I saw the headline before I even read the words. That photo—grainy as hell, but unmistakable. Her hair soaked from rain. My hand curled around her waist. My mouth brushing her cheek like the whole world didn’t matter.
“Love, Rehab, and Scandal.”
I didn’t need to read the article. I already knew what it would say. Former high school flames. Now reunited under Premier League lights. Every outlet had a spin, but they all pointed the same way: us.
I clenched my phone, jaw grinding. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Not like this.
She’d trusted me—barely—but enough to stay. Enough to work on my knee. Enough to look at me without spitting my name like poison. And I’d let the world in anyway. I didn’t leak it, but I hadn’t stopped it either. Hadn’t made it clear enough to my manager, the PR team, anyone. I let them spin her into a story.
A headline.
A target.
***
She stormed in the next morning like a fireball wrapped in scrubs. Slammed the door so hard the walls shook.
“You really thought this wouldn’t blow up?” she snapped, eyes blazing. “You thought dragging me into this circus wouldn’t cost me everything?”
My mouth opened, but the words came slow. “It wasn’t supposed to—”
“Don’t,” she cut in, voice trembling but lethal. “Don’t act surprised now.”
Her face was flushed, but not from embarrassment—rage. Betrayal.
“You put my name, my reputation, on the line without even asking me,” she said. “You don’t get to look at me like that now.”
“Like what?” I asked, low.
“Like I was the one who hurt you.”
I swallowed. Her words sliced, clean and deep.
“You made your choice,” she continued. “You chose the spotlight. You chose the world over me.”
I stepped forward, but she was already pulling away.
“I didn’t know choosing it meant losing you.”
Her eyes flinched—just for a second. But the hurt in them was unmistakable.
“It does.”
She turned and left.
And I let her.
***
I found her in the hydrotherapy room, sitting with her legs half-submerged in the warm water, her expression unreadable, face turned away from the door. I didn’t speak right away. I just sat beside her. Let the silence settle between us like it used to in those long post-practice nights.
“I used to reread your old texts before every game,” I said quietly. “They made me feel like I mattered.”
Her head didn’t turn, but something in her posture shifted—softened. Barely.
“I would’ve never made it to Madrid if we’d stayed together,” I admitted. “And I hated that.”
She didn’t argue. Just nodded once, slow and quiet. Like it hurt to hear. Like it hurt more to agree.
I scooted closer, the steam from the pool fogging the edge of the window. My hand brushed hers.
“Riles…”
She didn’t pull away.
“I didn’t say that to push you off. I said it because…” I exhaled. “Because I want to stay. With you. Now.”
Her eyes finally met mine. Something between fury and longing swam in them. And then—just for a second—there was only silence. Our noses almost touched. Her breath ghosted over my mouth. My fingers hovered at her jaw.
I leaned in.
And then—
SLAM.
The door burst open.
“What the hell is going on in here?”
Javier Santos.
Star striker. Media favorite. The kind of athlete whose name was always in headlines. And coincidentally, my biggest enemy.
Every muscle in my body locked. I stood before I even realized it, instinct kicking in. I stepped in front of her, not even thinking. Just moved.
He stood in the doorway like he owned the damn room. Designer suit, smirk carved straight from the devil himself. His eyes landed on her, then on me.
“Didn’t know you were still in the business of fixing broken boys, Morgan,” he said.
I didn’t say a word.
She didn’t either.
But everything changed in that second. The air turned ice cold. My jaw clenched so hard it hurt. My fists curled without thinking.
He didn’t come here by accident. He knew exactly where she’d be. And now I knew exactly why I’d always hated the guy.
Not just for what he did on the field.
But for the way he looked at her. Like I wasn’t even in the room.
And for the first time in years, I wasn’t just pissed.
I was ready to fight.