Chapter 12
Kieren
The bus hummed beneath us, tires whispering over the highway as we made our way to Chicago. I had my headphones in, but I wasn’t listening to anything. Just white noise, a buffer between me and the rest of the team. The illusion of detachment.
Didn’t work.
The guys behind me weren’t exactly subtle.
“Are they actually together?” That was Beckett, curious in that half-gossipy, half-bored way he got on long trips.
“No way,” Adam said. “Too tense. She would’ve melted him by now.”
“Or,” Derek drawled, “he’s just secretly obsessed and doesn’t know what to do with it.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared out the window at the endless stretch of road, the frozen landscape rushing past in a blur of gray and brown. January in the Midwest wasn’t exactly charming.
It was none of their business.
What Daphne and I had—or didn’t have—was for the press, for the league, for damage control.
Fake.
All of it.
Except…
Except she’d smiled at me the other night. A real one. Wide, surprised, soft at the corners. Not the polite smile she gave other people. Not the smug one she wore when she was trying to get under my skin.
That one had been for me. And I’d felt it like a punch to the ribs.
I leaned my head back against the seat, eyes closing.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her smile. Or the way her laugh caught when someone made a bad joke. Or the way she’d looked in that damn shirt, candlelight catching in her hair like fire.
She wasn’t what I expected.
That was what kept throwing me.
She was mouthy, sure. She pushed. But she also listened when it mattered. She noticed things—small things, like when Asher didn’t like being in the middle seat or when Adam’s knee stiffened after too many flights.
She paid attention. To people. To me.
And now she was traveling with us. Embedded for this away game. Which meant she’d be at the hotel. At the pitch. In the spaces where I usually got to disappear.
Another complication.
I should’ve told her no. Shut it down early. But one look at her when she said she’d be coming and I didn’t say a damn thing.
The guys behind me kept talking—shifting to fantasy stats or whatever game they were playing on their phones. I tuned them out.
Because the truth was… I didn’t have an answer.
Were we together?
No.
Was it fake?
Yes.
But her smile had felt real.
And that scared the hell out of me.
My phone buzzed in my hand, another message lighting up the screen, this one from Cam.
Push the chemistry a little more. League eyes are on this trip. One cute moment goes a long way.
A second later:
Try not to look like you’re holding her hostage.
I stared at the texts for a full beat, jaw clenching.
Cam always had a way of being both annoying and right.
I tossed the phone onto the empty seat beside me a little harder than necessary, the thunk louder than it needed to be. The screen went dark, but the words stuck.
Push the chemistry.
Cute moment.
The whole thing made my skin itch.
This wasn’t who I was. I didn’t do fake flirting or charming smiles. Hell, I barely did real ones. And now I was supposed to stage some highlight-reel moment like we were on a romcom poster?
No thanks.
But…
I ran a hand down my face, scrubbing at the tension behind my eyes.
The league was watching. So were the sponsors. The press. The other teams.
And Daphne? She might’ve signed on for this whole charade, but she didn’t exactly sign up to be treated like a hostage either.
The other night she’d laughed at something Adam said, then looked over at me like she was trying to catch my reaction. She’d seemed… relaxed. Happy, even.
It shouldn’t matter. It wasn’t real.
But if I had to keep this up, maybe I didn’t need to grit my teeth the entire time.
I leaned my head against the window, cold glass biting at my skin, and exhaled slowly.
One cute moment.
I could fake that. Probably.
Maybe.
The hotel lobby buzzed with noise—guys grabbing room keys, talking over each other, someone tossing a pack of gum across the room and narrowly missing Derek’s head.
I wasn’t in the mood.
Didn’t wait for Cam’s speech or Beckett’s inevitable attempt to rally the team for a bar run. I took my key card and headed for the elevator without a word.
The quiet didn’t last long.
When I opened the door to the room, she was already there.
Daphne sat cross-legged on the bed, laptop propped on her thighs, fingers flying over the keyboard.
Her ponytail was half up, half falling out.
Glasses perched low on her nose. The hoodie she wore was oversized—gray, slightly frayed at the cuffs—not mine, but close enough that my pulse spiked, anyway.
She looked up at the sound of the door. Blinked once. “You’re staying here?”
I dropped my duffel by the wall and let the door swing shut behind me. “Apparently.”
“Cam said… well. Cam said a lot of things.”
“Of course he did.”
There was a pause. Her gaze shifted to the bed. She stepped aside, motioning with her chin. “There’s only one.”
My eyes flicked to the couch in the corner. It was barely long enough for a decent nap, let alone a full night. “I’ll take the sofa.”
“We’re adults. We’ll live.”
Her voice was even, but the air tightened between us anyway—like the room wasn’t big enough for the silence stretching out.
She turned back to her laptop, the tapping of keys filling the space where conversation should’ve gone.
I nodded to no one, grabbed my bag, and walked into the bathroom.
Door shut behind me with a click. I leaned against it for a second, exhaled hard, and tried not to picture her in that hoodie. Or in this room. Or in that bed.
This was going to be a long trip.
I stepped out of the bathroom and snagged one of the muffins from the welcome basket on the dresser—blueberry, slightly stale, but I wasn’t about to complain.
I hadn’t eaten much since the bus, and the team dinner was already a blur.
Between dodging questions and watching Daphne try to act like she wasn’t watching me, I’d barely touched my plate.
The muffin disappeared in three bites.
I brushed the crumbs off my hands and grabbed a clean T-shirt and sweats from my duffel. The hotel bathroom wasn’t anything fancy, but it was clean. Warm light, cool tiles, and just enough of a hum from the vent to dull the noise in my head.
I changed quickly. Pulled the shirt over my head and caught my reflection.
Still looked like hell.
Jaw tight. Tension coiled in my shoulders. Not from the flight. Not from the game prep.
Her.
She was going to be in that bed. Right next to me.
I hadn’t thought about it at first. Not really. I figured there’d be two beds, or I’d take the couch, or Cam would’ve actually mentioned it before sending us into this PR minefield.
But no. One bed. One hotel room. And her.
I closed my eyes for a second. Let my head fall back against the door.
This wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t even about temptation—not exactly.
It was knowing she’d be within arm’s reach.
Her hair on the pillow. That little breathy sigh she made when she concentrated too hard.
The way she always slept curled on her side, half-cocooned in blankets like she was hiding from the world.
And I’d be lying there. Awake. Pretending to ignore every second of it.
“Jesus,” I muttered.
Cam was dead.
Not literally. But the moment I saw him, I was going to bury him in bullshit and make him wade through it for miles. One bed? No heads-up? He knew exactly what he was doing.
I shut the light off and stepped back into the room.
Daphne had turned off the lamp on her side, the soft blue glow of her laptop now replaced by the soft flicker of the TV—some cooking competition playing on mute. She was already under the covers, glasses on the nightstand, hair pulled down.
She looked over as I walked in.
“You took forever,” she murmured.
“I was trying to talk myself out of committing homicide.”
A sleepy smirk curved her lips. “That would look bad in the press.”
“You think this doesn’t?” I gestured to the bed. “Cam’s got a death wish.”
She set her laptop to the side. “Just don’t snore.”
I grabbed a pillow and dropped it on the far side of the bed like it was a line in the sand. “Don’t cross this.”
“Relax, Kieren. I wouldn’t touch you if you paid me.”
I climbed into bed and flipped off the last light.
“Good,” I muttered.
Then I heard her whisper, just soft enough to curl under my skin: “—but I bet you’d dream about it.”
I stared at the ceiling.
This night was going to suck.
Daphne was already moving past me, a toothbrush in hand, legs bare beneath an oversized shirt that hit mid-thigh.
The kind of shirt that looked like it belonged to some guy she used to date.
Or maybe it was just one of those soft, lived-in ones women stole from college roommates and never gave back.
Either way, I clocked it. Filed it away. Pretended I didn’t.
She disappeared into the bathroom; the door left cracked just enough for light and sound to spill out. I heard the water run, the soft clink of her brushing. Then humming.
Some quiet melody I didn’t recognize. Soft. Comforting. Not even a real song—just sound, like she didn’t realize she was doing it.
I ran a hand down my face and sat on the edge of the bed.
This was fine.
We were adults. This was just logistics. One room, one bed. We’d survive.
I slid under the covers even further, back stiff, every muscle locked up like I was expecting a bomb to go off.
She came out a minute later, flicked off the bathroom light, and padded to her side. Climbed in like it was nothing. Like we hadn’t been dancing around each other for weeks. Like she didn’t smell like mint and warm skin and just enough lavender to make me consider therapy.
I turned off the bedside lamp.
Darkness settled, but the room didn’t feel still.
It buzzed. Like static. Like every unspoken word between us was vibrating in the air. My jaw ached from how tight I was clenching it.
Silence stretched long.
Then—
“If you’re gonna stare at the ceiling all night,” she whispered, “at least pretend to relax.”
“If I fall asleep, you might kill me in my sleep.”
“Too much paperwork.”
That made me snort—quiet, involuntary.
Then she laughed. Low and warm. The kind that hit right in the chest and lingered.
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead, I rolled onto my side, still keeping a healthy two feet of bed between us. Eyes open, staring into the dark.
Eventually, her breathing slowed. Steadied. Sleep pulled her under.
I stayed awake a little longer, listening to her breathe, wondering how the hell I was supposed to get through the rest of this trip without completely losing my mind.
It was deep into the night now. The kind of quiet where even the city seemed to hold its breath. The room was dark except for the thin line of moonlight cutting across the floor. And her.
She was turned slightly toward me, one arm curled beneath her pillow, the other resting loose between us.
The covers had shifted, revealing the curve of her shoulder and the hem of her oversized shirt riding high on her thigh.
She breathed evenly, the slow, steady rhythm of someone lost in a place I couldn’t follow.
I lay on my side, facing her. Had been for what felt like hours.
I told myself it was just insomnia. Just the unfamiliar bed. Just the stress of the game coming up.
But really, it was her.
Daphne looked… different like this. Not weaker. Just… quieter. Unarmored. All the fire and sass stripped away by sleep, leaving something softer. Something I hadn’t let myself see until now.
Her lips were parted just slightly. Her brow smooth for once. No quips. No biting remarks. No glare. Just Daphne.
I glanced down at her left hand resting between us on the mattress.
Bare.
There’d been a tan line there once. I’d noticed it weeks ago, faint and faded but unmistakable. A ring had lived there. Not anymore.
Engaged? Married? Maybe just a promise made and broken. I didn’t know.
I had no right to.
But I wanted to.
It hit me like a punch to the ribs—this urge to know the stories she never told. The ones behind the walls she built with precision. The ones she didn’t share with anyone, maybe not even herself.
I didn’t know what she dreamed about. Probably not me. Probably something better. Something safer. Maybe a life that didn’t involve late nights in shared hotel beds with men she barely tolerated.
Still… I wished I could ask.
I wished I could ask what made her stop wearing the ring.
I wished I could ask what made her laugh when no one was watching.
I wished I could ask what she would’ve said if I’d kissed her that night at the team dinner when her eyes lingered just a little too long.
My fingers inched toward hers on instinct. Close. Close enough that I could feel the heat of her skin, the gentle twitch of her fingers shifting in sleep.
But I didn’t touch her.
Didn’t let myself.
Instead, I curled my hand into a fist and dragged it back, tucking it under my pillow like I could bury the want with it.
She let out a soft sigh and shifted closer, just an inch. Her knee brushed mine.
I closed my eyes and tried to pretend it didn’t mean anything.
But it did.
And that scared the hell out of me.
She was too close.
Her knee brushed mine again, and this time I didn’t shift away. Couldn’t. My body felt wired, too aware of every inch between us, every breath she took, every subtle shift beneath the blankets.
She was warm. Soft. The kind of warmth that seeped into your skin and made you forget the cold edges of the world outside. And she smelled like mint and sleep and something vaguely floral—something I hadn’t noticed before and now couldn’t stop breathing in.
This was dangerous.
Everything about her always had been.
She wasn’t mine. This wasn’t real. We had rules, boundaries, a script we were supposed to follow—and none of them included lying in a shared bed with my heart racing like this.
I wasn’t supposed to want her.
But tonight, in the dark, pretending didn’t feel like pretending anymore.
It felt like possibility. Like the space between us wasn’t just an accident of hotel logistics, but a choice. One we hadn’t said out loud. One we couldn’t.
Her hand shifted, brushing against my forearm, featherlight.
I didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Because for the first time in too damn long, I didn’t want to.