Page 47 of The Defender

“If that’s what you want to call it.” I arched an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen you this nervous over a potential sponsor. What’s so special about Zenith? Besides the money.”

Thanks to his current brand deals, he was already raking in millions on top of his hefty Blackcastle salary. He wasn’t exactly hard up for cash.

“The validation, I guess,” Vincent said after a long pause. “It’s not the best motivator, but I like how stable and long-term their deals are. They don’t chase trends the way most other brands do. If Zenith chooses someone to be their ambassador, it means they have faith in them and the longevity of their career. And…I suppose it would just be nice to work with a team who believes I’m worth that much investment of their time and loyalty.”

Investment, faith, loyalty.His words struck me hard.

Was that why I’d been dragging my feet on the Blackcastle offer? I’d wanted it for the validation, and I got it. But was Jones really invested in mentoring me and helping me grow, or was I destined to spend my time at the club working twice as hard for half the recognition?

I swallowed past the sudden knot in my throat.

“I get it,” I said. “But—I’ll say this once and only once—you’re Vincent fucking DuBois. You’re the captain of Blackcastle. You’ve won a World Cup. You don’tneedvalidation from outside brands.”

It was a pep talk for myself as much as it was for Vincent, and my words came out fiercer than I’d intended.

There was a beat of surprise before the corner of his mouth kicked up. “Turns out you’re pretty good at pep talks.” Another pause. Then, “You should come with me.”

“To…”

“The dinner. I can bring a plus-one, and Lloyd doesn’t count. I was planning to fly solo, but I’d feel a lot better if you were by my side.”

I ignored the way my pulse sped up. “What am I, your emotional support nutritionist?”

“No,” he said with a straight face. “You’re my emotional support flatmate.”

Laughter bubbled in my throat. Damn him and his ability to make me smile even when I didn’t want to.

“So?” he prompted. “You in?”

I hesitated. Going as his plus-one sounded an awful lot like a date, even if it was to a business function.

“It’s not a date.” It was as if Vincent had read my mind. “I’m not even paying. Zenith’s picking up the bill.”

“Cheapskate.”

“Freeloader,” he corrected. “If you’re going to insult me, get the term right.”

My lips twitched. “What if my dad finds out? He’ll want to know why we went to a brand dinner together.”

“Brooklyn.” Vincent leveled me with a disbelieving stare. “Do you think your dad gives a shit about Zenith or marketing?”

He had a point.

My dad was laser focused on the game itself. He considered everything else a distraction, including the pre- and post-match press conferences, which he’d labeled as a “ridiculous waste of time.”

Fortunately, his tunnel vision meant it was easy to hide my flatmate situation from him. Unfortunately, it meant I didn’t have a good excuse for saying no.

“Fine. I’ll go,” I said. “But if the food is shit, or anyone at the table uses the word ‘synergy,’ you owe me a meal and twenty pounds.”

Vincent chuckled. “Deal.”

His response lingered in the air. My skin pebbled with goosebumps, and I realized with horror that I’d been in my towel this entire time.

My tiny, barely adequate towel, which I’d somehow forgotten about.

The same revelation appeared to hit Vincent at the same time. His smile vanished, and we hastily stepped back from each other.

“Well.” I pasted on a smile.Pretend you’re wearing real clothes.“Goodnight.”