Page 31 of Tight End
Camille made some noise, as if she might argue, but my PR team was already moving in. Smooth, professional, and smiling as they quietly encouraged her to step aside for the next outlet. Camille stammered something about editorial deadlines, but they didn’t give her room to push. A gentle escort out of the press zone.Nicely done.
When I looked back at Marissa, she still hadn’t said anything. Her hands were clenched around the mic, her knuckles white. Her expression was stunned. That wasn’t okay.
I bent toward her, checked to make sure her mic was off, and dipped my head low so the cameras couldn’t hear. Brushing astray lock of her hair back gently from her temple, I asked, “Are you alright?”
She blinked up at me, her throat bobbing. “Yeah. Just…caught off guard.”
I didn’t like how quiet her voice was. Or that she still looked a little unsteady. I fought the urge to lift her into my arms and get her the fuck out of there. Take her home. Feed her. Wrap her in a blanket. Pull her into bed and sleep with her tucked into my chest like I had every night since she’d moved in.
But I couldn’t do that yet. So I brushed a hand down her arm. “I’ll stay.”
Her brows furrowed. “No, Raiden. You can’t—this is my job. You showing up is fine, but you sticking around and hovering could make it look like I can’t handle myself.”
She was right, and I knew it. This was her job, and she didn’t need a knight. She needed respect. From me. From everyone here.
I straightened, fighting back the urge to touch her more. “All right. But I’ll be close.”
A forward for the New York Navigators made his way down the carpet toward us, ready to step into frame for the next interview. Marissa straightened, pasted on a smile, and turned toward the camera like a fucking pro.
I touched her cheek one more time. “You look gorgeous.”
Then I kissed the corner of her mouth. The camera snapped. I didn’t give a shit.
Let them talk. Let the headlines run. That clip would go viral by midnight, and Camille’s credibility would be ash by morning.
When I entered the ballroom, my teammates clapped me on the back.
“Legend move, man,” Dempsey said with a chuckle.
Our starting center, Huck, grinned. “Fucking savage.”
“You always did know how to shut it down,” Nixon snorted.
The defensive lineman laughed when his wife, Ember, poked him in the side. “Like you’re one to talk.”
Micah didn’t say anything, just smirked knowingly at me.
I didn’t respond. Just grabbed a champagne from a tray passing by and made the rounds, my gaze flicking back to the doors every few minutes to make sure she was okay.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of tight smiles and tighter hands. I shook so many that I was starting to feel like a damn politician. Every other person congratulated me. A few smirked and asked when the wedding was.
By the time the event ended, it was obvious the tide had turned. Whatever damage Camille had hoped to do didn’t land. If anything, she lit a match to her own career.
The gossip wasn’t about scandals or traps anymore.
Now the whispers were on our side.
“When’s he gonna propose?”
“Did you see the way he looked at her?”
“That man is obsessed.”
And they were right.
I was.
13
