Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Cam
The locker room is louder than the stadium.
Not in volume. In closeness. In the way sound ricochets off tile and metal and sweaty bodies until there’s nowhere to hide.
I step inside and the air hits me—steam, deodorant, victory, testosterone, and somebody’s cologne trying way too hard.
“Drake!”
I don’t even make it to my locker.
“My guy!” Devon’s voice booms from somewhere near the showers. “Look at Mr. Romance out there!”
A chorus of laughter answers him.
“Bro, you two looked like a movie poster,” someone adds.
Another voice, high and gleeful: “That kiss? That was straight-up cinema.”
I keep walking. Helmet in hand. Eyes forward. Like if I don’t react, the moment can’t stick to me.
“Careful,” A rookie calls, and I can hear the grin in his tone even before I see him. “Pop stars get bored fast. But hey—great publicity while it lasts.”
I force a half-smile, the kind that shows teeth without showing anything real.
“Good game,” I say to no one in particular.
It’s a dodge. It’s all I’ve got.
They keep talking. Not cruel. Not malicious. Just dumb and happy and unaware of where the cracks are.
I open my locker and stare into it like it contains instructions.
All I can see is Lila under those stadium lights. The way she looked like she didn’t belong and came anyway. The way she kissed my cheek first, quick and sweet, and the crowd went insane like we’d fed them blood.
Then I see her face this morning. Guarded. Hurt. Trying to act like she didn’t need anything from me.
My throat goes tight.
I don’t defend her to the guys. I don’t explain.
I don’t say it was her choice.
Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real in a way I can’t control.
So I do what I’ve always done.
I shut down.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s a slow slide into cold silence, like easing underwater and letting the noise get muffled. Like this is safer.
The guys notice. They always do.
The teasing tapers off, replaced by glances that linger too long.
I pull a clean jersey over my head and breathe through my nose, steady.
A win should feel good.
Instead, all I can feel is the fear underneath it.
That the more real it feels…
The harder it’ll hurt when it ends.
Jax drops onto the bench beside me like he’s claiming territory.
“You good?” he asks.
I sit and bend forward, focusing on my cleats. “Fine.” The word comes out automatic. Empty.
He watches me for a long beat. Long enough that the locker room noise fades into background static.
“You don’t look fine,” he says.
I stand and slam my locker shut. Metal rings sharp in the air.
“It’s nothing,” I say. “Drop it.”
Jax rises too. He lowers his voice. “Drake, don’t ghost her.”
The word hits harder than it should.
“I’m not ghosting anyone,” I snap.
He studies my face. “You sure?”
I don’t answer.
He exhales through his nose. “Man. Just don’t make the mistake of thinking silence is neutral. It never is.”
I grab my bag and head for the exit before he can say anything else.
The drive home is a blur of red lights and radio static I don’t remember turning on. My phone stays face-down in the console.
I don’t text.
I don’t call.
By the time I pull into the garage, my chest feels hollowed out.
Inside the penthouse, voices drift from the living room. Manny’s. Lila’s. Low. Serious.
I stop short.
When I step in, Manny looks up first. His expression tight.
Lila’s on the couch. Her knees are tucked under her. She looks smaller than she did on the field. Pale around the edges.
“Someone tried to get past the security gates,” Manny continues. “About an hour ago, while we were at the game.”
My stomach drops.
I wasn’t here.
Lila meets my eyes. "Cam. You were at work. This wasn't on you."
There’s no accusation there.
“I’m fine,” she says quickly. Too quickly.
I nod like that fixes anything.
Like I didn’t just prove I can’t be what she needs.
Manny clears his throat. “My guys had it handled.”
I stand there, useless, while the realization settles heavy in my chest.
I was stupid to think I could protect her.
Stupider to think she wouldn’t eventually see that.
***
I expect to be dismissed after practice with everyone else.
Pads off. Showers. Music. The slow unwind.
Instead, Coach Stenson jerks his chin toward the film room. “Drake. Sit.”
The room is dim, blue light washing over the walls. The screen is already paused. My name sits in the corner next to the timestamp.
I take a seat and brace.
The clicker snaps.
“Watch,” Coach says.
The play rolls. I block clean. Release faster than usual. Catch in stride. Drive forward.
Another click.
Another clip. Same thing. Sharper feet. Better angles. Less hesitation.
Coach doesn’t look at me. “You played better with her in the building.”
He clicks again. Yardage numbers pop up. Metrics. Clean, unforgiving proof.
A second coach clears his throat. “It’s a positive,” he clears his throat. “This time. But your practices lately have been less than stellar.”
Coach Stenson adds, finally turning to me, “Don’t bring the drama onto the field.”
“It’s not like that,” I say, too fast.
He lifts a brow. “Doesn’t matter what it’s like. It matters what it looks like.”
The screen freezes on a shot of us after the win. Her kissing my cheek. Me smiling like an idiot.
“You’ve had a lot of exposure,” he continues. “Good and bad. You stay centered. Or I bench you.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
The meeting ends. No congratulations. No praise.
Just a warning dressed like advice.
I leave the facility long after most of the team is gone. The parking lot is quiet. Too quiet.
I sit in my truck with my head against the steering wheel and let the silence press in.
Pop stars burn hot but leave fast. Don’t get distracted. Stay professional. She’s good PR, bad focus. Stay centered or sit out.
It all blends into one truth I don’t want.
I’m falling for her.
Harder than I planned. Faster than I can manage.
And if I let this keep going, I could lose everything I’ve spent my life working for.
So I make the choice.
When I walk into the penthouse later, she looks up from the couch. Hope flickers.
“Hey,” she says softly.
I hesitate. Too long.
“Long day,” I say.
Her face falls. Just a little.
Just enough.
In my room, I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, hands clasped so tight my fingers ache.
The contract is temporary. The noise will die down. The lawsuit has already been dropped. My reputation is recovering.
I tell myself these things like they’re anchors.
They don’t hold.
Because the feeling isn’t temporary.
That’s the part I didn’t account for. The variable no one flagged. The risk I didn’t hedge against.
I’m in love with her.
Not the version people clap for. Not the headline. Her. The woman who showed up to my world even when it overwhelmed her. Who kissed my cheek without thinking. Who looked at me like I was steady instead of dangerous.
And I’m already bracing for this to end.
I rub a hand over my face and stare at the floor, the truth settling heavy and unavoidable.
I lock it down. Compartmentalize it. Treat it like a liability I can manage if I don’t touch it too often.
I tell myself this is discipline.
But I've been here before.
It’s always right before I lose the thing I was trying to protect.