Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Cam
My phone starts vibrating before my eyes open.
Not one buzz. Not two.
A steady, relentless tremor against the nightstand, like something is trying to crawl its way into the room.
I grab it, already bracing. I have a slew of messages.
Brent. Noah. Team PR.
This can’t be good.
I sit up, thumb scrolling, sleep burning off fast and ugly.
Overnight, a tabloid drops what they’re calling exclusive deposition details.
Real documents. Real words.
Stripped of context. Rearranged like a crime scene puzzle where the picture on the box has been swapped out for something uglier.
Cold. Violent. Uncaring. That’s the version of me they’re selling this morning.
My jaw tightens as I read.
It’s not just Rebecca’s allegations coming back around.
It’s worse.
It’s lies twisted just enough to be believable.
I swing my legs off the bed and scrub a hand down my face. The room feels smaller. Heavier.
A sucker punch always lands before you know to brace.
Last night flashes through me without warning.
The balcony where we kissed. The way Lila looked at me like she wasn’t performing. The softness of her mouth. The way I said my wife and meant protect, meant mine, meant stay.
I exhale slowly.
Hope is a dangerous thing to let yourself feel right before the ground gives out.
My phone buzzes again. A link this time. Headline in all caps.
I don’t open it.
I already know how this goes.
The world doesn’t do nuance. It does villains and victims. And it loves recycling monsters.
What makes my stomach turn isn’t the idea of my name trending. It’s the idea of hers being pulled down with me.
Because they won’t keep it separate. They never do. They’ll drag her into this, frame her smile beside my face, ask what kind of woman marries a man like me.
I think of the way she looked at me last night. Unguarded.
Safe.
I drop the phone onto the mattress like it’s contaminated.
I should text her.
Something normal. Something steady.
But all I can see is my mess bleeding into her morning. My headlines messing up her calm. Her waking up to my dirt before coffee.
I can’t do that to her.
Not today.
I stand and start getting dressed, movements sharp and efficient. Armor back on. No softness allowed.
I tell myself this news cycle is temporary. It'll blow over. They always do.
Still, as I pull on my jacket, one thought won’t leave me alone.
I let myself hope last night.
And now the world is about to punish me for it.
***
By midmorning, I’m sitting in a glass conference room that smells like burnt coffee and expensive restraint.
There are too many suits. Too many careful faces.
Brent sits beside me, shoulders squared, jaw tight. Across the table, two league attorneys and the team’s PR director arrange papers like they’re setting a dinner table instead of deciding my future.
No one wastes time.
Brent steeples his fingers. “The owners don’t care what’s true. They care about predictability. They care about not waking up to new headlines every morning.”
I flip the folder open. Charts. Projections. Media sentiment graphs with clean downward arrows.
“They’re pushing for a settlement,” Brent says.
I look up. “A forced one.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“Not because they think you’re guilty,” he says carefully. “They want containment. Predictability. An outcome they can control. I think Rebecca and her team are scared and pushing for anything they can get. ”
“A settlement would keep you on the field,” Brent adds. “It limits exposure. It creates closure.”
Closure.
My jaw tightens until it aches.
“Settling makes me look guilty,” I say. “And I’m not. And I didn’t file a countersuit just to walk it back.”
The PR director doesn’t flinch. “Not settling makes you look unreasonable.”
“I’m not unreasonable,” I say evenly. “I’m consistent.”
Silence.
“I won’t settle,” I continue. “If she wants out, she can withdraw.”
The room goes quiet.
I lean back, chair creaking softly.
I think of Lila’s face when she laughs for real. The way she scans rooms without realizing she’s doing it. The lists she keeps in her head just to feel safe.
Her life is already loud. Already watched.
She doesn't need my chaos crashing into her schedule.
***
Practice should be an escape.
The rhythm. The impact. The clean math of effort in, result out.
Today, none of it sticks.
The field feels too bright. The air too thin. My body moves on muscle memory while my thoughts lag three steps behind.
I miss a route I could run in my sleep.
Jax slows beside me, eyebrows lifted. “You sleep at all?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically.
He studies my face like he doesn’t buy it. Falls back without pushing.
Hunter doesn’t say anything. He just watches. The way he always does when something’s wrong and he’s waiting to see if I’ll admit it first.
We reset. I line up again.
The snap comes. I run.
And it’s like my legs are moving through water.
“Man,” Devon mutters as we jog back, “you’re running like your soul left your body.”
A few guys laugh. Not unkind. Concerned.
I force a grin. It feels wrong on my face.
We break into drills. Pads hit. Breath burns. Sweat drips into my eyes.
Normally, this is where everything else drops away.
Not today.
I grit my teeth and shove my thoughts aside.
What I can’t shove away is her.
I kissed her knowing my life is a mess. Knowing I’m radioactive on a good day. Knowing the storm was already building.
Now the storm is finally breaking, but I can't shake the feeling that something is off.
The whistle blows. We break. I bend over, hands on my knees, breathing hard.
Hunter stops in front of me. Low voice. “You good?”
I nod. Too fast.
He doesn’t argue. Just claps my shoulder once and moves on.
I straighten and stare out across the field. The stands are empty. Quiet.
I wish my head were the same.
***
I’m halfway to my car when Brent says my name.
Not loud. Not sharp.
The kind of tone that means this isn’t optional.
“Cam—wait.”
I stop. Slowly. Because if I don’t, I might keep walking until I hit the edge of the city and fall off.
He catches up, already pulling out his phone. “PR and legal need you. Now.”
“I’m going home,” I say. The words come out flat. Final.
“I know,” he says. “I wouldn’t stop you if it could wait.”
It can’t.
That’s how three hours disappear.
Emails fly. Language sharpens. Timelines tighten.
And then—quietly—her side blinks.
Rebecca’s attorneys request a pause. Then a delay.
And then, they agree to file a voluntary dismissal.
As the meeting breaks, Brent claps a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll manage this,” he says quietly.
I nod.
When they finally let me go, it’s close to midnight. The building is half dark. The city outside the windows looks drained and quiet.
I drive home on autopilot.
The penthouse lights are low when I walk in.
A blanket is draped over the couch. One corner folded the way she always does it. An empty mug sits on the table, tea ring dried at the bottom. Her sheet music is stacked neatly on the ottoman, edges aligned.
She was here.
Waiting.
My chest tightens so hard it’s almost pain.
I step closer and see her curled on her side, hair spilling across the pillow, lashes resting against her cheeks. She looks smaller like this. Unguarded.
I stand there longer than I should.
I want to wake her. Tell her everything. Tell her last night wasn’t a mistake. That I meant it. That I still do.
But the words feel heavy. Dangerous.
So I move quietly.
I pull the blanket off the back of the couch and drape it over her shoulders. Tuck it in. Gentle. Careful.
I carry her mug to the sink. Rinse it. Set it to dry.
Then I go to my room alone.
The bed is cold.
And for the first time all day, the thing that hurts the most isn’t the headlines.
It’s the knowledge that she waited for me.
And I wasn’t there.