truth was, the internet could craft whatever fairy tale it wanted.
They could tag me #reluctantsoftgirl or paint me as a saint or a harlot depending on which ten-second clip fit their mood.
None of that changed the fact that I’d signed a contract, that Kieren had thrown a punch for me, and that tomorrow I’d have to stand in public and pretend our hands weren’t the first thing we reached for when nobody was watching.
I told myself one last time—quiet, sharp, and practical—this is a story. Don’t be the headline you hate.
Then I went to make more coffee, which felt both like a necessary ritual and a small defiance.
Until I got more tags.
Someone had made a collage.
I wasn’t tagged in the original, but it didn’t matter—my name was in the comments, trending right next to #StormWalker and #SoftGrump.
The first photo was us laughing at the taco stand. I could practically hear the snort I let out when I spilled salsa on my shirt. The second was the soccer field—right at the moment our hands brushed. I’d been swatting at a mosquito. He thought I was high-fiving him. It became a meme within hours.
The third one, though, was the hand-holding moment.
Caught in perfect lighting. A little blurry, like it was taken too fast, but somehow it made the moment feel… real. My hand in his. His expression unreadable, except—
No. Not unreadable.
I stared at the final photo.
He was looking at me like I was gravity. Like I was something pulling him in whether he wanted it or not.
I didn’t remember it feeling that intense. Not in the moment.
But maybe it had.
My stomach twisted. I wanted to blame the burrito. Or the way he’d handed me that soccer ball like I wasn’t the most uncoordinated person alive. Or the way his fingers had curled around mine—not like a photo op. Not like a prop.
Like it mattered.
I shut my phone. Tossed it onto the bed like it had personally betrayed me. Which, in a way, it had.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be fake. Temporary. Mutually beneficial.
Not… whatever this was.
Not me replaying the way he laughed on the field when I did my ridiculous goal dance. Not the way his voice went lower when he said my name. Not the way his jaw clenched when he saw that car across the street and took my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I wasn’t supposed to notice those things.
I definitely wasn’t supposed to feel them.
But now?
Now, every time I closed my eyes, I saw that look on his face.
And I couldn’t decide what scared me more—that it might’ve been real… or that I might want it to be.
Cameron’s text came in like a siren blaring through my phone. No punctuation. All caps. Full panic and triumph rolled into one.
THEY LOVE YOU Keep it going Seriously You two are trending across platforms The League is impressed This might actually save Kieren’s ass and make you the media darling of the season
I stared at it for a second, letting the words sink in like acid.
Then I muttered, “I hate how good we are at faking this.”
What I didn’t say—what I wouldn’t say out loud—was what came next, like a traitorous whisper inside my head.
I really hate how easy it was to forget we were faking it.
The truth sat heavy in my chest, coiled and quiet. I pulled up the video. The video. The hand-holding moment—captioned, looped, and slowed down like we were the romantic leads in a sports drama no one knew they needed.
There was no sound, just the faint static of crowd noise. But I could hear it in my head. The shuffle of his shoes on pavement. The dry, amused lilt in his voice. The hush that settled over me when he reached out.
His hand found mine like it wasn’t even a choice.
Like instinct.
Not obligation.
Not a performance.
My thumb hovered over the pause button as the moment played again. My fingers curling into his. The way I didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. If anything, I’d leaned into it.
My phone buzzed again, but I didn’t check it.
Instead, I opened another clip—one I hadn’t meant to save but did anyway. A fan edit. Someone had slowed down his smile, added soft lighting, and stitched in a Lana Del Rey song like this was some doomed lovers edit on Tumblr.
The caption?
He looks at her like he wants to ruin her… respectfully.
I should’ve laughed.
I didn’t.
My stomach flipped.
It was just a video. Just an angle. A moment exaggerated by slow motion and good lighting and hormones. But still…
Why did it feel real?
Why did I remember the weight of his hand so clearly?
Not just how it felt—but the way he held mine. Like it meant something.
I blinked, realizing I hadn’t responded to Cameron. Hadn’t responded to anyone. My inbox was full of texts, notifications, fire emojis and screaming gifs.
I didn’t move.
Just stared.
One moment in a thousand. One hand in mine.
Fake, I told myself. Staged.
But the warmth that had lingered in my palm told a different story.
And that was the problem.
I didn’t know what story we were telling anymore—or which one I wanted it to be.