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It's overwhelming, a sudden storm of chaos that crushes my brain. The hands of terror grip me hard, leaving me paralyzed, too stunned to speak. I'm too used to being able to hide behind a camera. Too accustomed to being on the other side of the flash.
"Alright folks, no questions tonight, thank you," Parker says, his voice firm and bordering on angry.
His arm wraps around my waist, sheltering me protectively against him as he pulls us back inside the restaurant.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Knight, I don't know how they got word that you were here —" the maître d' is instantly apologetic, moving to block the doors bodily to keep the tide of paparazzi from seeping inside.
"Not your fault. Is there any way you can help us slip out the back?"
It isn't until we're safely ensconced in an Uber that I can breathe freely again. The impending sense of doom eases, and my rapidly galloping heart finally starts to slow down.
"I'm sorry," I whisper again and again.
Parker looks confused, pulling me closer against him in the backseat.
"You don't have anything to apologize for," he strokes my hair, making soothing noises as we ride home.
But I do. I'm the least fit person in the world to be dating a sports star, especially semi-sneakily. Payton is probably going to fire me for the bad PR I just caused.
"I feel like I just ruined something wonderful. It was such a nice night," I whisper against his chest, my tears flowing freely, all thoughts of makeup dashed away by dread.
"Hey, it's still a nice night. We had fun. We're going to go home, and I'm going to wrap you up in our softest blanket and cuddle you until you're feeling better. Maybe later we'll grab dessert, too," he says, kissing the top of my head.
I sniffle, pulling myself together.
"I'd like that," I murmur. "Especially dessert."
His laughter is the salve that finally banishes the fear, but doubt still clings to my heart.
I'm not sure I can do this.
8
Parker
"Give me the puck."
The locker room is packed, with all of the team plus a few staff making it standing-room only. We have a meeting room in the big building, sure, but that's for business. This isn't about business. This is about strategy.
Because I'm about to declare war.
"Parker, we're a team —" Sawyer starts.
"Yeah, we are. I'm going to go out there and give it my best tonight, and the next game, and the next. But I want to make a point. Not to the other team, not to the league, not to the fans. But to the scum that harassed me, harassed us. You all know they crossed a line. Well, I've got something to say to them. So give me the puck."
I can see a few nods around the room, a few smiles. One or two headshakes, but that's alright. I don't need everyone, I just need —
"Listen to Parker," Erik says without looking up.
There are a few scowls now, but my smile widens.
"Erik, that's easy for you to say. You don't ever get the puck like that," someone whines from a bench.
Erik stands up, towering over everyone. He takes a few steps forward and then turns, standing behind me, facing the assembled team.
"It will only get worse," the massive goalie nods once. "Do you want the press hounding us everywhere? No. We have to draw a line in the ice. Parker has a plan. I vote we trust him. That is what a team is, yes? Trust?"
Around the room, there are thoughtful nods. The one or two voices of protest glance down, unable to meet my eyes anymore.
