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CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

JAKE

I burst through the defensive line, leaving them scrambling yet again as I snatch Logan’s perfectly thrown pass out of the air.

Sprinting toward the end zone, I spot an opening and race for it. Four yards from touchdown, a piercing whistle breaks through the ruckus, halting the action.

Seriously? I was on the cusp of nailing a play that would have set the crowd roaring—well, if there had been one.

But no, instead of applause, it’s Coach’s voice booming across the field, “Cunningham. Jessica Murray wants to see you. Now.” He’s so succinct it’s impressive. Note to self: brevity equals bad news.

As I go upstairs, I’m ticking off the checklist of potential disasters. Plays? Flawless. Gala? Could’ve put James Bond to shame with my charm. We raised more money than any year past.

Maybe she’s calling me in to congratulate me? Not her usual MO, but stranger things have happened.

The office is a fridge, but Jessica’s stare? Arctic.

There’s no hello. No how-do-you-do. Just the screech of her spinning her iPad and skating it across the glass desk to me. I brace myself, half-expecting to see my football career’s obituary.

But no, it’s a keyframe on the screen, grainy, black and white, and from a different angle, but in a room that’s etched in my brain for all the wrong reasons. I’m on the bed.

Something about the image is off, and I can’t pinpoint what.

My stomach churns. I thought we were done with that bullshit. Looks as if the media frenzy is getting a sequel.

It’s fine. I can deal. The gala’s over, and after we beat the Sabretooths, this will be history.

I sink into the chair across from her. My heart’s thumping like it does when I’m lining up on the 4th and goal.

“Hit play.”

There I am, naked, handcuffed to the headboard, looking dazed and bored with that stupid bear emoji overlaid on my cock again, the only thing keeping things this side of decency.

But the video itself doesn’t send a wave of nausea crashing through me; it’s the dawning realization that the timestamp in the corner reads 2 a.m.—hours after I was first chained up.

There’s no audio, but I see myself suddenly jerk to attention. Then, a sheet flies over me, replacing the bear.A second later, a woman enters the frame. Not Stella. Amelia.

I watch our mouths move in silent conversation before she climbs onto the bed, straddling me as she reaches for the handcuffs.

The video cuts off at the most incriminating moment, Amelia atop me—and we’re smiling at each other, making the shot look intimate, consensual, playful, even. Far from the shitshow it was.

“This footage makes us seem like liars, Jake. Because I put out a statement months ago saying you were a victim of a prank and that we didn’t condone people taking advantage of our players, big and tough as they are.” Jessica’s voice is chilly. “This appears as if you were in on it.”

Fuck.

I clench my jaw. “It wasn’t like that.”

“I know that.”

But it doesn’t stop there. She leans forward and flicks at the screen, scrolling to the next picture.

Amelia, looking like a goddess in her green gala gown. The captions are a one-two punch: she’s the mastermind behind my supposed dive into the world of BDSM. “Tied-Down Titan Shows Town What He’s Made Of: The Naked Truth.”

“That’s just bullshit,” I snap, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.

Jessica swipes again. A photo of the Nurture NYC suite, me smiling in the background. In the foreground, Amelia is on a knee handing out a Teddy the Titan bears to a blurred figure, unmistakably a child. A bear that looks alarmingly similar to the one featured on my dick.

Jessica raises her eyes at me and flicks the screen one more time. That’s the real sucker punch.

All three images are juxtaposed, the headline under them: “Getting Them Started Young: From Playful to Predatory.”

My head pounds. “How?”

“CCTV in the Airbnb.” Jessica’s tone is matter-of-fact. “Illegal, yes, but right now, it’s the narrative that’s spiraling.”

“But it’s not how it went down.”

She sighs. “At this point, it’s about damage control. The legality of the video serves as leverage. The bears and children aren’t great, especially after that scandal where that fashion brand had the kids in holding toys in bondage gear.”

“Why’s this only coming out now?”

“Stella. Extreme Exposé fired her—likely because of the settlement they had to pay out. She probably also wanted to capitalize on the publicity around the gala.”

“But this is revenge porn.”

“It is. But more difficult to prove. Different actors, overlapping stories.”

“What the hell will this mean for Amelia?” I mumble.

Jessica’s expression softens slightly. “This time, we’re suing. No more holding back. Don’t even think of trying to talk me out of it. I’ll handle the press. For now, all practices are closed off. Your focus needs to be on the playoffs.” I see her preparing for battle.

“This is going to be a shitshow,” I spit out.

“Yes.” She pauses, ensuring she has my full attention. “And no matter what, your response is no comment.”

Right, no comment. The shield and sword for the modern gladiator. Jessica will take care of me. The Titans. That’s her job. But Amelia’s out there, unaware of the storm headed her way.

“You need to warn her.” The words echo my own dread.

“Yeah, tell her to get ready for her close-up, courtesy of yours truly,” I mutter, the sarcasm a weak defense against the sinking in my gut.

“Same instructions. She just needs to say no comment.” A pause. “And to steer clear of teddy bears.” She shakes her head. “That’s a statement I never thought I would make.”

I nod, the weight of the situation settling on my shoulders. The playoffs, this team, Nurture NYC—there is plenty at stake, and yet, in that moment, my world seemed to narrow down to the worry about Amelia.

“Anything else?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want more bad news.

“That’s it. You’re good to go,” she dismisses me, but there’s nothing good about this.

The second I’m out of the office, I sprint to my locker, snatch my phone out of it, and hit the call button for Amelia so hard I nearly send it flying.

I pace in tight circles in the cramped space, my nerves on high alert. No answer. Shit, of course—she’s in the middle of her tour.

Gut in knots, I message her to get in touch as soon as she can.

I make my way back to the field with lumbering steps and a heavy heart. The guys slide me curious glances, which I ignore.

I keep screwing up. When I fumble, yet again, Connor shoots me a look that’s one part concern, one part curiosity, but I brush it off. There are more important things to deal with—like how to break the news to Amelia. And I have a feeling a truckload of Twizzlers wouldn’t do anything to soften the blow. Because nothing says “I’m sorry for the media storm about to explode” quite like red licorice.

The minute I’m done, I rush to Amelia’s place, letting myself in. She’s not home yet. I pace back and forth, my nerves jangling.

The click of the door signals her arrival, and her eyebrows arch in that adorable way when she spots me. “Jake? I thought you were swamped with practice this week?”

I force a smile. “Not too busy to get the scoop on your tours.” I’m desperate to know everything went smoothly before I have to shatter things.

She hangs up her coat and turns to me, her brows furrowing. “It was…strange.”

Strange is not what I want to hear. Strange is my new nightmare. “Oh?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual even while clenching my hands at my sides.

“There were people there more interested in taking photos of me, of all things. Lots of questions about you, too.”

“Not press?” I probe.

“I don’t think so. An influencer. Some sports podcaster. A couple of fans.”

She must see the worry flicker across my face, as she quickly adds, “I’m sure it will die down by tomorrow. I’m not all that interesting.”

I pull her for a hug, breathing in the scent of her hair. “You’re the most interesting thing to me, Sweets,” I murmur against her forehead, my declaration thick with truth. I press a kiss to her brow, a silent apology for the chaos about to land in her lap. Because things aren’t about to get better.

“Flatterer.” She chuckles against my chest, the vibrations tickling my ribs.

I heave out a sigh so laden with doom it could sink a ship, and her smile fades as she steps back to search my face. “What’s wrong?”

I swallow hard, and then the words burst out. “There-are-videos-and-photos-and-you-are-in-them-and-I’m-sorry.”

She just blinks. Once. Twice.

Slowly, I hand her my phone, the damning clip and pictures queued up, ready to turn our lives upside down. Our fingers brush as she takes it, and it feels like I’m passing over a grenade without a pin.

Her eyes flick over the images, and I watch the play of emotions over her face—surprise, confusion, and a dawning fear that she hastily tries to mask. “People will think this? That I was involved?”

“No!” Although they will.

Amelia keeps scrolling. “Don’t look at the comments,” I warn, a protective edge to my tone.

“Is this going to affect the playoffs? The charity. You? I can’t believe this is happening while you have to focus?” Her voice cracks.

That she’s worried about me pains me more. “Forget about all that. The foundation will be fine. The playoffs…they’ll be fine too. Might even sell more stuffed animals.”

“And me…?” Her words come out small, vulnerable.

“It’s going to be rough,” I admit, feeling sick to my stomach. “And fuck, I’d do anything to keep you from having to go through this. I promise things’ll be okay. I’m here for you.” Fighting to contain my composure, I continue. “I talked to Jessica. Just say ‘no comment’ if anyone asks you anything. It’ll blow over.”

She hands the phone back, her hand trembling. “No comment,” she echoes. And I feel like all I’ve done is offer her a Nerf gun to ward off an impending alien invasion.

“We’ll get through this,” I assure her, lacing our fingers together.

“Yes. Of course.”

But the doubt in her voice stabs at me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’ve dragged her into this mess.

I tell her not to worry. That things will be okay. I’m not sure if either of us believes it. I have to hold on to her until we both find a way out.