Chapter 6
Mars
I told him we'd talk later. Seven o'clock. FaceTime.
That felt safer than sitting across from him again.
Safer than being trapped in the same physical space with that steady voice and those heavy eyes that seemed to ask questions without ever saying them out loud.
Behind a screen, I could control my angles.
I could hide the sudden hitch in my breathing. I could protect my walls.
I stayed in the shower longer than necessary.
Not because I cared, or at least that's what I kept repeating to myself like a mantra as the hot water turned my skin pink.
The truth was, I needed time to think.
Warm water ran over my shoulders while steam filled the room, matching the frantic pace of my thoughts as they raced in endless, exhausting circles.
This could all disappear in forty-eight hours.
That was the simplest outcome.
The textbook answer.
News cycles moved fast, a relentless, ravenous machine.
One headline replaced another every single day. New scandals. New distractions. New people for the internet to obsess over and tear apart.
But that strategy only worked if neither of us gave the story a single drop of fuel.
And that was the problem.
Silence from a high-profile franchise quarterback could look incredibly suspicious, like a confession wrapped in a cover-up.
Silence from me could make it seem like I was a secret he was trying to hide.
In the court of public opinion, perception mattered far more than the actual truth.
I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a plush towel around myself before stopping in front of the fogged-up bathroom mirror.
You are not getting dressed up for a FaceTime call, I told my reflection firmly.
It is a business meeting.
Ten minutes later, I was standing in my bedroom pulling on a fitted black maxi dress anyway.
The soft knit fabric skimmed my curves effortlessly, hugging in the right places without looking like I had tried too hard.
I threw on an oversized, cozy knit cardigan to dress it down, twisted my damp hair into a strategically messy bun, and slid my gold-rimmed reading glasses onto my nose.
Effortless. Or, at least, the highly calculated version of effortless that required an immense amount of effort.
Atlas sat on the edge of the mattress, his green eyes watching me with the judgmental stare of a cat who had witnessed this exact overthinking scenario too many times before.
"Mind your business," I muttered, adjusting the collar of my cardigan.
He blinked slowly, completely unimpressed.
At exactly seven o'clock, my desktop computer chimed, a sharp digital bell that made my stomach do a violent drop.
Jalen's name flashed across the screen.
I stared at the notification for a fraction of a second, forcing a breath deep into my lungs, before clicking answer.
The screen snapped to life, and Jalen’s face filled the monitor.
For a few seconds, neither of us said a word.
The digital static hummed between us.
We just looked at each other, taking in the reality of the situation through the camera lens.
He looked devastatingly handsome, even through a webcam, his broad shoulders filling the frame.
Then, simultaneously, we both started laughing.
It wasn't because anything was funny, and it wasn't the awkward giggle of nerves.
It was the kind of breathless, surreal laugh that came when a situation became too ridiculous to be real.
Jalen leaned back against what looked like a massive marble kitchen island in his house, shaking his head as his shoulders shook.
"This is crazy."
"It really is," I agreed, a sudden, traitorous heat creeping up my neck and flooding into my cheeks.
I internally cursed myself.
Why am I blushing?
I am a professional.
The laughter faded, dissolving into the quiet room as reality settled back into the space between us.
"I can't believe this is happening," I admitted softly, resting my forearms on the desk.
"It could be over," he said, his deep voice carrying a grounding, steady weight.
"We could just let it die."
"It could," I replied carefully, slipping into the familiar comfort of my professional logic.
"But timing matters. If we mishandle the next twelve hours, the narrative locks in place."
He nodded, his expression turning serious as he focused entirely on me.
"Walk me through it."
Professional mode clicked into place like a protective shield.
"Okay. Right now we're in the initial circulation phase. It’s restricted to gossip blogs, sports forums, and social media reposts. It’s noise, but it’s localized noise. Nothing major has picked it up yet."
He listened closely, his dark eyes fixed on mine through the screen, hanging on every word.
"The next stage is amplification," I continued, leaning forward slightly.
"That's when larger, mainstream entertainment and news outlets start paying attention.
If they think there's a mystery here, a puzzle to solve, they'll build a massive narrative around it just to force a reaction."
"And we're the mystery."
"Yes. A blurry photo of a woman leaving a quarterback's house at dawn is a blank canvas. They’ll paint whatever scandalous story gets them the most clicks."
I tapped my pen against the desk.
"If we completely ignore it, it probably burns out in seventy-two hours. But that only works if there's no new visual reinforcement. No more photos. No more sightings."
Jalen rubbed his jaw, the faint sound of his stubble scraping against his hand audible through the microphone.
He looked down for a brief second, seemingly deciding whether to breach a boundary, before looking directly back into the camera.
"There's another layer."
I let out a slow sigh, leaning back in my chair.
"There's always another layer."
"My team is already nervous."
"About what? Your stats? The game on Saturday?"
"No," he said flatly.
"They don't want this turning into a specific player narrative."
I crossed my arms, my eyes narrowing slightly as I studied his face through the monitor.
"Explain."
“My image isn't built around nightlife or random women,” he said calmly, his deep voice carrying a quiet weight through the speaker.
“It's built around discipline. Stability. Being intentional. community work. Being someone people trust.”
Something about the raw, unvarnished sincerity in his voice softened me, slowly chipping away at the defensive walls I had spent all morning building.
This wasn't just a generic athlete worried about bad publicity or a hit to his endorsements.
This was a man fiercely protective of his integrity, a reputation he had spent years of blood, sweat, and discipline earning.
“So they're worried one blurry photo damages that image,” I murmured, my voice dropping as I rested my chin in my hand, completely forgetting about the professional distance I was supposed to be maintaining.
“Exactly.”
He hesitated, his jaw tightening as he glanced away for the briefest moment, a flash of vulnerability crossing his features before he locked his eyes right back onto mine.
“And my publicist doesn't want it looking like I'm collecting women.”
I raised an eyebrow, a sudden, ironic spark of amusement cutting through the heavy tension.
I couldn't stop the small smile tugging at my lips.
“Collecting?”
“Her word. Not mine,” he clarified quickly, genuine irritation flashing across his face as he shook his head.
“Mmhmm.”
A heavy, electric silence settled between us.
Jalen never looked away from the screen.
He simply waited, his breathing steady, his gaze unyielding.
He wasn't trying to convince me with a smooth pitch. He wasn't trying to pressure me using Cal or the team.
And somehow, that utter lack of pressure made the choice feel a hundred times harder.
The truth was, I wanted to help him.
When everything had gone sideways a few weeks ago, Jalen could have handled that night very differently.
He could have been selfish.
He could have protected himself first.
But he hadn't.
And now, looking at the quiet determination in his eyes, I knew I was about to step right into the storm with him.
And now, looking at the quiet determination in his eyes, I knew I was about to step right into the storm with him.s
He could have left me in the backseat of a questionable rideshare, washed his hands of the situation, and gone on with his evening.
He could have stayed quiet today and let the internet invent whatever messy story it wanted about me.
Instead, he had made sure I got home safely.
He had protected my privacy. He had called me before the story ever reached me. He had tried to shield me from the worst of it.
On top of all of that, he wasn't just another famous quarterback.
He was Cal's friend.
That mattered more than I wanted to admit.
I slowly let out a breath as I watched the tension in his shoulders while he waited for my answer.
“Okay.”
His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly as relief spread across his face.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeated, sounding much more certain than I actually felt.
A genuine smile slowly spread across his face, softening every hard line.
“You sure, Mars?”
“No,” I admitted honestly with a dry laugh. “But I'm doing it anyway.”
His smile grew even wider.
“You don't have to. I mean that. If this is too much, we'll figure something else out.”
“I know,” I said as I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Which somehow makes this even worse because now I can't even blame you when this inevitably blows up in my face.”
His laugh rumbled softly through the speaker, warming something inside me that I wasn't ready to examine.
“I still can't believe I'm agreeing to this,” I muttered, shaking my head.
“Agreeing to what?”
“Publicly attaching myself to a quarterback.”
He looked dramatically offended as he puffed out his chest.
“You say that like it's a bad thing.”
I laughed despite myself.
“It's just... completely unexpected.”
I leaned back in my chair and caught my reflection in the dark computer monitor sitting on my desk.
My cheeks looked flushed.
I looked happier than I had in a while.
“If this is the universe trying to get me out of the house,” I said with a small smile, “it's using an incredibly aggressive strategy.”