Page 9 of Damsel in Defense
People heard “Golden Boy” and assumed I didn’t mess up.That I was always polished and good, the clean-cut poster child for the league.But I’ve made mistakes—on the ice and off it.I’m not perfect—don’t claim to be.Yet no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the image I’ve been dubbed with.
For one brief second last night, I’d had a taste of what it felt like to be just a random guy to a woman in need.When Victoria came down from her panic attack, she’d had no idea who I was.Her eyes ate me up, but there was no familiarity in them.
I was a stranger.
I’d loved it.
I was going to hold on to that feeling as long as I could—because if I thought about the photo that was shared with me this morning by my agent…
Yeah, I’ve seen the photo.
Saw it the second my manager, Brent, texted me at four thirty this morning.
BRENT:This is gonna be a problem.Do you even KNOW who that is?
I hadn’t.I know now.
Not her full story, not yet.But enough to know she’s not just “some beautiful woman who needed help.”Enough to recognize the pain behind her panic and the weight she carried in her silence.
Her name’s Victoria.She told me people call her Tori.
What she didn’t share was that her full name was Victoria Westwyld, former lead singer of rock group Stolen Sundays turned country music superstar.
That information was shocking, but nothing that I couldn’t get past.What really bugged me was how the tabloids treated her.Her face was splashed across gossip sites with phrases like “hot mess starlet” and “PR nightmare.”
Even before I could calm Brent down and let him know what actually happened, he messaged again, reminding me that my contract with RocketRed Athletic Shoes has a strict morals clause tied to my clean image.
It annoyed me what he was implying.That even me being in Victoria’s presence could damage my reputation.I bet money that if Brent could, he’d put me in a plastic bubble to preserve his perfect client who brought in the most money to his agency.
God, I’m really in a mood.
I need to get to my seat, order the largest sparkling water they have, and then sleep.Once I’m rested and back to thinking normally, I’ll figure out what—
No way.
I stop dead in the middle of the aisle, not believing what I’m seeing.
When someone clears their throat to get me moving again, I slip into the seat across from her and just stare at her.
Victoria is on my flight.
Something about her got under my skin last night, and with her only a couple of feet away from me, I can feel thatsomethingagain.The way she looked at me.The way she trusted me without hesitation when everything else in her world seemed to be crumbling.It made me feel needed.
As if sensing my stare, she slowly blinks her eyes open.
“Morning, seatmate,” I say, twisting my body toward her at a more comfortable angle.
Her body stiffens at the sound of my voice.Slowly, she turns her head.Like she’s hoping I’ll vanish before she confirms what she already knows.
“Of course,” she mutters, her voice dry.“As if the universe hasn’t tested me enough.”
“You sound thrilled,” I say, buckling in.
“I’m still deciding,” she replies, facing forward again.
A beat of silence passes.And it simmers—thick with last night’s memory, this morning’s headlines, and a thousand other things we’re not saying.The cabin doors close as the flight attendants begin to give their overly practiced safety performance.
I don’t look at her.Not yet.But Ifeelher.Every quiet breath.Every restless shift.
