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Chapter sixteen

Katarina

I should’ve let Griffin’s call go to voicemail.

Instead, I answer. Like an idiot.

His voice hits the speaker like a hammer—sharp, heated, full of that older brother judgment I know too well.

“You’ve been personally working with him for weeks ? Without telling me?”

I press the bridge of my nose, already regretting this.

“I didn’t plan it,” I say, keeping my tone clipped. “You knew the trade happened. He just showed up in my office like everyone else. I did my job. Like I always do.”

“You didn’t think to mention it?”

God, I can see the vein in his forehead pulsing from here.

“Griffin, you don’t run my schedule or my department.”

“No but I do run shit when it’s him, ” he snaps. “Steele’s poison. You know it. I’ve told you a dozen times.”

I clench my jaw, pacing behind my desk. “Yeah well, I’m not asking him out for drinks. I’m managing his nutrition. That’s it.”

“Yeah? You think that guy keeps things professional?” his voice dipping low. “He’s got a rap sheet longer than your fucking medical charts.”

“He doesn’t just play dirty—he’s a cancer in the locker room,” Griffin spits. “Teams hemorrhage talent once he gets his claws in.”

And maybe that’s true.

But the part I don’t say, is some may say the same about you.

“Really…well good thing I’m not in the locker room,” I shoot back.

He doesn’t laugh.

Silence stretches—thick, weighted. Until he asks that question I knew was coming.

“I’m gonna ask you again, did anything happen between you two?”

My heart stops for a beat.

My grip tightens around the phone. The images flash too fast to stop: his hands gripping my hips, the sound he made when he came, the way I couldn’t breathe afterward.

He doesn’t know I’ve already had Liam Steele inside me. Doesn’t know I chose it.

Even if he didn’t know who I was.

“No,” I lie. Flat. Clean. “Of course not.”

The part I can’t say—I was fine before that night.

Before him.

Before I let a stranger touch parts of me no one else ever has, not just my body—but the pieces I keep padlocked behind clinical professionalism.

Now I can’t even look at him without remembering how I came apart in his hands like I was built for it.

So, Liam Steele ruins more than just locker rooms.

Griffin exhales, but it’s not relief. He doesn’t believe me. “Stay away from him, Kat.”

I don’t answer. Just hang up.

Because if I say anything else, I might scream.

Ten minutes later, Riley Stevens appears in my office like some chic, corporate storm cloud. I’m still riding the residual heat of the Griffin argument, still wound tight from lying through my teeth.

“We need to talk,” she says, not waiting for me to agree.

Her voice gives nothing away, but my gut churns anyway. I grab my tablet and follow her down the hall. Whatever this is, it’s big.

She leads me into a conference room.

My heels click, echoing with each step, but it’s not the noise that has my pulse in my throat—it’s the knowledge that something’s waiting behind that door.

And when she opens it, I see exactly what.

Liam.

His eyes meet mine and hold. Hard.

Six foot four of pure temptation in a plain black T-shirt stretched across a chest that should be illegal and dark jeans that cling to thick thighs like they were custom cut.

He’s leaning forward, arms braced on the table, forearms flexed, the curve of veins visible beneath tan skin and tattoos I know better than I should.

My breath catches.

His hair’s still damp from the shower—dark, tousled waves that curl slightly at the edges like he towel-dried it in a rush. It’s unfair how effortlessly good he looks, like he just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad but with the mood of a grudge match.

And then the scent hits me.

Clean skin, soap, and a hint of cedar and spice that clings to him no matter how hard I try to pretend I haven’t memorized it. My stomach tightens. My thighs, too. Because the moment my body remembers, it doesn’t care that my brain is screaming warnings.

He glances up.

Our eyes lock.

His expression is unreadable—blank in that carefully guarded, stoic way he’s mastered. But his jaw is tight, and I catch the way one muscle ticks near his temple.

He doesn’t want to be here.

That makes two of us.

I drop into the seat across from him, spine stiff, chin lifted, every nerve in my body on edge like a wire pulled too tight.

Riley closes the door behind us and dives right in, her voice clipped and businesslike.

“There’s footage of Liam entering an exclusive singles play party in the Bay. Discreet. But someone leaked it. Word has it it’s a sex party. The story’s gaining traction.”

My head snaps toward Liam.

Oh my Gawwd …I cant believe this shit is circling back to bite me in the ass.

He doesn’t flinch.

But his eye's go darker. Not angry. Not scared. Just that deep, swirling storm of someone who already knows the damage has been done and doesn’t want to watch it hit shore. There’s something almost hollow in the way he holds himself. Like he’s been here before.

Like he’s used to being the fuck-up in the story.

I glance at Liam.

“And you want me to… what?” I ask slowly.

“We need to shift the narrative,” Riley says. “Give the press something new to focus on. A controlled story we own .”

I cross my arms. “And that would be…?”

Riley doesn’t blink. “A relationship. You and Liam. Public. Visible. Romantic. For appearances.”

I laugh once. Short and humorless. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“We’re not,” Liam says, voice low. Controlled. “They floated someone from marketing. I said no.

Is that what the fuck that show in the equipment room was about? Some type of manipulation? ”

My eyes narrow. “So I’m Plan B?”

“You’re someone the media already sees around the team. You’re respected, professional. It’d be believable,” Riley adds, as if I should be flattered.

Respected, professional, and totally guilty. I swallow hard trying to cover every bit of what I’m thinking.

“And you think I’m okay being part of some PR cleanup for something I didn’t do?”

“It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Riley says. “You’ll be compensated. Extra press could mean a higher profile. Maybe even open doors with national clients. Team USA, for instance.”

My breath catches.

She sees it. The hook lands.

But my brain’s still caught on him . Liam, of all people.

“You sure this won’t backfire?” I ask.

“We’ll control the narrative,” Riley says confidently.

Liam just sits there. Watching me. Waiting.

I want to walk out.

But leaving would mean explaining. And I can’t explain any of this—not to them, and sure as hell not to him.

“You want it to look real?” I ask, voice even.

Riley nods.

I glance at Liam again. At that unreadable expression. That storm under the surface.

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s fake it.”

But even as I say it, I feel the guilt creeping in. Except now my brain’s screaming, Abort mission!

Too late.

I nodded. I agreed. I just told my boss I’d fake date the man who wrecked me so thoroughly I still get flashbacks when I close my eyes—flashbacks that make my thighs clench and my heart forget how to function.

My voice said yes. My guts screaming no.

But my job’s on the line. The career I’ve bled for, clawed up from nothing. If this is what it takes to protect it—even if it means lying to my brother, the guy who would torch the league to keep me safe—I’ll fake it.

Even if it’s with the man who made my body sing... and might not even remember the damn lyrics.

I can’t tell if I want to throw up or jump his bones.

But I’m gambling everything on a maybe.

Because if Griffin finds out?

I’ll need a new job. A new name. And probably a seat on the first bus to witness protection.

All I’ll have left is one earth-shattering memory…

And no one to call when the crap hits the fan.