Matched to the Football Star (Matched Married and Marketed #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Lila

The stadium lights blaze overhead. Twenty thousand voices roar as one, the sound vibrating up through my boot heels, settling somewhere deep in my chest where the melody lives.

I hit the peak note of the ballad, breath steady.

My lungs are open. My core is locked. My hands are relaxed on the stand like I’m not trying to white-knuckle my way through this tour.

Then something flickers at the far edge of the stage.

My eyes catch movement in the split second between lyric and breath.

A man vaults the barrier like he’s clearing a fence in a backyard, not the security line of a sold-out stadium tour. He lands hard, stumbles, and keeps coming.

The world narrows to the angle of his shoulders and the way he leans forward.

Like he wants something.

He’s close enough now that I can see the sign in his hand.

Homemade. Crooked. Sharpie letters. My name is spelled wrong.

Under it is an image taped on. A still frame from the podcast clip that’s been following me like a stray dog.

The lies my ex dropped into the world like poison—the same ones that podcaster ran with, twisted, and monetized. Lila Hart's dark side. What really happened behind closed doors.

The song keeps going without me. The band holds. My backup singers carry the harmony, but I can't sing.

The man reaches for the nearest mic stand and yanks a backup singer’s mic free. The sound screeches. Feedback howls. The stadium turns from roar to startled, animal noise.

He’s red in the face. Eyes too bright.

Security floods the stage in a black wave. The head of my security, Manny, leads the charge—broad shoulders cutting through the chaos, steady and immovable as always.

He's been with me for my whole career, like a father to me. The only person who knows how bad it's gotten.

His expression stays calm, focused, the kind of reassurance I need when panic crawls up my spine.

But it doesn't help. Not this time.

The man squeezes out one clear, awful shout before Manny reaches him:

"You're an awful person, Lila!"

Manny yanks the power cable and the mic dies. The man’s mouth keeps moving, still shouting into silence, still spitting poison like the noise itself is the point.

The sign drops.

It skitters across the stage, scraping against the black floor. It spins once and lands facedown.

Thank heavens.

The man disappears offstage in seconds, hauled backward by three security guards.

But my body doesn't get the memo that I'm safe.

My vision tunnels. Edges blur, darkness creeping inward. My knees buckle beneath me.

And the last thing I see—before the lights collapse inward and the sound drops away—is Manny’s face, with fear in his eyes.

The kind that says: I can’t protect you from everything.

Then black swallows me whole.

***

Humiliation swells inside me like a rising tide. I push upright, ignoring the way my head spins, and grab Manny's forearm like it's a lifeline.

"What happened? Last I remember that guy jumped onto the stage."

My voice wobbles despite my best effort. The roughness of his sleeve grounds me—solid, real, not the nightmare blur of stage lights and screaming that still clings to the edges of my vision.

"Guy's in custody." Manny's eyes stay steady, professional despite the worry etched in the lines around them. "Crowd's controlled. Crew's resetting."

Shame and fury hit at once, tangling in my chest until I can't tell which one's choking me.

But the show.

The show matters.

Twenty thousand people paid to hear me sing, not watch me crumble.

"I have to finish."

The words come out quieter than I mean them to, even as my pulse skitters unevenly in my throat.

Manny gives me a look that says he thinks I'm out of my mind.

But he knows better than to argue with me about the stage.

"Your call." His tone shifts, drops into that warning register. "But your team? They're ready to riot."

I let go of his arm, flex my fingers. They're still trembling.

"Let them riot." I stand, test my legs. Steady enough. "I'm finishing this show."

***

The platform lifts me back into the blinding heat of the lights. The roar hits like a physical thing and steals the breath from my lungs.

They're screaming my name.

Like I just came back from the dead.

My hand finds the mic stand, grips it hard enough to feel the metal bite into my palm. An anchor point. The band kicks in—drummer counting off, bass rumbling up through the floor—and muscle memory takes over where rational thought left off.

But something's different.

There's a hairline fracture running through the center of me now, invisible to everyone except me.

Fear seeps through it in slow, steady drips—not the explosion I felt when that guy lunged at the stage, but worse.

Quieter. The kind of terror that doesn't announce itself with sirens and security tackles.

The kind that whispers: This will happen again. And again. Until something breaks that can't be fixed.

I hit the final run of the last song, voice climbing to the high note that always gets the loudest reaction. The crowd loses it. I smile—big, bright, the smile that's sold out arenas across several countries.

My hands won't stop trembling inside the sequined sleeves of my jacket.

Encore. Bow. Wave.

The final chord dies out, swallowed by thunder that shakes the rafters. I blow kisses, press my hand to my heart like I always do, and turn toward the wings with my spine straight and my chin up.

The second I'm out of the spotlight, my knees nearly give.

Manny's there before I can stumble, his hand under my elbow.

"We need to get you out of here ASAP."

But the problem isn't the venue. Isn't the screaming fans or the guy being processed by police right now.

The problem is that nowhere feels safe anymore.

Not even the stage.

***

The dressing room is too small for all this panic. Sasha's pacing a trench into the floor, three phones clutched in various stages of emergency. One's pressed to her ear while she jabs at another, her normally sleek ponytail coming undone in stress-induced wisps.

"No, absolutely not—no press backstage, no statements, and yes, we're activating the wellness clause."

She hangs up. Points at me.

"You scared twenty thousand people." Not unkindly, but there's fear bleeding through every syllable. "You fainted. Onstage. The video is already trending."

I wrap my arms around myself, still wearing the sequined jacket that feels heavier like a weighted jacket now. "I'm fine. It was just… the sign. And the yelling. And—"

"And that's the point!" Sasha's voice cracks on the last word. She drags a hand through her hair, destroying what's left of the ponytail. "You are not fine. This is escalating. You're body is shutting down when there is even the smallest threat. And we can't keep patching cracks."

Sasha crosses the room, drops into the chair across from me. Her expression shifts—softer, but more terrifying for it. "We need stability. We need optics. We need someone beside you who can walk out onstage, in public, in everyday life, and steady the narrative."

I stare at her. "A bodyguard? A babysitter?"

"No." She leans forward. "A partner. Someone with credibility. Maturity. Presence. Someone the public will trust to be good for you. Someone who can calm the crowd energy."

Partner.

Boyfriend.

The words bounce around my skull like shrapnel. They've been floating through team meetings for weeks now, tossed around conference tables like they're just strategy points on a PowerPoint. Like they don't involve my actual life. My body. My trust.

Manny clears his throat from his position by the door. "We've already reached out to ERS."

The room tilts.

ERS. Elite Relationship Solutions.

The matchmaking agency for people so rich, so famous, so deeply screwed that they can't even find love without a six-figure consultant and an NDA.

My ex is already out there calling me manipulative. Unstable. A liar who plays victim for album sales.

And now my team wants me to parade around with a boyfriend fabricated for PR and safety?

"You can't be serious."

Sasha's phone buzzes. Again.

She glances at the screen, and something shifts in her face—relief mixed with something heavier. She answers, pressing it to her ear while turning toward the window like she needs distance from my panic to have this conversation.

"Yes. Understood. Tomorrow works."

My stomach drops.

She listens, nods at whatever voice is filtering through the speaker. Her free hand comes up to rub her temple, and when she finally lowers the phone, her eyes find mine with something that looks disturbingly like resolve.

"That was Evelyn Sterling."

Founder of ERS. Not who I wanted to hear from right now.

"ERS already reviewed your case." Sasha's voice has gone soft, careful—the tone you use when delivering news that can't be taken back. "And… they found someone. Someone who fits every safety, PR, and psychological requirement."

The air leaves my lungs.

Found someone.

Already.

Like I'm a problem that needed solving and they went ahead and solved it while I was still onstage finishing the show.

"No." The word comes out strangled, barely audible. "This can't be real."

But Sasha's expression doesn't waver. If anything, it hardens with conviction. Or guilt. Or both.

"You'll meet him tomorrow. Nine a.m."

The room shrinks. Walls pressing in, oxygen thinning, that same lightheaded sensation from the stage creeping back into the edges of my vision.

"Tomorrow," I squeak.

Not next week. Not after I've had time to process.

Tomorrow.

Already arranged. Already moving forward. Already decided.

My breath catches—high, thin, painful—and I can't tell if I'm about to cry or scream or faint all over again.

Manny shifts by the door, his silence loud enough to confirm what I already know: he signed off on this.

They all did.

While I was singing my heart out for twenty thousand strangers, my team was concocting a plan.

My fainting hadn't just been a crack in the armor.

It had been a catalyst.

The question wasn't if I was ready to trust again, to let someone in, to risk the kind of intimacy that shattered me the first time.

The choice had already been made without me.