Chapter 12 #2
I let go of Jalen’s hand and stepped into her hug. “You look happy,” she said near my ear.
I pulled back smiling. I was.
We settled into the booth while a waitress approached. “Congratulations on the win,” she said to Jalen first, her smile a little too wide. “What can I start for you all tonight?”
Jalen looked at me. “What are you having?”
I tilted my head slightly. “Whatever you’re getting.”
He studied me for a moment like he was making sure I meant it.
His gaze was searching, entirely disconnected from the waitress or the low thrum of the music swirling around the VIP section.
It was the same look from the bakery rehearsal—steady, deliberate, and entirely unbothered by the fact that we were in a room full of people.
"Two of whatever the house specialty is tonight," Jalen told the waitress, his voice dropping into that easy cadence that effortlessly commanded the table. "And a bottle of your best tequila."
“Anything else, sweetie?”
Slut, I thought.
I could have been an actress, the way I pretended not to feel heat spreading everywhere while still managing to look completely unbothered. I kept my face perfectly neutral, casually lifting my wine glass to my lips as if my heart wasn't trying to hammer its way right out of my chest.
“We’re good,” he said evenly. “Appreciate it.”
His hand slid back to my thigh under the table, sending a jolt straight through my body. Damn.
The waitress nodded quickly, her smile dimming just a fraction as she realized his focus was completely anchored to the side of the booth where I sat. She collected the menus and disappeared back into the golden light of the main lounge.
Cal leaned across the table, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he watched us settle in. "Nice press conference, bro. You sounded like you actually knew what you were talking about out there."
"I always know what I'm talking about," Jalen countered smoothly, though he didn't look away from me as he slid his arm along the back of the leather booth, his fingers just barely brushing against the fabric behind my shoulder.
The weight of his gaze sent that familiar, thrilling shiver straight down my spine.
The public show was technically over for the night, the cameras were locked outside the ropes, and the story had been safely delivered to the media.
But sitting next to him in the dark, with the warmth of his body pressed close to mine, I knew the real challenge was just beginningMore players started flooding in.
Other elites followed.
Expensive watches.
Tailored fits.
Confident energy.
The lights flickered softly with the beat of the music.
I leaned back into the booth and took it in.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed this.
The energy.
The laughter.
The glow of a room full of people celebrating something bigger than themselves.
For a while, my life had gotten quieter.
More careful.
More controlled.
I had wrapped myself in a comfortable cocoon of corporate deadlines, early nights, and predictable routines, believing that keeping the world at a distance was the safest way to live.
But sitting there now, with the music vibrating through the floor and the city celebrating around us, I had to admit something to myself.
It felt good.
Really good.
The heavy, protective walls I had built around my life didn't feel like a sanctuary anymore; they just felt small.
The waitress returned with two bottle service girls behind her.
One held a lit sign high above her head, the bright LED bulbs flashing a single word in sync with the heavy bass:
TOUCHDOWN
Our booth cheered as the bottles were set down with a sharp clink against the dark reflective glass of the table.
Champagne.
Tequila.
Heavy crystal glasses lined up neatly in rows across the surface.
“Congratulations on the win tonight,” one of the girls said with a flashing smile before moving to the next booth.
The waitress stayed.
She lingered at the edge of the leather seating, her eyes darting between Jalen and the newly arrived bottles as if waiting for an excuse to pour the first round herself.
Beneath the table, the weight of Jalen’s palm against my thigh shifted slightly, his fingers tightening just a fraction in a silent communication that only I could read.
He didn't look up at the waitress, and he didn't join in the loud chanting of his teammates at the front of the box.
He just kept his eyes on me, watching the way the gold light caught the edges of my hair, waiting to see exactly how I wanted to play the rest of the night.
“Anything else I can do for you tonight?” she asked again, her voice dropping into an entirely too familiar purr as her eyes lingered on Jalen’s jawline.
I noticed it immediately. The blatant disrespect was practically vibrating off her. So did Nia, who instantly stopped laughing mid-conversation, her eyes cutting to the side of the table like a predator locking onto target.
The heavy bass thumped through the floorboards while the moment stretched, thick and suffocatingly tense.
Jalen didn’t flinch. He didn’t get aggressive or raise his voice to compete with the music.
Instead, he leaned back calmly against the leather cushions, running his thumb in a slow, deliberate circle over my thigh beneath the table before looking directly up at her.
The easy, victorious post-game smile completely vanished from his features, replaced by a cold, unyielding authority that could freeze a room.
“You can start by showing some respect,” he said, his deep voice carrying a quiet, dangerous weight that sliced cleanly through the club's roar. He gestured lightly toward me, his hand tightening against my leg in a silent, possessive claim. “For my woman standing right in front of you.”
The waitress blinked, the flush of embarrassment climbing rapidly up her neck as she was caught completely off guard.
I kept my face perfectly neutral, a masterclass in corporate detachment, but a small, triumphant smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth anyway. I hadn’t expected that. I hadn't expected the raw, protective fire of it to hit me so hard, sending a thrilling jolt of heat straight down my spine.
I glanced over at Nia. She was suddenly very interested in the bassline, bobbing her head with aggressive focus like she hadn’t heard a single syllable.
The massive, wicked smirk plastered across her face entirely gave her away.
Across from her, Cal watched the entire exchange quietly, a low chuckle escaping him as he took a slow sip of his drink, thoroughly amused by the quarterback commanding the room off the field.
The waitress cleared her throat, her previous confidence completely shattering into panic. “Of course,” she said quickly, taking a hasty step back into the golden light. “Enjoy your night, Mr. Carter.”
Then she practically turned on her heel and vanished into the crowd.
I shifted slightly in my seat and Jalen turned his attention back to me. For a moment I just looked at him, letting my eyes trace the sharp angle of his jaw and the quiet intensity in his gaze.
“You’re bold tonight,” I said under the music, keeping my voice low enough that it belonged entirely to the two of us.
He leaned back casually against the leather cushions, his arm stretching along the top of the booth behind me, the heavy fabric of his shirt just barely brushing against my bare shoulders. His thumb traced another slow, deliberate circle against my thigh under the table.
“Am I wrong?” he asked, his deep voice carrying a challenge that made my pulse hitch.
I lifted my glass and took a small sip of the red wine instead of answering right away.
The liquid was rich and dark, but it did absolutely nothing to cool the sudden, electric heat blooming in my chest. I looked at him over the rim, my mind racing to find a clever, strategic comeback that would restore my usual professional boundary.
But as I stared into those light brown eyes, completely unfazed by the crowd, the lights, or the flashing sign across the room, I realized the corporate script had completely run out of pages.
The DJ shifted into something heavier and the lights above the dance floor flickered in rhythm with the bass.
People kept flowing into VIP. Some of Jalen’s teammates stopped by the table, clapping him on the shoulder, congratulating him again.
A few other faces drifted in too. Business owners.
Local celebrities. People who moved like they belonged everywhere they walked.
A couple of them introduced themselves to me.
“Good to meet you,” one woman said, leaning in over the music with a genuine smile.
“Same,” I replied, smiling politely and smoothing down the front of my shirt.
Someone else came up not long after, breaking away from the main group near the edge of the VIP section. “Mind if we grab a picture?” he asked, gesturing his phone between Jalen and me.
I hesitated for half a second, the old, deeply ingrained instinct to duck away from the lens flaring up in my chest. Then I remembered.
That was the whole point of this. The soft launch at Oliver's, the pre-game kiss at the stadium barrier, the press conference script—it was all designed to build this exact reality.
If we dodged photos now, the story would fracture.
“Sure,” I said, looking up as Jalen transitioned instantly into the request.
Jalen slid an arm around my waist like it was the most natural thing in the world, his heavy palm settling firmly against my hip and pulling me flush against his side. The guy held his phone out in front of us, angling the screen, and we leaned slightly closer to fit the frame.
The flash popped, a brief, blinding spark that illuminated the gold tones of the booth.
As the light faded, his hand tightened just a little against my side, a private squeeze that felt entirely disconnected from the guy taking the photo. And I had to admit something to myself that I hadn’t expected.
It felt good. Really damn good.