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“They’re not necessary,” he says. “They’re smart.”

I shoot him a look.

He gives a lazy shrug, muscles bunching beneath that worn black tee—shoulders I’ve gripped while he drove into me, ones that are getting harder and harder to ignore.

“Romance sells.”

And just like that, my thighs remember what my brain’s trying to pretend didn’t happen.

“Even without cameras?”

“Especially then.” He pauses. “Assume someone’s always watching.”

He has no idea how closely I’ve been watching him.

That stops me cold. And suddenly I remember what this is.

Not real.

Not safe.

Just an illusion we’re selling to buy back our reputations.

His image needs polishing. Mine... I’m trying to keep my past from blowing holes in my future. Because if anyone finds out I’m not just the team’s nutritionist, but the girl behind the mask—the one he fucked like a fever dream—this whole PR charade and my career turns to dust.

I’m not about to be written off as some puck bunny screwing her way up the roster— not when I’ve bled for this career, not when one rumor could destroy everything I’ve built.

I swallow hard, then turn.

“Give me ten minutes,” I mutter, already walking down the hall.

He doesn’t answer—but I can feel his stare burning through the thin fabric of my robe like a brand.

I towel-scrunch my hair and pull it into a low, damp bun. Sports bra. Navy scrubs. Mascara. I swipe it on fast, even though my lashes can’t save me from unraveling.

By the time I step back into the kitchen, he’s still standing there.

Thumbs hooked in his pockets. Looking like he owns the room—and knows exactly what that does to me.

“Ready?” he asks, voice low.

I nod, grabbing my bag and keys. My pulse is still climbing, but I pretend it’s not because I know exactly how those hands feel gripping my ass.

We step outside. His car’s parked at the curb, sleek and dark like a trap. I slide in, then freeze when he leans across me.

“Seatbelt,” he murmurs.

His arm brushes mine. Warm. Solid. The same arm that pinned me to a bed while he made me come apart.

I look at him. He’s already looking.

Our eyes lock. A fraction too long.

Then he clicks the belt into place and leans back like he didn’t just knock the air out of my lungs.

The engine roars to life.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep this up.