We’re not just some scandal.
We’rereal.And the media is running wild with our story, treating us like we’re some modern dayScarlet Letter.
I exhale sharply.
“I need to talk to Jackson first.”
Reagan nods. “Good. But make it quick. This thing is snowballing.”
Cassie smirks. “Either way, I hope you’re ready, babe. Because by tonight?”
She leans back, sipping her mimosa.
“Everyone in America is gonna know exactly who you are.”
I thought I was prepared for today.
I really did.
But as I sit in the VIP suite, Cassie and Reagan on either side of me, sipping on sparkling water while cameras zoom in on Jackson down on the field…
I feel every single person’s eyes on me.
I swallow hard, trying to focus on the game.
Jackson is locked in—headset on, pacing the sidelines, calling plays with his usual intensity.
But the tension around me? Suffocating.
The whispers. The side glances. The fact that Reagan, who is usually unshakable, has her jaw tight and shoulders squared.
Something is coming.
And then?
A sharply dressed woman—blonde bob, red lipstick, designer suit that probably costs more than my rent—steps into the suite and makes a beeline for Reagan.
Cassie nudges me. “Uh-oh.”
Reagan turns, her expression unreadable. “Margo.”
Margo. As in Margo Stratton, the Stallions’ head of public relations.
She barely acknowledges Cassie or me, instead focusing on Reagan.
“We need to talk.”
Reagan sips her champagne, unfazed. “We’re talking now.”
Margo glances at me, then back at Reagan.
“In private.”
Cassie leans forward. “Oh, hell no. If this is about Ivy, you can say it in front of us.”
Margo tightens her lips, clearly annoyed. But she sighs and lowers her voice.
“Reagan, we have a situation. The story about Jackson and his…relationship”—her gaze flicks toward me—“has officially gone national to a degree which, well, it’s becoming a nationwide issue. Sports networks, tabloids, social media—everyone’s talking. And league ownership is concerned about the distraction this is causing.”