Page 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO-FINLEY

The new media tent smells like fresh turf, overworked camera batteries, and at least two of the rookies’ body spray attempts gone wrong.

I can’t get over how many changes were made to the campground in just a week.

They’re good though. All modern conveniences. Better Wi-Fi. A half a dozen designated areas with shade and electricity to work.

It certainly makes my job easier.

It’s spring now, but soon it will be summer, and having adequate cover from the constant sun is exactly what someone with my complexion needs.

I don’t like to talk in stereotypes, but my skin is pale and I burn easily. My job, however, requires me to be outdoors. Filming and snapping shots of the team and turning that into fodder for the masses.

Tasteful fodder. But still.

I’m hunched over my laptop, editing a reel of Koa from yesterday’s practice.

He’s become something of a fan favorite. Or maybe it’s just because my attention has been on him.

No worries though. I plan to give each of the guys a highlight post and reel.

Especially the new players who’ve been headhunted from across the whole country. Luca Warden comes to mind, and I jot a note to feature him soon.

Then my attention is back on the shots I got of Koa.

He is soaked in sweat, shirtless, and yelling at someone.

It shouldn’t be sexy, but he looks so good. Rugged and hot as fuck in the most erotic way possible.

It’s basically visual porn for sports fans.

And yeah. I’ve watched it seven times.

“Stop drooling,” Carolina says, sliding into the seat next to mine with a strawberry banana smoothie and a wicked grin.

I flush. “I’m not drooling.”

“You’re drooling,” she says, sipping like she’s innocent and not the devil in fan gear.

I click away from the video and pull up a stats chart.

Super professional. Very serious.

She doesn’t buy it for a second.

“What’s up, Fin?”

“Nothing. Okay, fine. Koa’s just been kind of distant,” I admit, keeping my eyes on the screen.

I don’t want to face her.

Or my fears, really.

I mean, nothing will save me from embarrassment if Koa regrets what happened between us.

I know it’s fast. Probably too fast.

But—I love him.

And I want this, us , to work.

“He’s probably just focusing on the game, Fin,” she says, all sympathy.

“No, I know. I mean, I know the first match is a big deal. I know he’s stressed and hyper-focused, but I don’t know what that means for me.”

“You miss him.” Carolina surmises accurately.

“Yeah.” I sigh. “And honestly? I’m feeling kinda, I don’t know, replaceable. Unsure of my position in his life. Like, do I just wait around like a winter coat? Stuck in a closet because I’m only useful some of the time?”

Carolina tilts her head. “Girl, what are you talking about? He worships you.”

“Sure. In private.”

I glance up, scanning the field beyond the tent, where a few of the guys are still cooling down.

“But have you seen the way women look at him? Half the people following our TikTok think he’s single and ready to ‘rugby tackle their ovaries.’ Actual quote.”

Carolina snorts.

“They don’t know he’s not single. You’re not exactly tagging him in couple selfies.”

“I’m not trying to become a meme.”

“Too late.”

I groan and slump forward, forehead thudding against my laptop. She’s right.

Because right now I’m like every whiny girlfriend meme I have ever seen. And I don’t like it. It’s not me.

“Fin, what’s this really about?”

“It’s just I can’t help but wonder if I’m enough. Like, I’m the ‘curvy girl with a camera’ and he’s the hotshot rugby god with groupies and fan art and literal thirst threads. That’s not a fair fight. Besides, what am I gonna do down here? I mean, this gig is temporary. I’ll need to find local clients if I stick around, but what if he doesn’t want me to?”

“Finley.”

I glance up.

She’s got that look.

The one where she’s about to deliver Big Sister Wisdom or threaten to slap me with a selfie stick.

But before she can say anything, the flap of the tent lifts—and in walks Mitchell Knight.

Yes, that Mitchell Knight.

Tall, tan, buff and bronzed billionaire owner of the Carolina Rovers, who wears tailored pants like a sin and smells like he was bottled in a lab specifically to ruin women.

My jaw clicks shut.

“Ladies,” he says, smooth as silk. “Hope I’m not interrupting?”

Carolina stands, all smiles. “Not at all, Mitch. Just coaching Finley through an identity crisis.”

“Sounds productive.” His gaze swings to me. “Miss Adamo, do you have a minute?”

I blink. “Uh, yes?”

He nods toward the tent’s exit. “There’s a spot around the corner where they set up catering for the crew. I thought maybe we could grab a bite. I wanted to talk about your role here.”

Carolina raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

I glance between them, heart stuttering. “Oh. Um. Okay. Sure.”

Mitchell flashes a smile that would make a nun consider bad decisions. “Great. I promise it’s not a trap.”

I follow him out, trying not to feel like an imposter by walking ten feet with a man in slacks and aviators.

Still, as I fall into step beside Mitchell Knight— billionaire, team owner, my kinda-boss .

Holy wow.

I mean he is something, and I can understand why women fawn over him. I’d love to be his personal PR team, and lord knows he needs one.

The rumor mill loves to gossip about the somewhat private billionaire, and I can see why. He is stupid cute.

Not that it matters to me. My heart is already taken.

Still, I can’t help but wonder what this is about.

What does Mitchell Knight want to talk with me about?

Is he unhappy with my work? Am I going to be fired?

Gulp.

And why do rich people fire people over meals? Like does this conversation mean we have to eat together?

He apologizes as his phone rings and answers it, giving me the space I need to get my act together.

I try to squash down my fears and just follow him.

But Mitchell Knight doesn’t just walk—he glides.

Like a man who’s used to people parting for him.

Or trailing after him. Probably falling at his feet.

He leads me to a shaded table under one of the large catering canopies, where the team and staff now eat most of their meals together.

Most everyone’s cleared out already, which means it’s just me, him, and the low hum of cicadas in the trees beyond the fence.

He hands me a bottle of water.

Glass, of course. Fancy .

Then he pulls out my chair.

I’m already suspicious.

“So,” I start, voice a little too high-pitched. “What’s this about? Did I break some unspoken media rule? Accidentally catch Tank changing behind a water cooler or something?”

Mitchell laughs. The sound is low and warm, like he’s genuinely amused.

“You’re not in trouble, Finley.”

I squint at him. “That sounds like something people say right before someone gets fired.”

“Well, then you’ll be pleasantly surprised to hear that I actually wanted to talk about hiring you.”

My jaw drops. “Wait—what?”

He leans back, perfectly at ease. “I’ve been watching your work. Your numbers are growing every day. The engagement is wild. You’ve single handedly made people care about this team in a league most Americans don’t even know how to pronounce. That’s not easy.”

My heart thuds. “Well, it’s not just me. I mean, the guys are, uh , very watchable.”

His lips twitch. “That’s a polite way of saying they’re built like Greek statues with serious anger issues.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

There’s a beat of quiet as I process.

“You’re serious?” I ask. “Like I’d be working for the Rovers full time?”

Mitchell nods. “Salary. Travel stipend. Creative control. I want you as the official head of PR and digital media for the Carolina Rovers. Not just for this season, but for the long haul. Plus, you get to hire an assistant.”

My mouth is suddenly dry. “Wow.”

“You’d be working directly with me and my team. Overseeing content strategy, brand growth, press interviews, merchandizing angles. We’re building something here, Finley. You’ve already proven you’re part of that. I just want to make it official. Oh and, I do make exceptions for staff and team fraternization.”

He adds the last bit in a stage whisper.

I should be elated.

This is the dream.

A real job.

A stable one.

Creative freedom.

My own assistant.

Money.

But my brain is glitching.

Because this would mean permanence. Staying. Rooting myself into this team. Into this world.

Into Koa’s world.

And I don’t know if he wants me.

“Can I have a bit to think about it?” I ask, voice quieter now.

“Of course. Take a few days.” He stands and offers me a card. “Shoot me a text when you’re ready to talk details.”

“Thank you, Mr. Knight!”

I shake his hand. Enthusiastically.

Because even though I haven’t said yes. This is my dream job. And I want to take it.

But first, I need to have a conversation with my boyfriend .

He’s already turning when he adds, without looking back, “And tell your number eight to stop glaring at me from the shadows like he’s about to charge. I’m not poaching his girlfriend.”

My mouth opens.

My eyes bug out of my head.

And my head snaps around.

Sure enough, Koa’s standing by the back entrance of the tent. He’s sweaty and mussed from practice, and his massive arms are crossed over his chest.

He is glaring at me.

That square jaw of his is clenched. Tight.

And he’s looking like he’s one thank you away from tackling his billionaire boss to the ground.

Oh. Shit.