Chapter 22-Daniela
Monday rolls around like clockwork, smug and cold and completely unsympathetic to the fact that I spent the weekend riding out a blizzard—and Hudson “Tank” Jackson.
I get to work about four hours after him.
He’s already been at practice in the brand-new indoor paddock that the boss had built to keep the team training year-round, snowstorm or not.
It’s a brilliant, massive space, all steel and glass and heat-activated turf that somehow smells like money and sweat and ambition.
And him.
Don’t ask me how I know that. I just do.
I don’t head toward the indoor turf where the guys are beating the hell out of each other, though.
Nope. I take the safe route—straight to the media wing where Finley’s got her own mini PR kingdom carved out like a queen in low heels.
One corner is a tricked-out workstation; the other is a sleek little sound booth we use to capture everything from player intros to sponsorship reels.
There’s even a green screen and a ring light with automatic filters.
If there’s one good thing about having a billionaire boss, it’s the toys.
And the fact that we’re using every single one of them to build the Carolina Rovers into something the entire country is obsessed with.
Literally obsessed.
Because right now?
#SnowedInWithARover is trending in every time zone.
“’Bout time, sunshine,” Finley drawls without even looking up. She’s watching her tablet like it’s a particularly juicy drama. “You missed all the fun.”
“I was snowed-in,” I say casually, hanging my coat on the back of my chair and pretending like my thighs aren’t still sore. “It was kind of a lot.”
She glances up. Pauses.
Then she narrows her eyes.
“Ohhh. So that’s why the big guy’s been walking around with the goofiest smirk on his face since before I got here at six a.m. He was practically humming in the locker room.”
I arch a brow. “Humming?”
“Like a man who’s spent the weekend getting laid, or he just won the lottery.”
“Maybe he just likes snow.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, totally unconvinced.
“You two good?”
My stomach flips.
Because, yeah, we’re good. At least, I think we are.
But there’s a fine line between good and real, and I’m still trying to figure out where we land.
“We’re figuring it out,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek.
Finley smiles, soft but sly.
“Well, in case you missed it, you’re trending. Or should I say, you and Tank are. People are shipping it hard.”
“What?”
She taps the screen and turns it so I can see.
“Realtionshipping. You know, they are into this whole fake relationship thing. Very enthusiastic!”
I freeze.
There it is.
A blurry screenshot someone took from a long-range drone during the snowstorm.
The cabin, the glow of firelight through the window, and what definitely looks like a man hauling a blanket-covered woman out onto the porch to make snow angels.
“Oh my God,” I breathe. “Is that—?”
“Yup,” she grins. “Welcome to fame, baby. You’re officially America’s sweetheart. And Tank is now ‘rugby’s sexiest sports snack.’”
I groan and bury my face in my hands.
This is fine.
Totally fine.
Just, you know, also a little bit terrifying.
“What’s the problem? You two were certainly lighting fires in those Thanksgiving sequences, I didn’t think this was a secret,” she observes,
“Oh, come on! I mean, yes, we were flirting a little in the clips I shared on the team’s socials. But I had no idea some paparazzi weirdo would stalk us and take a pic, for fuck’s sake!”
“There’s another,” she says, and her cheeks go bright red.
“Nooo!” I squeak, clapping my hands over my mouth because this one shows us in the doorway.
After the whole snow angel thing. The picture is fuzzy, but you can definitely make out Tank’s face as he’s kissing me, his tongue down my throat, meanwhile my hands are obviously between us and stuffed down the front of his sweatpants.
“Hot,” Finley says with an eyebrow waggle and zero shame.
Heifer.
“Dani, the whole world is falling in love with the fantasy of you guys, but I have to ask. How are you doing?”
“Me? Oh, I’m just dangerously close to falling in love for real. If I’m not already there,” I murmur.
“Oh, that’s great! Congratulations,” she says, and I accept her hug, because I kind of need it.
Great? I’m not sure.
In theory, it sounds great, but no matter what Tank says, relationships that start with magical snowed-in weekends might not work in reality.
I hope I’m wrong, but the truth? I’m scared shitless of being right.