Chapter 2
Chapter two
Cam
Ihit the locker room doorway still flushed from practice, sweat rolling down my spine beneath the pads.
I'd been running drills with a kind of vengeance today, pushing harder than the trainers liked, but I needed the burn. Needed something I could control.
Football is simple. Push, pull, run, hit. Rules are clear. Results are earned.
The second I cross into the tiled hallway, noise slams into me like a freight train.
Voices rising, cameras flashing, bodies shifting too close together in a mass that has no business being here.
Reporters. Dozens of them.
My stomach clenches, that old instinct flaring hot and immediate—find the danger, find the exit. But retreating now would only make it worse.
A microphone is shoved into my face before I've even fully entered the room.
"Cam! Cam, do you have a comment on the allegation that came out this morning?"
"Were you aware she hired a lawyer?"
"Is it true you pressured her after the charity event?"
"Cam, look here. Just one statement!"
The questions overlap, rapid-fire and sharp as thrown stones. I don't answer. Don't blink. Don't give them anything.
My jaw locks tight enough to ache as I force a path through the chaos, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the far wall. My breath burns in my chest.
The lie at the center of all this—the accusation that makes me feel dirty no matter how innocent I am—sits like a fist in my throat.
I just need to get to my locker. Need space. Need quiet.
But in this moment, I'm not an athlete.
I'm a story. A headline. A target.
***
Jax lounges on the bench like he's poolside in Malibu, arms behind his head, grin wide and entirely too relaxed for the storm raging ten feet away.
"Wow, Drake," he calls over the press noise. "You sure know how to throw a party."
His grin is meant to take the sting out, but I'm not in a joking mood.
I shoot him a glare that would melt lesser men. Jax just winks.
The team has learned to orbit my silence like satellites in varying stages of disaster. Some are helpful, some infuriating. Jax is firmly in the latter category, but at least he doesn't treat me like glass.
Coach Stenson storms through the crowd with all the grace of a bull, voice booming loud enough to silence even the most persistent reporter.
"Back it up! Everyone OUT unless you're authorized! This is a locker room, not a circus!"
His presence carves space around me, reporters scattering like leaves in a gust, but the damage is already done. The buzzing in my skull doesn't ease. The weight pressing against my ribs doesn't lift.
When the crowd finally thins, Ty—our rookie quarterback—jogs up, practically vibrating with nerves.
"Hey, uh… you okay? That looked rough."
His earnest eyes try to meet mine.
"Fine," I mutter.
One word. A lie. But it's all I can manage right now.
Ty nods slowly, clearly not convinced, but smart enough not to push. He claps my shoulder once—quick, awkward—and retreats to his own locker.
Jax watches the exchange with an expression I can't quite read. Something softer than his usual smirk. He opens his mouth like he's going to say something, then shuts it again.
Smart man.
I finally reach my locker and drop onto the bench, pulling my helmet off with more force than necessary. Sweat drips into my eyes. My hands shake—barely, but enough that I curl them into fists to steady them.
Brent appears like he materialized from the floor itself. My agent always has that talent—popping up exactly when I least want to see him.
His expression is grim, jaw clenched tight enough to rival mine.
"They've opened a formal inquiry."
No greeting. No easing in. Just the punch I'd been dreading.
"The league wants to review everything. They'll be monitoring your behavior closely for the next few weeks. Public appearances, social media, interviews—everything."
I sit down heavily, the pads on my shoulders suddenly twice as heavy. The air in the locker room feels too thick, too hot, pressing in from all sides.
"I didn't touch her," I say through gritted teeth. "Not once. Not ever."
"I know that." Brent crouches down so we're eye level, voice dropping lower. "But optics matter. And right now? Yours look terrible."
I scrub my hands over my face, fingers dragging through damp hair. The sting of injustice burns hotter than any workout ever could.
I worked my whole life to build something stable. Something solid. Something clean.
And with one lie—one calculated play by a woman who barely knew me—everything is sliding sideways.
And it's not just this woman and her fabricated lawsuit.
Every time this happens, every time someone twists the truth or manipulates my status for their own gain, it carves deeper, breaking my trust further.
Women use me.
Always have.
I have the scars to prove it.
My ex weaponized everything I gave her—every private moment, every vulnerable conversation—turned it into content for her followers and leverage for her career.
She obsessed over celebrity culture, over fame, over everything I tried to avoid.
And when I finally cut her off, she leaked our messages.
Made me look controlling. Cold. Emotionally unavailable.
Maybe I am now.
But I wasn't always.
"What do they want from me?" My voice comes out rough, scraped raw. "A statement? An apology for something I didn't do?"
"They want stability." Brent straightens, pulling his phone from his pocket. "They want you to look grounded. Mature. Emotionally sound."
"I am emotionally sound."
"Then prove it."
Brent clears his throat in a way that means bad news is about to get worse.
"They need something to counterbalance the narrative. We've been in contact with Elite Relationship Solutions."
I look up sharply, every muscle in my body going taut.
"The matchmaking company? No."
"Yes." Brent's tone is maddeningly calm. "And they've found a match they think aligns with the image the league wants to see. Someone who can give you credibility. Someone the public loves."
"Absolutely not." I stand too fast, the bench scraping loud against the tile. Heat crawls up the back of my neck. "I'm not pretending to date someone for PR."
"It's not pretending to date," Brent says carefully, like he's defusing a bomb. "It's… strategic companionship. A partnership. And considering your situation, it might be the only thing that keeps this from blowing up your contract."
I swear under my breath, pacing the narrow space between lockers. My cleats click against the floor, sharp and rhythmic, grounding me when everything else feels like it's spinning out.
I feel trapped. Forced into corners by lies, by optics, by everyone else's games.
The idea of opening my life to a stranger, letting someone have access to the private world I guard so fiercely, makes something inside me recoil violently.
I don't let people in.
Not anymore.
Not after what it cost me last time.
"You're asking me to invite someone into my life. To date a stranger because my career depends on it."
"I'm asking you to consider a solution that protects everything you've built.
" Brent's voice hardens just enough to cut through my anger.
"You think this goes away on its own? You think the league backs off because you're innocent?
They don't care about truth, Cam. They care about image. And right now, yours is damaged."
The words land like blows.
I sink back onto the bench, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
He's right.
I hate that he's right.
But I also see the truth in his eyes, in the set of his jaw, in the way he's already holding his phone like the decision has been made.
My career is on the line.
Everything I've worked for—every early morning, every brutal practice, every sacrifice—could vanish because of a lie I can't fight with just my word.
"Who is she?" My voice comes out flat, defeated.
Brent hesitates. Just for a second. But I catch it.
"ERS is keeping details confidential until the meeting. But I'm told she's… high-profile. Beloved. The kind of person who shifts public perception just by standing next to you."
High-profile.
Beloved.
Exactly the kind of person I've spent my entire career avoiding.
Brent lowers his voice, stepping closer so no one else in the locker room can hear.
"You meet her tomorrow morning. Nine a.m."
The world goes still around me.
The locker room noise fades into a low, dull hum. Jax's laughter. The spray of showers. All of it dissolves.
I'm not ready for this.
I'm not ready for anyone.
Especially not someone who could manipulate me, lie to me, or use me.
I don't want someone in my life. Don't want someone in my home. Don't want someone in my heart.
Brent claps my shoulder, the gesture meant to be reassuring but landing like a weight I can't shake off.
"This might be the thing that saves you, Cam."
I don't answer.
I can't.
My jaw locks, a storm brewing behind my eyes, pressure building in my chest until I'm not sure if I want to hit something or walk out and never come back.
But I'm out of options.