Chapter 6
Rowyn
That question sits like a lump in the pit of my stomach.
Do I want a family?
It’s the kind of thought that sneaks in during quiet moments, a thought I usually shove aside before it can settle. Wouldn’t a family interfere with my career? Wouldn’t it leave me empty and full of resentment if the relationship didn’t work out and I was left with all the responsibilities?
Underneath that tidy logic drilled into me by my mother, another voice whispers, soft and certain.
Oh, but you do, Rowyn. You do.
“Rowyn,” Jaxon begins when my silence stretches, his voice careful, as if he knows he’s stepping over a line I don’t want crossed.
And maybe he is. This—this vulnerable, unraveling version of me—doesn’t belong in the front seat of his car after he just led his team to semi-final victory.
He deserves laughter and champagne, not my ghosts.
“Right there,” I say quickly, spotting a car pulling out of a spot near the pub. My tone is too bright, too forced, but I grab onto it anyway. An escape route.
Jaxon goes quiet, slowing the car. His knuckles tighten on the steering wheel, and I can feel the weight of his concern pressing against the silence between us.
It makes my chest ache. Damn it, I don’t want to drag him down.
Tonight should be about celebrating, not circling around the wreckage of my childhood.
“No,” I finally say, because I can’t stand the tension coiling between us. “My career is all I want.” The lie scrapes my throat raw.
“Okay,” he says after a beat, his jaw tightening, the muscle ticking as he swallows whatever thought he wants to say.
I force a smile, searching for levity. “Looks like the party has already started.” I nod toward Nicklas swaggering down the sidewalk, two women hanging off his arms like accessories.
Jaxon exhales and pulls into the parking space, the engine’s rumble fading as he shuts it off. “Do me a favor,” he says, voice low, “Stay away from him tonight.”
“Really?” I glance back out the window. “He’s a flirt, sure, but I figured he was harmless.”
“He is. He just…” Jaxon’s gaze flicks toward me, dark and unreadable. “He said something stupid about taking you home.”
“Oh.” The laugh that escapes me sounds lighter than I feel. “Well, maybe this little plan of ours is working after all.”
His brows lift. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. A guy like Nicklas never looked twice at me before. Now suddenly, because I’m with you, he’s interested.”
Jaxon shifts, turning toward me, one arm draped casually along the back of my seat—but nothing about his gaze feels casual. “You can bet guys notice you, Rowyn.”
“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment,” I say, smiling softly. “But… thank you.”
He studies me for a long moment, the air thickening with something that feels both fragile and charged.
“I think people see your seriousness. The way you write, the way you carry yourself—it’s sharp, focused.
It keeps people at arm’s length. Maybe being with me…
” His mouth quirks, eyes glinting. “Maybe it makes you seem less intense. More…accessible.”
“Accessible?” I arch a brow, teasing to cover the strange flutter in my chest.
He laughs under his breath. “Not the right word.” His finger taps gently against my temple. “I never was as smart as you.”
I laugh, because it’s easier than admitting how deeply that small gesture hits. “You’re plenty smart, Jaxon.”
He looks at me again, really looks, his expression softening in that way that makes it hard to breathe. “Maybe the word I’m looking for is approachable.” His voice drops, rougher now. “Or maybe… touchable.”
The word hangs between us, a whisper that hums low in my stomach. His thumb brushes my cheek, and for one suspended heartbeat, the world narrows to the feel of his skin on mine—the warmth, the tenderness I didn’t know I craved until now.
Then a car horn blares, shattering the moment. He straightens fast, guilt or restraint flashing in his eyes.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat, reaching for composure. “I’m not interested in Nicklas touching me.”
“Right. Just hot coffee shop guy,” he mutters, checking his mirror as he opens the door.
I watch him for a second—broad shoulders, the easy confidence, and something between my legs squeezes tight. Oh boy. I push open my own door, and he’s already there, hand outstretched.
I take it. His palm is warm, steady. The wind whips around us, biting through the night, but his arm comes around my shoulders, shielding me as we cross the street.
Inside, the pub glows with laughter and music, and the scent of fries and spilled beer wraps around us. For a moment, I let it. The warmth. The noise. Him.
“Rowyn, over here.” Brighton waves from across the room, her smile bright and welcoming.
Jaxon’s hand finds the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd.
The pressure is light, protective—and warms me in a way I’m not used to.
Laughter rises above the music, and even though I know I don’t belong in this world of camaraderie, a part of me wishes I did.
“Hey,” I say as Jaxon pulls out a chair for me.
I glance at him over my shoulder as I shrug out of my coat.
Our eyes meet—just for a heartbeat—and there’s something there, something quiet and steady that almost makes me forget how to breathe.
He takes my coat and I sit, smoothing my hand over my pants and pretending I don’t feel the echo of his touch burning at my back.
“I know you know everyone from watching the games,” Brighton says. “But let me personally introduce you.”
She goes around the table, naming each of them, and the guys greet me with genuine warmth—smiles that reach their eyes, teasing comments about Jaxon bringing a reporter into the mix.
Even though I know they’re teasing, a part of me does worry that some of them who’ve been burned by the media before might think I’ve appeared out of nowhere in search of a sordid story.
A waiter in a tartan kilt appears with plates of nachos and pitchers of beer, and the table erupts in laughter and stories, everyone reaching across each other to grab a bite.
It’s chaos—but it’s the kind that feels like a big family.
I sip my drink, trying not to look too closely at the longing that tugs somewhere deep inside me.
When I glance around for the restroom, I notice a cluster of women near the bar, their gazes trained on the players like sharks circling in slow, deliberate patterns. I can almost hear the collective calculation in their eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” I murmur, slipping away from the table. As I cross the room, I can feel their stares, the sharp edge of judgment slicing through me. If looks could kill, I’d be nothing but a chalk outline on the floor.
I glance back instinctively. Jaxon’s watching me, eyes following my every move, protective and unreadable. Behind him, Roman’s twirling Gabby around the floor, both of them laughing, and I can’t help but smile. Roman always seems to be dancing, moving through life like the music belongs to him.
The restroom is bright and echoing, filled with the sound of chatter and perfume.
A few girls are crowded around the mirror, touching up their lipstick as they talk about players.
I hear Jaxon’s name and their conversation cuts off when they spot me.
The silence that follows feels too sharp to be coincidence.
I look down, pretending not to notice, but the truth is, it’s strange to see Jaxon with anyone on his arm, especially someone like me.
Serious.
That’s what he called me.
Dammit, I’m tired of being serious…untouchable.
I want to be touched, and ever since he used that word earlier tonight, it’s all I’ve been able to think about.
I step into a stall, the whispered words…it’s her…following me in.
I understand the murmurs. Jaxon had shut himself off a while ago, no longer seen out with the women the tabloids call bunnies.
I know the man has trust issues. Believe me, I know why he’d hardened himself.
I was there when it all went down with Ember.
But the man should be dating, should be out with the bunnies… should be living his life.
You’re one to talk, girlfriend.
I leave the stall, wash up, swipe a new layer of lipstick across my lips, and catch my reflection in the mirror. I look nothing like the women he used to have on his arm, nothing like Ember. No wonder everyone is talking.
The moment I step back into the pub, the sound hits me like a wave—music, laughter, clinking glasses. I barely make it two steps before a woman—one I recognize from moments ago in the bathroom—steps in front of me. I stop short, nearly bumping into her.
“Aren’t you Rowyn Perry?” she asks, her voice laced with something between curiosity and challenge.
My professional reflexes kicking in. “Yes, I am.”
A strange smile curls at her lips. “You came here with Jaxon?”
I glance over my shoulder. Jaxon’s still watching me, a storm brewing just behind those dark eyes. “I… uh… we go way back.”
“You two are friends then?” she presses, tilting her head, like that makes more sense than the two of us dating
“We are.”
“If he was dating again…” her gaze slides toward him, hungry and bold, “…I’d like to be all over that tonight.”
A sharp, unexpected heat flashes through me—jealousy, fierce and primal. “Uh, well… we are kind of dating.”
Her eyes rake over me, slow and assessing, before twisting into something like disbelief—like I’m not any kind of threat and she could walk out of here with Jaxon if she wanted too. “You’re kidding, right?”
Confidence in my work has never been my problem. But in moments like this, standing in front of a woman whose cleavage could get its own social media following, my personal confidence wavers. My throat tightens as I meet her gaze, and I work to steady myself.
“I’m not kidding,” I say quietly, the steel in my voice surprising even me.
She lets out a laugh, sharp and dismissive. “You hardly seem like his type.”
Before I can form a comeback, a familiar voice slides in close to my ear. “I thought you might’ve gotten lost.”
Jaxon.
His presence is a warmth that spreads instantly, wrapping around me. His chest brushes my back as his arm slips around my waist, drawing me against him.
“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” I manage, though my pulse is hammering so loud I can barely hear myself.
“Well, you did,” he murmurs, his breath feathering against my skin. “Which means later… I’m going to make you pay for that.” His voice is low, teasing, intimate.
“Then maybe I got lost on purpose,” I flirtatiously tease in return.
Who are you and what have you done with Rowyn?
I don’t know, but I kind of like this side he brings out in me.
The woman’s eyes widen, her expression one of shock and envy and she takes an awkward step back, almost colliding with another patron. Jaxon glances at her and straightens. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. A friend of yours, Rowyn?”
I meet her gaze squarely, leaning into Jaxon’s solid frame. “No,” I say, voice steady now. “She thought she knew me, but she doesn’t.”
Her cheeks flush, and she mumbles something before disappearing into the crowd.
Jaxon doesn’t move right away. He just keeps his arm around me, his thumb tracing small circles against my hip, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
The noise of the pub fades, the world narrowing to the steady rhythm of his breathing against my back.
And for one suspended moment, I let myself wonder what it would be like if this was real.
“What was that about?” he finally asks, his voice low, carrying a threat of worry…for me.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I think I do know.” He turns me, his eyes moving over my face. “I know you can handle yourself, Rowyn, but…”
“They can be vicious?” I ask.
“But…” A beat as he gives me a slow smile. “I really was missing you.”
I grin, knowing he’s teasing, but liking the way it makes me feel anyway. I glance around at the sharks watching us, and think about what he must go through on a daily basis, the way the tabloids tore him apart years ago. I frown, remembering his pain. “It must be hard being you.”
Just then someone bangs me from behind and I lurch into Jaxon. His arms are already around me, steadying me, holding me close. His body presses against mine, our groins aligned.
Wait, is that…?
My heart thunders, every nerve in my body coming alive. My God, when I said it must be hard being him, this wasn’t the hard I was referring to…
That’s when another thought hits…maybe he really was serious about missing me.
But I have to be mistaken, right? We’re faking it.
Except his reaction to our closeness—in his groin—a man can’t fake this kind of…
…hard.