Chapter 19
Daphne
It had been three days until the Indiana game—and that damn kiss was still trending.
I was slouched on my couch in a pair of sweats that had definitely seen better days, my hair in a lopsided bun, mascara smudged under one eye from sleeping on the throw pillow like it was a lifeline.
The TV droned in the background, one of those recap shows that aired between actual sports coverage and speculative fanfiction.
I wasn’t really watching—until I was.
Until the graphics flashed across the screen in big, dramatic letters:
“Walker + Sommers: Real Deal or Tactical Distraction?”
“Vote in our poll: Are they ENDGAME?”
I let out a strangled groan and hurled a throw pillow at the screen. Not that it helped. The commentators were already digging in, tone too gleeful, like they’d just uncovered a government conspiracy.
“And let’s not forget that moment on the field—look at the way she grabs his face. The tension, the passion… was it real, or was it all part of the plan?”
Then came the worst part.
The supercut.
Like I needed a highlight reel of my personal life to air in HD.
Clips played in rapid succession:
— Our first “date” at the taco place, where I definitely didn’t flirt but might have accidentally laughed too loud.
— That kiss—slow-motion, dramatic, like a damn rom-com.
— Kieren’s smile afterward, soft and stupid and completely disarming.
My stomach flipped. Again.
I hated that it kept doing that. Like it didn’t care I was trying to be rational about all of this. Like it hadn’t gotten the memo that it was just for PR. That it was supposed to mean nothing.
Except it had meant something.
To him. To me. We’d both felt it. That stupid, quiet click of something slipping into place.
And now the world had latched onto it like a dog with a bone. Social media was a mess. My inbox was a mess. Even my mother had sent a blurry screenshot of the kiss with the caption, “He’s cute. Is this real???”
I didn’t even respond.
Because I didn’t know.
Was it real? Was it fake? Was I losing my mind?
I leaned forward and paused the TV on Kieren’s face. That moment after the kiss, when he looked at me like I was more than some reporter shoved into his world.
I traced his expression with my eyes. The softness there. The quiet awe.
I hated that I still felt it, days later.
Worse, I hated how much I wanted it to be real.
At that moment, someone knocked.
I froze, mid-pace, pulse catching somewhere between my throat and chest. For a split second, I seriously debated pretending I wasn’t home. I wasn’t in the mood for people, questions, or another unsolicited “are you and Kieren official?” comment from my very chatty neighbor.
Then came the voice. Muffled, but unmistakable.
“Daphne! I know you’re in there. Don’t make me pick this lock again.”
I sighed, defeated. “You picked it once.”
“And I will again,” Nora called through the door, chipper. “Your security system is pathetic.”
Rolling my eyes, I crossed the room and yanked open the door—only for her to breeze past me like she owned the place, arms full of snacks and something dangerously close to a bottle of wine.
“Hope you didn’t have plans tonight,” she said brightly. “Because we’re about to unpack every repressed emotion you’ve got.”
And just like that, my apartment wasn’t mine anymore.
She sprawled across my living room rug like she owned the place—half her body tangled in a blanket, one leg propped up, lazily waving a freshly painted toenail in the air while scrolling Twitter with the other hand.
“You’re falling for him,” she said casually, like she was announcing the weather.
I stopped mid-pace and glared at her. “I kissed him so he wouldn’t throw a reporter into oncoming traffic.”
“Exactly,” she replied, deadpan. “That’s love.”
I groaned and resumed pacing, arms crossed, heart thumping far louder than it had any right to. “It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. I was frustrated. He was cornered. The press was being vultures. I panicked.”
Nora snorted and blew on her toes. “You kissed him like you were auditioning for the role of ‘Unhinged Soulmate #1’ in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation. Don’t play me.”
I flopped onto the arm of the couch and covered my face with both hands. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It was exactly like that.”
She pulled up her phone and started scrolling again, smug.
“Want me to read the comments? Because I will. Twitter’s already shipping you so hard they’re naming kids after you.
Look at this one—‘Walker looked at her like she hung the damn stars. My god. Protect this man’s heart.
’” She paused. “That one has 42,000 likes.”
I peeked through my fingers. “Stop.”
“Oh, wait, wait—this one’s better. ‘I’m ready to believe in love again.’ Six million views, Daph. On that clip alone.”
I grabbed the nearest pillow and lobbed it at her. She ducked with a grin.
“You’re the worst.”
“And you’re in denial.” She smirked, unfazed, holding her phone up like it was gospel. “My grandmother saw it. Grandma, Daph. She texted me this morning: ‘Daphne is glowing.’ Like you’re the damn moon or something.”
I groaned again, this time dragging a blanket over my head. “Tell your grandma to stop watching sports recap shows.”
“You think she doesn’t have ESPN? Please. She lives for this. Honestly, you should be honored. It takes a lot for her to text anything other than chain prayers and recipes.”
I peeked out from the blanket. “Do you think I’m glowing?”
Nora tilted her head dramatically. “Well, you’re definitely giving emotionally compromised with a side of horny repression, so.”
“Thanks for that.”
She waved her freshly dried hand. “I’m just saying. You kissed him in front of cameras and God and half the nation. And not like a ‘this is strategy’ kiss. That was an I know your soul by taste kind of kiss.”
My face burned so hot I thought it might peel off. “It didn’t mean anything.”
“Daphne.”
I paused. Her voice had shifted—softer now, less teasing.
She sat up, crossed her legs, and looked at me like she was trying to read beneath every layer I’d stacked to protect myself. “You don’t do things that don’t mean anything. That’s not who you are.”
I swallowed hard.
The silence pressed in between us. On the screen, the recap show had transitioned to another segment—clips of Kieren post-game, jaw clenched, eyes shadowed, that signature scowl fixed like armor. But beneath it, I’d seen something else that night. Something raw. Something real.
I remembered the way he looked at me in the tunnel. Quiet. Almost reverent.
And then his voice in the back of my mind, “Liar.”
I pulled the blanket off and stood again, pacing like it might shake the truth out of my bones.
“I don’t know what it is,” I admitted quietly. “But it doesn’t feel fake.”
Nora smiled, wide and knowing. “There she is.”
My phone buzzed mid-panic spiral, vibrating across the coffee table like it knew I needed more emotional instability in my life.
Photo shoot today. 3PM. Studio 6B.
A second buzz. I blinked.
Cam wants you there. Something about couple branding.
Nora let out a guttural sound from the depths of her soul. “YES,” she shrieked, grabbing the nearest throw blanket and screaming into it like it owed her money. “Get up. Get dressed. You are not showing up to that man’s work event looking like a rejected drama major.”
I just stared at the screen, thumbs hovering like I forgot how to function. My brain short-circuited on the words couple branding.
Couple. Branding.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to scream, cry, or throw my phone into the sun.
Still, I managed to type something back, because I was nothing if not a functional disaster:
Dress code? Flirty fake girlfriend or corporate trophy wife?
The typing dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then came back.
I waited. I should’ve known better.
Whatever makes me look lucky.
I made a sound that couldn’t legally be classified as human and launched the phone across the couch like it was on fire.
Nora caught it mid-air with one hand and cackled. “He’s going to kill you with one-liners,” she said, already dragging me toward the closet. “Death by slow-burn banter. What a way to go.”
“I hate him,” I muttered, fully lying to myself.
“No, you don’t. You’re just in denial because his jawline could cut glass and he makes your stomach do weird little gymnastics flips.”
“He’s my fake boyfriend,” I reminded her, trying to ground myself in reality as she rifled through my clothes. “This is PR. This is damage control.”
Nora pulled out a hanger and held it up like she was presenting a sacred relic. “This is a backless bodysuit that says, ‘PR who?’”
I groaned. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to your wardrobe,” she said, tossing it at me along with a pair of high-waisted trousers and ankle boots.
“Now go shower. Moisturize. Pretend you don’t have unresolved feelings about your fake boyfriend looking at you like you personally resurrected the concept of hope. ”
I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it again.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
Not about the feelings. And definitely not about the way Kieren had looked at me after that kiss.
God help me. I was in trouble.
I showed up to the shoot in black jeans, ankle boots, and a tucked-in long-sleeved shirt under my fitted winter jacket—simple, streamlined, confident.
Or at least, that was what I repeated in my head on loop like a manifestation chant while I walked into Studio 6B like I wasn’t about to fake-flirt for content with the one man who’d been haunting my thoughts since that dive bar, that dance, that kiss.
The second I stepped inside, I spotted him.