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And if she says no?

I’m on my own—with a whole town ready to set me on fire.

I head back to the locker room like I didn’t just nuke my entire fucking week.

Door swings open.

Conversation dies again.

This time, it’s worse. Tighter—like the room’s holding its breath.

Aiden clocks me first. His eyes track me across the floor like he’s trying to read the play three steps ahead.

I don’t give him shit. Just drop my gear, grab my shaker, and sit like I didn’t just volunteer to fake-fuck the most off-limits girl in the building.

“You good?” Brody finally asks, voice too casual. Too careful.

I glance up. He’s sitting backward on the bench, watching me with that same grin he uses when he’s two drinks in and trying to pick a fight he can laugh off.

“Peachy.”

He nods slowly. “Cool. ‘Cause... word is, someone’s got PR crawling up their ass.”

That gets some chuckles from the guys around him. Not mean—but not kind either. Teammates circling, waiting for the scent of blood.

“Didn’t know you were such a party guy,” Wyatt adds from across the room. “Thought you were the broody type. You know. Sleep. Gym. Brood.”

I don’t respond. Just screw the cap back on my shaker.

They want a show. I’m not giving it to them.

But Aiden?

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk. He just leans forward, elbows on knees, voice low.

“Whatever you’re mixed up in, man... clean it up fast.”

I meet his eyes. “You got something you want to say, say it.”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. But I will.”

The room goes still again.

Not hostile.

Not friendly either.

And somewhere, in the far corner of my mind, I hear Griffin Novak’s voice. The warning. The tension. The inevitable fallout if this explodes.

I told PR Katarina would make it believable.

What I didn’t say?

Was that I’m the last guy who should be trusted with her.

Especially not now.

Especially not when her brother already wants my head on a spike.