Page 10 of The Playmaker (The Legends of Fire #1)

JAX

I let Riley's call go to voicemail as I watch Avery storm off, her skirt swaying with each determined step. Heat surges through me—I want nothing more than to chase her down that hallway, press her against the wall, and finish what we started in the elevator.

"Damn it," I mutter, still rooted in place.

I don't follow her or try to explain. What could I say? Riley is off-limits to the media, to the public, to anyone outside my innermost circle. If Avery pulls away because I won't reveal this part of my life, then so be it—though something in me hopes she won't.

For the thousandth time, I question whether keeping Riley sheltered from the media's relentless scrutiny is the right call. My gut says yes. But am I really willing to walk away from whatever this is with Avery—just to maintain my sister's privacy for a few more years?

The memory of my parents' funeral flashes through my mind—photographers with telephoto lenses capturing our grief from across the cemetery, Riley's face splashed across tabloids the next day: "Orphaned Siblings of NFL Rookie.

" She was just a child then, clutching my hand as I tried to shield her from their invasive stares.

I'd made a promise that day—no one would exploit her pain again.

My room is past Avery's. As I approach her door, I slow my steps. Is she standing just inside, fuming and waiting to see if I'll knock? Or has she already buried herself in work, pretending our moment never happened?

"Don't bother trying anything else with me," her voice carries through the door.

I can't help but smile. She was waiting, listening for my footsteps.

"I mean it, Jaxon."

The fact that she's standing there, monitoring my approach, tells me everything I need to know. She's irritated but not truly angry about seeing a woman's name light up my phone.

I step closer to her door. "Oh, you think I was going to knock? To beg for an audience with the woman who seems to love jumping to conclusions?" The teasing comes naturally with her, different from the practiced charm I use for cameras and fans.

The door swings open. She stands there with her suit jacket discarded, the silk blouse and fitted skirt showcasing every curve. One hand rests on her hip, the other grips the door.

She snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Eyes up here, mister."

But there's no real fire behind her words.

"Well?" she asks, equal parts curious and indignant.

She's an enigma—sometimes melting into me, sometimes building walls higher than any defensive line I've faced. I've spent years reading opponents on the field, but Avery? She keeps me off-balance in a way that's both frustrating and exhilarating.

"I can't disclose personal phone calls, if that's what you're asking." The words taste bitter—another secret, another wall between us.

She rolls her eyes with such theatrical flair that I laugh. "Convenient." Her posture stiffens. "You know what? I don't care. But no more kissing me in elevators." She wags a finger at me like I'm a misbehaving rookie.

"What about outside of elevators?"

"What about this: no."

She moves to close the door.

"Avery."

Something in my tone makes her pause. God, she's stunning when she's angry—eyes bright and challenging, cheeks flushed with color that spreads down her neck. I take a deliberate step forward, testing her boundaries the way I test a defensive coverage.

A soft sound escapes her lips as she presses her thighs together—a tell I'm learning to recognize.

"You want help with that?" I ask, my voice dropping an octave as my gaze drifts down to where I'd give anything to taste her.

For a heartbeat, I think she might surrender. Then she sighs.

"No."

That single syllable stings worse than any blindside hit I've taken.

"No?"

She shakes her head, resolve hardening in those expressive eyes. "I can't trust you. And that's a nonstarter for me, even for a...hookup."

Ouch. She's not wrong. I am deliberately keeping part of my life hidden from her. But it's not what she thinks. It's not about protecting my image or my career—it's about protecting the one person who matters most.

"It's not what you imagine. Is that enough to change your mind? "

"Riley?" she asks. "She's not one of your groupies?"

I grimace, the suggestion turning my stomach. "Absolutely not."

"But you can't tell me what she is to you?"

The truth hovers on my tongue. I could tell her.

I want to tell her. The realization jolts me—Avery is a journalist. What the hell am I thinking?

I've spent years building this wall between my public and private lives.

Years of carefully crafted misdirection—the "bad boy" image, the calculated controversies, all of it designed to keep the spotlight on me and off Riley.

And now I'm considering tearing it all down for a woman I barely know?

In that moment of hesitation, her decision crystallizes. She starts closing the door just as my phone lights up again.

Riley. Again.

Avery scoffs, her eyes narrowing. "Seems like you're a wanted man, Jaxon." A flash of something—disappointment?—crosses her face. "But not by me. Not anymore."

As the door clicks shut, I find myself grinning. It's those last words that give her away. In her denial, she's confirmed what I suspected—she does want me, despite her better judgment.

I hurry to my room to take the call. Riley rarely contacts me during away games; it must be important.

Aware of the thin wall separating my room from Avery's, I keep my voice low and switch on the TV for background noise.

"Riley. I just got to my room..."

"It's not fair!" she whines.

Ah. One of those calls. She only unleashes the teenage dramatics when "everyone else" has something she wants.

I sink onto the bed with a sigh. Mrs. Mathews must have punted this one to me—another parenting decision that falls on my shoulders.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing right by Riley.

Our parents would have known what to do. I'm just making it up as I go.

"What's not fair, Riles?" I keep my tone neutral while glancing around the luxury suite.

"People are so mean." The hurt in Riley's voice pulls me back to reality. "I have to get social media—you're being mean too by not letting me be normal! I hate it! I hate living like this. I wish Mom and Dad were here."

The last part hits like a helmet to the chest. All these years later, and the loss still feels fresh sometimes.

"What happened?" My protective instincts flare.

I hate hearing how "miserable" and "sheltered" she feels, but I'd hate myself more if the media discovered her identity and turned her life into a circus.

I've seen what they did to Marcus's son after his DUI—camped outside his school, following him to therapy sessions. I won't let that happen to Riley.

"You don't understand how hard this is," she continues. "I just want a social media account with Mom's maiden name—no one will know it's me or that I'm your sister. I just can't be weird anymore, J. I can't take it."

There's teenage melodrama in her words, but also a new edge of determination that gives me pause.

She's sixteen. She's waited patiently for some semblance of normalcy, hasn't she?

Her growing resentment concerns me—I don't want her to see me as her jailer.

And maybe not all journalists are threats. Look at Avery...

Wait. What? I stop mid-thought. When did Avery become someone I'd consider trusting with this? She's supposed to be the enemy—a journalist who could expose everything I've worked to protect. When did that change?

I stand, restless with confusion. I can't immediately say yes to Riley, but I can't keep saying no without offering some compromise, some hope.

Before I can think better of it, words I never expected to say come out of my mouth—and I can only blame my growing fixation with a certain honey-blonde reporter.

"Fine. You can have one social media account. It stays private. And you give the password to Mrs. Mathews."

Riley squeals with delight, professing her undying love for her "best and favorite big brother in the world."

Then she pauses. "Wait, are you telling me Mrs. Mathews knows how to use social media?"

I chuckle. "Mrs. Mathews is the OG of social media. Rumor has it her Facebook page dates back to the early 2000s."

It's an exaggeration, but my sister's laugh makes the white lie worthwhile.

That sound—her genuine happiness—is what drives every decision I make, every sacrifice I've accepted.

Few people understand that the "bad boy" persona, the carefully orchestrated controversies, even the string of meaningless dates—it's all armor I wear to keep the spotlight on me and off her.

I end the call feeling both lighter and heavier. I've made one important woman in my life happy, but the other—the one with those captivating brown eyes that make my pulse race—still thinks I'm just another player on and off the field.

The ball's in her court now. If Avery wants to talk, she knows where to find me. If not, there's not much I can do. I might have momentarily considered revealing Riley's identity to her, but that lapse in judgment can't happen again.

Ever.

And yet... as I stretch out on the hotel bed, I wonder what it might be like to have someone who sees past the headlines to the man beneath. Someone like Avery.

That thought is more dangerous than any blitz I've ever faced.