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T he office walls feel too damn small.

I sit across from the Eagles’ PR director, arms crossed, jaw locked, as the woman flips her laptop around and hits play.

A video loads on the screen—the post-game media frenzy, cameras flashing, reporters shouting.

And then? Kenzie.

Standing in the tunnel, wide-eyed, caught between the press and my hand at her waist.

The freeze-frame says everything.

“This is the problem,” the PR rep says flatly.

I drag a hand down my face, my patience hanging by a thread. “This isn’t news.”

“Coach Maddox, it absolutely is.” She leans forward, folding her hands. “Your relationship is all over sports blogs, hockey analysts are speculating, and social media is eating it up. And now? It’s in the hands of ownership.”

My muscles tense.

I expected blowback. Hell, I’ve been coaching long enough to know how the game works. Scandal sells.

But this? This is my personal life being spun into something it’s not.

“The problem,” the PR woman continues, “isn’t that you’re dating. Kenzie Williams is not an employee of this team, so technically, there’s no violation of conduct.”

I grit my teeth. “So what’s the problem?”

She sighs, glancing at her notes. “Optics.”

Of course.

“Some people think this… situation affects your credibility. You’re coaching her brother. You’re responsible for leading this team. And now, your judgment is being questioned.”

I press my fingers to my temple, exhaling slowly.

I should’ve seen this coming.

“So,” she continues, “ownership wants a decision from you. Either you make a statement, go public properly, and stand by this relationship…”

She lets that hang in the air before adding:

“Or you quietly distance yourself and let the media storm pass.”

My jaw tightens.

“Take the night,” she tells me. “Figure out what you want to do.”

I don’t need the night.

But I take it anyway.

Because before I do anything? I need to see Kenzie.

On my way to my car to drive to Kenzie, I stare at my phone, my stomach twisting.

My name is trending and so is Kenzie’s.

And not in a good way.

I scroll through Twitter, my heart pounding as I scan the headlines:

“Unprofessional?” Fans Debate the Coach’s Off-Ice Choices

Did She Seduce the Assistant Coach? Hockey World Questions Kenzie Williams’ Role

The last one makes my stomach turn.

My fingers curl around my phone, heat flashing up my spine.

Seduce?

Like she’s some power-hungry puck bunny looking for a scandal?

Like I’m not a grown man capable of making my own damn decisions?

***

I knock on the door.

I barely knock before the door swings open.

Kenzie is standing there, barefoot, in one of my sweatshirts that swallows her whole, her green eyes wide and unguarded.

For a second, I can’t speak.

Because despite everything—the media, the headlines, the fallout—she’s still the only thing that feels like solid ground.

“Grant,” she breathes, searching my face.

I know she’s been doubting me. Know she’s been wondering if I’m going to walk away.

My chest tightens. Fuck that.

Before she can say anything else, I step inside, close the door behind me, and cup her face with both hands.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Kenzie sucks in a sharp breath, but she doesn’t pull away.

“You sure?” she whispers, voice small, like she’s bracing for the worst.

My thumb sweeps over her cheekbone, my voice low, firm. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

She exhales, something breaking in her expression.

“I had a meeting with the PR team,” I say, watching her reaction. “They gave me an option—stay quiet and let this die out… or own it.”

Kenzie swallows, tension returning to her posture. “And?”

“I’m owning it.” My fingers flex against her jaw. “I don’t want to protect my career at the cost of losing you.”

She draws a slow breath, her eyes searching mine, lips trembling slightly.

“I need you to be sure,” she whispers. “Because once you say it publicly, there’s no undoing it.”

I lean in, my forehead brushing hers.

“I want the whole damn world to know you’re mine, Kenzie.”

A sharp inhale.

Then—she’s kissing me.

Fierce, desperate, her hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me in like she’s trying to absorb the weight of my words.

And me?

I let her.

Let her feel everything I can’t put into words.

Let her know, without a single doubt, that I’m all in.