Page 30 of Tight End
RAIDEN
Ihated this kind of shit. Cameras everywhere. A tux that didn’t breathe. Reporters who cared more about viral headlines than actual stories. I’d rather write a check and skip the damn schmoozing. But tonight, I wasn’t here to smile for cameras or shake hands with donors. I showed up because Marissa would be here.
She’d told me that she was covering interviews on the red carpet for the sports segment. I was supposed to smile, toss her a few answers, and move on like this was just another night.
The second I stepped out of the car and spotted Marissa under those blinding lights, everything else dropped away. She stood just beyond the rope line in front of the Nighthawks media wall, hair twisted back into one of those elegant braids I liked, her curves poured into a navy-blue dress that stopped just above the knee and hugged her body like a fucking second skin.
Even under the harsh lights, she was radiant. A little pale, maybe, and I made a mental note to check that she’d eaten. But she looked at ease, as if this were the most natural thing for her to do, and I was incredibly proud of her.
She held a mic with one hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear with the other. Her expression was focused but warm as she spoke to our former starting quarterback, Prentice Wright, and his wife, Naomi.
The sight of her made my chest ache. I wanted to touch her. Just reach out and pull my woman into me, let the whole damn world see that she was mine. But I kept my pace steady, adjusted the buttons on my tux, and let the event photographer take a couple of shots before heading toward her.
My chest warmed at the way her eyes locked onto mine. She gave a small smile, the kind she didn’t flash for cameras. That one was only for me.
But just as I was closing in, a woman I didn’t recognize lunged in front of her. She damn near blocked Marissa completely, jamming herself into the frame like this was her fucking show. Brunette, designer heels, fake smile, and a mic she didn’t deserve to hold. Her smile was too wide, her dress too tight, her eyes locked on me like a fucking heat-seeking missile.
“Raiden!” she chirped, her voice sugary-sweet. “I’m Camille Larsen, with Empire Sports Network. Mind if I ask a few questions for the entertainment side of things?”
I didn’t return her smile. My jaw locked when she didn’t wait for a response before steamrolling ahead. She didn’t waste a second. “The press has been buzzing with speculation. I know you’re not usually one to share, but…care to comment on the rumors?”
I cocked a brow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
Camille tilted her head, clearly pleased with herself. “About your situation with Marissa Crane. There are whispers she might be using her position to manipulate the narrative. That she might’ve…well…trapped you by getting pregnant. You know, to advance her career.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Marissa’s face go white. Then she flinched—just a small twitch of her shoulders—but it lit something savage inside me.
“Do you believe the baby is yours?”
It got quiet. Way too fucking quiet.
Every nearby mic dipped toward us. Every camera zoomed in.
And Marissa’s whole body went still. Her eyes locked on Camille’s, wide and stunned, like someone had gut-punched her in front of the entire damn city. Her knuckles whitened on the mic she was holding, and her throat bobbed with a silent swallow.
My expression flattened, going hard and cold, the way it always did when the offensive line across from me forgot who they were up against. Camille must’ve seen it too, because her eyes widened and she took a quick step back. Straight into Marissa. I lunged forward and caught her instinctively, my hand on her waist, anchoring her.
She barely swayed, but that didn’t matter. The fact that Camille had touched her—fucking bumped into her—after that loaded question had my pulse pounding with something mean.
I took two steps forward. One hand went to Marissa’s elbow to steady her. The other took Camille’s mic and switched it off without a word. She blinked up at me, trying to recover with a shaky smile.
Then I leaned in—just enough for the cameras to catch it—and let my voice drop low and lethal.
“I’m going to make this real fucking clear. Marissa is mine. The baby is mine. You want to talk about situations? Try learning the facts before you start running your mouth on camera.”
Camille was caught off guard. Her smile faltered, and her mic dropped an inch. But I wasn’t done.
“I don’t give a damn what your beat is. This woman”—I motioned toward Marissa, who stood silently at my side, her eyes still wide and lips parted like she was holding her breath—“has this job because she’s damn good at it. She fucking earned it. And anyone suggesting otherwise is lying.”
The edge in my tone wasn’t subtle. I wanted everyone watching to know I wasn’t playing.
“The Nighthawks don’t work with liars. We don’t feed rumors or reward petty jealousy. And we sure as hell don’t tolerate attacks on a woman’s integrity just because someone else is pissed off they didn’t get the story first.”
A little gasp rippled down the line of reporters. Camille’s face flushed. Then her throat worked as she tried to smile again, weakly this time. “Of course. I just?—”
“You should think long and hard about the kind of journalist you want to be. Because if you keep pushing trash like that, you won’t be working anywhere near this team again.”
She sputtered, but I cut her off again with a slow smile. Charming, if you didn’t look too closely. Then I glanced down at Marissa, my voice softening just enough for the mic to catch it. “If anyone did the trapping, it was me.”
