Page 4 of The Playmaker (The Legends of Fire #1)

JAX

I make my way through the crowd after that league rep pulled me away, but my mind's still back there with her. Monroe. That sharp tongue, sharper mind, and the way she didn't back down for a second.

My PR team would be having collective heart attacks right now. Jaxon Carter, voluntarily seeking out a journalist? One who's already proven she won't play by the rules? I should focus on the sponsors. Find Hawk. Do literally anything else.

But I can't.

Instead, I scan the room until I spot her again—champagne glass in hand, those honey-blonde waves catching the light as she talks with her friend. I weave through clusters of tuxedos and evening gowns, nodding at teammates, offering the occasional autograph. But my eyes keep drifting back to her.

She's slipped out onto the balcony. The Manhattan skyline glitters beyond her, a backdrop of diamonds against the night. She's alone, leaning against the railing, the emerald fabric of her dress shifting in the breeze.

I step out into the cooler air. The party noise dims behind me. She doesn't turn, but her shoulders tense slightly. She knows I'm here.

"Running from me already, Monroe?" I keep my voice light, teasing.

"Just needed air." She doesn't look at me. "Too many egos in one room."

I laugh, moving beside her at the railing. "Including mine?"

"Especially yours." Now she turns, and there's something in her eyes—a challenge, yes, but something else. Curiosity. Like she's trying to solve a puzzle.

"You know, most people would be flattered to have my attention."

"I'm not most people."

"No," I agree, studying her face in the city glow. "You're not."

The wind catches a strand of her hair, blowing it across her face. Before I can think better of it, I reach out, tucking it behind her ear. Her breath catches.

"What are you doing, Carter?"

"I have no idea." It's the most honest thing I've said all night.

She doesn't step back. "This is a bad idea."

"Probably."

"I'm a journalist."

"I'm aware."

"I write about men like you."

I move closer. "Men like me?"

"Arrogant. Reckless. Self-destructive." Her voice has lost its edge, gone softer.

"Is that what you see when you look at me?"

Something flickers in her eyes. "I see someone playing a part."

That hits too close. Nobody sees through the act. Nobody's supposed to .

"And what part am I playing?" I ask, voice rougher than intended.

She studies me, and I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with physical nakedness. "I haven't figured that out yet."

The city noise fades. The party disappears. It's just us, standing too close, breathing the same air.

I should walk away. I should end this before it begins. But I can't.

Her lips part slightly. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. The question is there, unspoken.

I lean in.

She doesn't stop me.

Our lips meet, tentative at first—a question, a test. Then something ignites. Her mouth opens under mine, and restraint vanishes like smoke.

One hand finds her waist, pulling her against me. Her fingers curl into my shirt, bunching the fabric. There's nothing soft about this kiss. Nothing polite. It's built on adrenaline, challenge, and fire.

I forget everything—PR disasters, Riley waiting at home, the danger of being seen. None of it matters. This is the only real thing in the room. In the world.

She tastes like defiance. Like everything I shouldn't want. But do.

Her body arches into mine, her free hand sliding up to my jaw, then into my hair. I deepen the kiss, backing her against the railing, trapping her between cold metal and my body. A small sound escapes her throat, and it nearly undoes me.

We break apart, gasping for air—and then there's a flash. Bright, unmistakable.

A figure darts away from the balcony entrance.

"Shit—someone saw," Avery whispers, eyes wide.

I react on instinct, pulling her further along the balcony, into the shadows where the decorative lighting doesn't reach. We press against the wall, hidden from view.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly. So does mine. I can still taste her on my lips.

"That shouldn't have happened," she says, but she doesn't sound convinced.

"Then why did it?" I counter, still too close, still wanting her.

She straightens, smooths her dress. I watch her armor slide back into place—the professional mask, the composed journalist. It's impressive and frustrating all at once.

"It's fine. Don't worry." Her voice is steady now. "I won't print it."

"And whoever took that photo?"

"Probably not me they're interested in." She adjusts her hair. "You're the story, Carter. Not the reporter who interviewed you."

I try to believe her. Want to believe her. But trust doesn't come easily in my world.

"This was a mistake," she says, more to herself than to me.

"Didn't feel like one."

Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, the mask slips. I see want there. Confusion. Maybe even fear. Then it's gone.

"Goodnight, Carter." She steps around me, heading for the door.

"Avery." Her name feels different on my tongue now.

She pauses but doesn't turn. "What?"

I should say something smooth. Something that would make her stay. But all I can think is how quickly she put her walls back up, and how badly I want to tear them down again.

"Nothing. Forget it."

She walks off without another glance.

I give her a five-minute head start before returning to the gala. The party is in full swing, the room hot with bodies and laughter. I scan the crowd, finding her easily—she's across the room, deep in conversation with an older woman I recognize as Ann Thompson, editor-in-chief at Sports Weekly.

Thompson is gesturing animatedly. Avery's face is professionally neutral, but I catch the slight widening of her eyes, the way her fingers tighten around her glass.

Hawk materializes at my side, beer in hand. "You disappeared."

"Needed some air."

"Sure you did." He follows my gaze. "Careful with that one, man. She's not like your usual distractions."

"I know."

"PR's been watching you two. Wesley cornered me earlier."

That gets my attention. "What did he want?"

"To know if you'd behave yourself if they assigned her to shadow you for that new program."

Ice slides down my spine. "What did you tell him?"

"That you're a grown-ass man who can keep it in his pants for the sake of your career." He gives me a pointed look. "Please tell me that's true."

I don't answer. Across the room, Avery's nodding at something Thompson is saying. Her lips—lips I was just kissing—press into a thin line.

"Jax," Hawk warns. "Tell me nothing happened."

"Nothing happened." The lie comes easily.

Wesley appears, clapping me on the shoulder. "Carter! There you are. We need to talk about the shadow program."

"Not interested," I say flatly.

"It's not optional." His smile is all teeth. "Board's orders. Every star player gets paired with a journalist for six weeks. Inside access, personal stories, the works."

"And you want to pair me with Monroe?"

Wesley's smile tightens. "She's the best. And you're our biggest star. It's a natural fit. "

I think about Avery in my space. In my home. Around Riley. The risk is unacceptable.

"Find someone else."

"Can't. It's already decided." Wesley lowers his voice. "Look, Carter, this isn't a request. The league needs good press after last season's scandals. You play ball with this, or there will be consequences."

He walks away before I can argue further.

Across the room, Avery looks up. Our eyes meet. For a second, I see the same heat from the balcony—then she looks away, saying something to Thompson that makes the older woman nod approvingly.

Whatever just happened between us, whatever this is—it's about to get a lot more complicated.