Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Lila
The stadium is alive. Electric. Deafening.
It feels like walking through fog.
The VIP box is glass and velvet and polite distance. A view that says you’re here without letting you touch anything real. The people inside it are dressed like they expected cameras, even though they’re technically safe from them.
I’m not.
I can feel attention like heat on the back of my neck anyway. My name travels in whispers. People glance and look away.
The balcony kiss is everywhere online. I know because I made the mistake of checking. People slowed it down, zoomed in, wrote long poetic threads about “the moment our souls touched.”
My soul would like a refund.
Cam has been… distant since then.
Not cold. Not unkind.
Just careful. Like he’s carrying a glass of water in a crowd and refusing to spill a drop.
Which would be sweet if it didn’t also make me feel like the spill.
I move to the front of the box and place my palm against the glass. It’s cool. Solid. A barrier I can understand.
Down on the field, the players jog out and the noise climbs another level, like the crowd has been saving it.
Then I see him.
Cam in pads looks unreal. Bigger. Sharper. Like he belongs to a different category of human altogether. He moves with this effortless purpose, like the ground adjusts to him instead of the other way around.
The crowd roars his name and my chest does something stupidly tender.
My husband.
The word still feels like borrowed clothing. Pretty on the hanger. Strange when used.
Warmth swells anyway, bright and immediate, and I hate how easy it is to want.
I’m here to support him.
That’s what partners do. Even temporary ones. Even contracted ones.
I tell myself that twice, like repeating it will make it less complicated.
But the doubts curl tighter, keeping pace with my heartbeat.
What if the kiss scared him off? What if I imagined everything I felt? What if he meant it… less?
I watch him stretch, laugh with a teammate, adjust his gloves.
Normal things. Human things.
And yet I feel like an imposter in this world. Like at any moment someone will tap me on the shoulder and ask for proof that I belong here.
The announcer’s voice booms. The crowd rises.
Kickoff.
The ball sails through the air.
And I realize I’ve been holding my breath like the game is going to answer a question I’m too afraid to ask out loud.
I’ve seen him on screens before.
Highlights. Slow-motion replays. The kind of footage that turns men into myths.
Even my ex’s superfan level play-by-play couldn’t prepare me for this.
Cam moves onto the field. Purposeful. Controlled. Like every muscle knows its job and trusts the others to follow. He blocks with his whole body, absorbs the hit, then releases into open space with a speed that shouldn’t exist at his size.
The crowd explodes every time he touches the ball.
Every catch makes me sit forward. Every tackle makes my stomach drop. Every time he pushes himself up off the turf, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath underwater.
I try to tell myself this is normal. That anyone would react this way watching someone they’re married to play.
That thought doesn’t help.
The women in the box lean closer together, buzzing with low voices and champagne bubbles.
“She’s really here for him.”
“They’re actually adorable.”
“Are they married?”
I focus on the field, but the words slip under my skin anyway.
“He looks at her like—” someone starts, then trails off, like they don’t want to finish the thought out loud.
The truth is complicated.
Cam catches a short pass and drives forward, shrugging off a defender like it’s nothing. The stadium shakes with sound.
Third quarter.
Red zone.
The play unfolds fast. He cuts inside, hands up, eyes locked. The ball hits his chest and he secures it, twisting as he crosses the line.
Touchdown.
The roar is instant and violent and glorious.
I’m on my feet before I realize it, heart slamming against my ribs like it wants out.
Cam slows, chest heaving, and looks up.
Not scanning the stands.
Looking.
At me.
The connection snaps tight and sudden, like a wire pulled too fast.
I lift my fingers in a small wave before I can stop myself. Just a flicker. Private.
He smiles.
Not the polished kind. Not the one for cameras or endorsements.
This one is quick. Unconscious. Beautiful.
It steals the air from my lungs.
I drop my hand and look away, pulse racing, pretending to be fascinated by the scoreboard.
The final drive is chaos.
When the clock hits zero and the win locks in, the sound turns to crazy levels. Joy without manners.
One moment I’m standing next to the glass. The next, someone from staff is at my elbow, smiling too brightly.
“This way, Lila.”
I barely have time to nod before I’m being guided out of the box, down a narrow stairwell, into the underbelly of the stadium where everything smells like sweat and victory and urgency.
Approved visibility, I remind myself. This is part of the job.
The field opens up under the lights and it’s blinding.
Cameras everywhere. Reporters already forming loose circles around players, microphones up, questions half-formed. Fans screaming names. My name. His name. Our names braided together.
My boots slip a little on the turf and my heart spikes, sharp and sudden. I steady myself and keep walking.
I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with fame.
Then—
“Lila!”
I turn.
Cam is jogging toward me, helmet dangling from one hand. His cheeks are flushed. His hair is damp with sweat. His eyes are bright in a way that makes him look younger. Freer.
Unfiltered.
For a second, the noise drops away.
It’s just him. Coming toward me like this is normal. Like I’m where he expects me to be.
My chest aches.
I step forward without thinking. Congratulations rises to my lips, obvious and sincere, and my body beats my brain to it.
I lean in and kiss his cheek.
It’s quick. Soft.
The stadium explodes.
The sound crashes back in, louder than before. Shouts. Whistles. My name screamed in delight. Cameras snapping like fireworks.
Heat floods my face.
I pull back, startled by the reaction, already reaching for a laugh, for distance, for something tidy and safe to hide behind.
But Cam’s hand closes gently around my wrist.
His eyes meet mine, and there’s no calculation there. Just adrenaline and joy and something dangerously open.
The noise fades to a dull roar. His hand stays loose around mine. Not holding.
Asking.
My heart stutters.
I could step away. Smile. Wave. Let this be the safe version. The tidy version.
I don’t.
I step into him, close the space myself, rise onto my toes. His hands come up slowly, settling at my waist.
The kiss is warm. Steady. Deep in a way that feels intentional, not overwhelming. He kisses me like he knows exactly where he is—and exactly who I am.
My hands fist in his jersey because I want to, because the ground feels far away, because this feels real enough to risk.
The crowd erupts, but it barely registers.
His thumb brushes my cheekbone, familiar now. I kiss him back without hesitation, without confusion, without pretending this is anything less than what it is.
When we part, our foreheads rest together for a beat, both of us breathing hard.
His eyes search mine—not claiming, not performing.
Checking.
I smile, soft and shaky.
And that’s when the fear slips back in.
Because wanting something doesn’t make it safe.
Because choosing him doesn’t mean he’s choosing me the same way.
I turn toward the cameras, my smile widening as I step back into the role they expect.
Inside, though, I’m already retreating.
Already guarding.
Already afraid that I just chose something that can hurt me.