Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Cam
Brent paces from the kitchen island to the windows and back, phone in one hand, legal pad in the other.
Anxiety radiates off him. He mutters about league deadlines. Optics. Stability indicators. The word trajectory comes up twice, like my career is a plane someone else is flying.
I don’t answer.
I drop onto the couch, elbows on my knees, and stare at the carpet. My shoulders ache from practice, but not the good kind.
Brent stops long enough to point his pen at me. “You’re not taking this seriously.”
“I’m sitting,” I say.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I know.”
A knock freezes Brent mid-step. His eyes flick toward the door like his body recognizes the threat before his brain does.
Brent looks at me. I don’t move.
He peeks through the peephole, and his shoulders tense before he opens the door.
Evelyn Sterling stands on the other side. Tailored coat. Calm expression. Eyes sharp enough to cut through excuses. A slim leather portfolio rests under one arm, light as if it carries nothing more than notes.
She looks polite. Neutral. Controlled. “May I come in?”
Brent straightens immediately. “Ms. Sterling—yes, of course.”
I stand, mostly because something in me refuses to be seated for this.
“Of course,” I say.
Evelyn steps inside. She doesn’t glance around, doesn’t react to the space. My condo isn’t meant to impress. It’s private. It’s mine. She moves like none of that matters.
“When you and Ms. Hart left ERS the other day,” she says, “your situations didn’t stop moving.”
She crosses to the dining table and sets the portfolio down. The sound is soft but decisive. Paper becoming permanent.
“You walked out because the decision felt too large,” she continues. “That’s understandable.” Her eyes meet mine. “But walking out does not stop the consequences.”
Brent exhales sharply. I ignore him.
I swallow. My throat feels tight. “You brought the contract here?”
“There have been some updates,” Evelyn says. “I felt it only fair to loop you in. Whether you sign is still up to you.”
Brent doesn’t even try to hide it. He gives me the look.
Please. For the love of all things football, just sign the papers.
I stare at the folder.
A few days ago, I walked away from this idea with my dignity intact.
Now the trap is sitting on my table, hand-delivered to my front door.
Brent’s phone buzzes again. For once, he ignores it.
I don’t open the file.
But my pulse is already racing.
Evelyn opens it for me. Brent drifts closer, hovering over my shoulder. I don’t look at him.
Evelyn turns the first page and rotates the document so it faces me.
Bold letters. Centered. Impossible to miss.
MARRIAGE AGREEMENT — PROTECTIVE PARTNERSHIP
My jaw tightens before I realize it.
Below it, in smaller text, a phrase that lands heavier than the title:
Emergency Clearance Authorization — Spousal Access Required
I stare at it longer than necessary.
“This marriage offers you unrestricted access to secured locations,” Evelyn continues. “Her team wants you as a protective presence as much as possible.”
I picture Lila—small and sharp-eyed, shoulders tight, hands folded like she’s bracing for impact.
She turns another page.
“I also feel I need to tell you that Ms. Hart’s past relationships didn’t end well,” Evelyn says. “She’s been manipulated. Emotionally leveraged. Used for access. For relevance. For control.”
I let out a short breath through my nose. “Sounds familiar.”
“Yes,” Evelyn agrees. “That’s why this pairing has potential.”
Brent nods like someone finally said the quiet part out loud. “You’re compatible disasters.”
I shoot him a look.
Evelyn doesn’t smile.
I glance down again.
The paper in front of me feels heavier now.
“You mentioned the agreement had changed?” I ask.
“Yes. Lila's team wanted to add this.” Evelyn turns one last page and slides it forward.
The heading is clear. Clinical.
NO INTIMACY CLAUSE
What the heck is this?
“For her emotional safety,” Evelyn says. “And for yours.”
I press my thumb into the edge of the table. “She thinks I’m a threat?”
“She thinks everyone is,” she states. “That’s what happens when trust becomes a liability.”
I look at my hands.
Big. Calloused. Capable of blocking hits, holding ground, catching passes under pressure.
The same hands my ex once called dangerous when she needed a headline.
“This isn’t about control,” Evelyn says. “It’s about containment. Boundaries.”
Brent clears his throat. “It’s temporary.”
I picture Lila alone in some room right now. Surrounded by staff. By protection. Still afraid.
I don’t know her.
The room is silent, waiting for me.
Evelyn steps back.
Not away from the table—away from me. She gives me space like she knows pressure would snap something instead of seal it.
“I’m not asking you to fall in love with her,” she says. Her voice is steady. Calm. “I’m asking you to understand why our team chose you.”
I scrub a hand over my face and exhale hard. “You’ve got the wrong guy. I'm not a bodyguard. I'm a messy football player. I don’t belong in her world.”
“That may be true,” Evelyn says. “But right now, you need her as much as she needs you.”
That stops me.
“The accusation against you is still unresolved,” she continues. “Your sponsors are waiting. The league is watching your behavior closely. Not only your stats—your stability.”
Brent perks up. “That’s the word they keep using.”
I hate that word.
“A public partnership,” Brent adds quickly, “especially one that reads as grounded, supportive, domestic—changes the narrative overnight.”
I shoot him a look. “You mean it distracts.”
“It is reassuring,” he counters. “Teams don’t bench men who look settled. Sponsors don’t flee men who have a support system and no scandals.”
I look back at the papers.
The pen sits where Evelyn left it. Heavy. Black. Waiting.
“Ms. Hart does not want to use you. She wants distance from everyone. Including you. She isn't asking for affection,” Evelyn adds. “She's asking for protection. And for boundaries.”
I swallow.
The room feels too quiet.
Brent lowers his voice. “Cam… this buys us time.”
Time to clear my name. Time to stabilize my career. Time to breathe.
I reach for the pen.
I wrap my fingers around the pen and feel the cool weight of it. The finality.
I glance once more at the no-intimacy clause.
No expectations for real feelings.
I lower the pen to paper.
The sound of ink scratching across the page feels louder than it should.
One line.
Then another.
My signature takes shape. Familiar. Permanent.
Done.