Page 74 of Stick Fight

Roman.

Ballcap pulled low, gaze down, doing his best to stay invisible, which, of course, only makes him more magnetic. It takes exactly three seconds before a swarm of women breaks through the crowd, blocking his path, reaching, giggling, pushing phones into his hands for selfies.

He handles it like he always does. Calm, polite, smiling just enough to keep the peace. He signs, nods, poses. But he doesn’t linger. He doesn’t flirt. And he doesn’t leave with any of them.

A few minutes later, he breaks through the chaos. His head lifts, and the second his gaze lands on mine, his whole face transforms. A grin spreads across his lips, easy and unguarded, and it hits me like a sucker punch to the chest.

Because being the only woman in his line of sight is intoxicating. Dangerous.

God help me, IlikeRoman.

Way more than I should.

“Hey,” he says as he reaches me, and there’s this second, this pause, where I swear he’s about to kiss me. My breath catches, but it doesn’t happen. Of course it doesn’t. PDA isn’t our thing. I usually wait in the car, hidden away like a well-kept secret. A convenience. Standing out here like I belong is very out of character.

He must be wondering what the hell I’m doing.

Honestly, so am I.

Maybe I want more.

Maybe I’m done pretending I don’t.

A small, reckless part of me wonders if this moment, this tiny, very public deviation from our routine, is me subconsciously drawing a line in the sand. Seeing what he’ll do. Testing the waters of something more… visible.

Then another part of me, the wounded one, whispers that this visibility could shine a beacon back to Cass. That if I let myself be seen like this, he might come looking. Might try to stake his claim.

But really… so what if he does?

The man already stripped me of everything. My home, my job, my clothes—hell, even my sewing machine. There’s nothing left for him to take.

Except maybe Roman.

And Roman isn’t mine to lose.

Unfortunately.

“You okay?” Roman asks, his voice low and familiar as we walk toward the car.

“Yeah. I’m good.” I layer my voice with brightness, even though I’m still trying to catch my breath. “Great game, by the way.”

He flashes those dimples, the ones that should come with a warning label, and my knees genuinely wobble.

“I thought it might be nice to get out of the house,” I add, playing it cool. “You should spend some time with your teammates. Celebrate.”

His stride slows. His eyes scan my face like he’s searching for something. Then he scrubs a hand along his jaw, thoughtful. “I see those guys enough as it is,” he mutters. “Getting you home and naked is my idea of a celebration.”

My laugh slips out, light and flirtatious, but underneath it all, those words land in the space where Theo’s had been lurking all night. The whispers. The doubt.

Still, I nudge him playfully. “I like that too,” I tease, bumping my hip into his. “But you need some guy time. I’ve been kind of... hogging you.”

His expression shifts. Just a flicker. But I catch it. A shadow behind his eyes, something unspoken that flickers and fades before I can name it.

“Roman?”

He blinks, then smiles like his world is right again. “Yeah. Getting out is a good idea.” His grin is easy, effortless. “Nachos sound great. Just don’t tell Coach.”

I laugh, but it catches a little in my throat. Because something in his voice lingers, something quiet, heavy. Like there’s more he’s not saying. And maybe I don’t want to hear it.

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