Wyatt #2
I hadn't requested it. The restaurant had made assumptions based on the reservation name. Based on the Instagram post that was still trending. Based on the narrative we'd carefully constructed. Assumptions that made this whole performance feel uncomfortably real.
Chastity slid into her seat and immediately smoothed her dress with both hands. Nervous gesture. Self-soothing. Her fingers moved across the fabric in careful, deliberate strokes—adjusting what didn't need adjusting, controlling what she could control when everything else felt chaotic.
I watched those fingers longer than necessary. Caught myself tracking the movement. The delicate bones. The way candlelight made her skin glow warm against the black fabric.
Stop.
I forced my attention to the menu. Scanned options I didn't process. Tried to focus on anything except the growing awareness that this arrangement was becoming dangerously complicated.
Movement caught my peripheral vision. A man at the bar had turned on his stool, gaze locked on our table. On her. His expression held that particular blend of curiosity and interest that made my jaw tighten reflexively.
Then another man at a nearby table glanced over. Lingered. Assessed.
My spine went rigid.
It's because attention leads to questions, I told myself. Complications. Media risk. People speculating about motivations and timelines and whether this relationship makes sense.
But the truth settled in my chest with uncomfortable clarity. I didn't like other men looking at her. Period.
The waiter appeared—young, handsome, with the kind of easy smile that probably earned excellent tips. He set menus down between us, attention immediately gravitating toward Chastity.
"Welcome. Can I get you something to start?" His smile widened when she glanced up. Held her gaze a fraction too long.
My eyes cut upward with the quiet warning I'd perfected over years of establishing dominance on ice. The look that said back off without requiring words.
“Water,” I snipped.
“O-Of course.” He immediately went off to get it for us.
Sharp pressure struck my shin under the table. Chastity's shoe connecting with deliberate force.
"Stop," she whispered, leaning slightly forward so only I could hear.
"He's staring at you."
"He's a waiter."
"He's still staring."
She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "you're ridiculous."
I muttered back, "And you're na?ve."
Her eyes flashed—anger mixing with embarrassment mixing with something that looked almost like amusement. Like part of her found my territorial bullshit entertaining despite herself.
The waiter returned moments later carrying water glasses. He set hers down with extra care, fingers lingering on the stem longer than necessary.
"Let me know if you need anything else." Another smile. Another beat of attention focused entirely on her.
My voice dropped to that controlled flatness that made rookies nervous in the locker room. "She's taken."
The waiter froze mid-reach for his order pad. Color drained from his face.
Chastity's kick connected harder this time. Pain shot through my shin.
"What is wrong with you?!" Her whisper carried genuine outrage now. Mortification coloring her cheeks pink in the candlelight.
"He needed clarity."
"He needed to take our drink order!"
"He got both."
She pressed her palms flat against the table. Closed her eyes. Drew a slow breath like she was counting to ten. Or twenty. Or however high it took to not murder me in public.
When she opened them again, fury burned there alongside something else. Something that looked suspiciously like she was fighting a smile. "You're impossible."
"And you're still na?ve if you think he was just being professional."
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Then she laughed—quiet, disbelieving, dragged out against her will.
The sound hit my chest like a physical thing.
The whispers started before the couple even committed to approaching. I felt them coming—that particular shift in energy when recognition settled and someone decided social boundaries didn't apply to athletes in public spaces.
The guy leaned over from the adjacent table, all easy confidence and charming smile. "Hey man, sorry to interrupt—huge fan." His gaze slid sideways, landing on Chastity with open appreciation. "And your girl's gorgeous, by the way."
Chastity's entire face went crimson. Not the soft pink from earlier embarrassment. Full scarlet that crept down her throat and disappeared beneath the neckline of that black dress.
Something dark and territorial coiled in my chest. Not because he'd interrupted dinner. Not because the compliment was inappropriate—it wasn't, technically.
Because she reacted. Flushed and ducked her head and looked pleased for exactly two seconds before catching herself.
She'd responded to another man's attention.
And I hated it.
My smile stayed polite. Surface-level professional. The expression that kept fans happy while revealing absolutely nothing about what I was actually thinking. "I know."
The words came out flat. Possessive. Unapologetic.
The guy blinked. Processed. His smile faltered slightly as he registered the shift in temperature at our table.
"Right. Well. Uh, enjoy your night."
He retreated back to his own date while I watched him go, tracking the movement with the same cold assessment I used to clock opposing forwards crossing the blue line.
Chastity stared at me like I'd physically struck her. Not offended. Not flattered. Something sharper. More dangerous. Confusion mixed with awareness mixed with that pull I could see her fighting every time we occupied the same space.
"You can't just say things like that." Her whisper carried weight despite the low volume.
I reached for my water glass. Kept my expression neutral. "Why? It's part of the act."
The food arrived, and we settled into the rhythm of eating. Talking. Bickering over nothing—whether the wine she'd ordered was too sweet, whether my steak was too rare, whether the couple three tables over had been arguing or just talking passionately in Italian.
Normal things.
Date things.
Things that shouldn't feel this easy.