Chapter 35 #2
But with my body pressed against his, as much as the fear tries to claw its way up my throat, there’s another truth sitting just as stubbornly in my ribs.
I don’t want to move. I do, though. Eventually.
I ease my hand off his shirt and slide my leg away from his.
His arm slips from around my waist and lands on the mattress with a soft thud, but he doesn’t wake.
I push up on one elbow, watching his face for any sign that I’ve disturbed him.
“Of course, you sleep through this,” I whisper, a tiny, shaky smile tugging at my mouth.
My muscles protest when I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body reminds me of all the ways he touched me last night. Heat flares low in my stomach, mingling with something embarrassingly close to pride. I let myself be present for all of it.
The floor is cool under my feet as I stand and pull one of his shirts off the back of a chair and slide it over my head.
The soft and worn fabric hit mid-thigh on me.
I take one last glance back at the bed and giggle.
Kyle stretches his hand toward the spot where I was moments ago, fingers curled as if they’re still holding me.
I pad quietly out of the bedroom, pretending for a few stolen seconds that the world hasn’t quite decided what kind of day it’s going to be yet.
In the kitchen, I flick on the small lamp over the counter instead of the main light.
The warm glow pools over the marble, catching on the stainless-steel appliances and the mug sitting in the drying rack.
I reach for the coffee machine, giving my hands something to do that isn’t shaking.
Thankfully, this is a simple coffee maker, and I manage to find everything I need after only opening two cabinets.
While the coffee is brewing, I notice my phone sitting on the counter where I must have dropped it last night.
My fingertips itch to check it for any more headlines, but I ignore it and leave it sitting face down on the countertop.
I make a cup of coffee for Kyle and me, but my eyes keep drifting back to the phone.
A small, rectangular weight dragging at the edge of my vision, a promise that whatever we said to each other last night doesn’t exist in a vacuum.
Eventually, the not knowing gets louder than the caution, and I set my mug down, wiping damp palms on the hem of his shirt, and reach for it.
The screen lights up the second I tap it, and there are notifications everywhere.
Missed calls from Janine with so many more emails flagged “Urgent.” Social media apps stacked with red numbers look obscene in the quiet of his kitchen. My thumb hovers over the first app.
Don’t. Just grab the cups of coffee and crawl back into bed. Let yourself have a morning, just once.
I tap the screen, expecting the usual mess, but what I get instead is a fresh trending banner I haven’t seen before.
A headline published twenty minutes ago.
The top story is a brand-new photo, not the grainy garage shot from the previous night, but something worse: me walking into the Timberwolves building yesterday morning.
Someone zoomed in just enough to catch the exhaustion on my face, the tension in my shoulders, the way I kept my head down like I could hide in the pavement.
The headline hits harder than anything I’ve seen yet.
PR Girl Meltdown? Alycia Torres seen in tears after late-night blowup with Hendrix.
There’s a smaller subheading underneath, one that makes bile rise in my throat: “Sources say she’s ‘emotionally unstable’ and jeopardizing the team image.”
They don’t have a source. They have vultures. And then the detail that makes my legs go weak: “Witness reports seeing Alycia arriving at Kyle Hendrix’s condo late last night.”
My blood turns to ice. Someone followed me or caught the camera feed or got lucky at exactly the wrong moment. The comments under the article blur together in a sickening smear.
She probably slept over to fix her little mess.
So unprofessional.
Why is she even allowed near players?
Hendrix looks unstable, but she looks worse.
She’s gonna get fired. Calling it now.
My stomach lurches because this isn’t just gossip and speculation anymore; it's the new narrative designed to chew me up. My fingers shake around the phone, and the warm safety of the morning drains out of the room so fast it’s like someone yanked the sun out of the sky.
Behind me, down the hall, I hear Kyle’s sleepy footsteps approach, and I drop my shoulders back, fix my face, and force my lungs to keep moving.
He cannot see me fall apart. Not yet.
Kyle stops in the doorway as if the sight of me steals whatever air he had left. His eyes travel from my hair—still messy from his hands—to the hem of his shirt hanging loose around my thighs. Something soft flickers across his face as he steps toward me.
“Hey,” he says, voice warm with sleep, still gravelly around the edges.
He’s not wearing shoes. His hair is a mess from my fingers last night, with his T-shirt twisted around his torso like he rolled over it a dozen times. He looks peaceful. The way people look when they wake up in their own homes, with someone they care about close by. I feel anything but.
“You’re up early,” he murmurs, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes. “You okay?”
Lie. Lie. Lie.
“Yeah,” I say lightly, the word too bright. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He looks at me for a beat too long, and I swear he can hear the lie even if he doesn’t name it. He steps closer, hands rising to my arms. His palms glide over bare skin, causing my breath to shudder at the contact.
“You left the bed,” he says quietly, like he’s trying to understand something important.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You wouldn’t have,” he murmurs. Then, softer, “You didn’t have to leave.”
I glance down at my phone and quickly flip it face down, the headline burned into my brain. “I just… needed a minute.”
Kyle studies me the way he studies game footage, looking for tells I don’t know how to hide. His thumb traces the inside of my wrist, gentle enough to undo me. “Alycia, talk to me.”
His eyes search mine like he fears what he’ll find but is more scared not to look.
“It’s nothing.”
“Hey… don’t do that. Don’t shut down on me. Not after last night.”
A quiet, sharp ache pricks behind my ribs. Last night and the way we said I love you like we’d been holding the words in our lungs for years. If he knew what was happening online, what people were saying, he’d burn the world down before I finished explaining. And that terrifies me.
“Kyle, it’s… It’s fine,” I whisper, turning back toward the coffee machine because I need something to put between us, even if it’s just hot water and plastic.
He steps behind me, close enough that I feel his body heat at my back. His hands smooth gently down my arms, fingertips brushing the insides of my elbows before settling lightly at my hips.
“Don’t lie to me,” he murmurs into the space near my ear. “If you’re scared, just say that. I can take it.”
He doesn’t know I’m not scared of him, but for him. I’m scared of the world waiting outside his door with sharpened claws. Panic burns hot at the back of my throat as I slam my eyes shut.
“I just have a lot to do today,” I say, hoping it’s enough. “We still have another PR mess to take care of.”
Kyle exhales slowly, chest pressing to my back for one brief, grounding moment before he steps around me.
He leans against the counter beside me, watching me with that steady, unblinking gaze that’s equal parts shield and sword.
“Okay, but if you need anything—if you feel anything—I want you to tell me.”
God, I hate how much I want to fall into him. How easy it would be.
“I know,” I whisper. And I do. That’s why I can’t.
His fingers brush mine lightly. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold.”
His mouth pulls into something that isn’t quite a smile and isn’t quite heartbreak. “You’re a terrible liar.”
I huff out a weak exhale. “So are you.”
That earns me the smallest genuine smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Kyle pushes gently off the counter and steps toward me, lifting a hand to my cheek. His thumb strokes once beneath my eye. “Whatever today is, you don’t have to go through it alone.”
My breath catches because I know he means it; I just wish I could let myself believe it. “I know.”
He doesn’t push, just leans down to press his lips to my forehead, lingering enough to feel like a promise. I close my eyes, letting myself revel in it for one stolen second. Then I pull away before he can feel the tremor in my jaw.
“Let me get ready,” I whisper.
Kyle's fingers slide from my cheek, his gaze lingering like he wants to pull me right back into him and ask what’s really going on, but he steps back and gives me space.
I turn toward the entryway, where I left my backpack last night, and crouch to grab it.
My hands shake as I pull out the folded clothes I shoved inside hastily last night before heading here—my blouse, slacks, and makeup bag.
When I straighten, Kyle is in the kitchen, watching me with something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
I clutch the clothes to my chest and slip past him, heading toward the bedroom. My legs feel unsteady, like I’m moving through two different worlds. The warm, safe one where he held me last night and the cold one waiting outside his door. The moment I’m in the bedroom, I let out a shaky breath.
The door stays open behind me, but he doesn’t follow.
I can sense him in the hallway, giving me space, but the awareness of him hums under my skin like a second heartbeat.
I lay the clothes on the bed and smooth out the wrinkles with trembling hands.
I’m halfway through unfolding the blouse when footsteps sound behind me.
“Sweetheart?” I stiffen slightly before turning, blouse crushed in my fists.