It’s thethudof a body hitting the camera rig.
Tank crashes into the cameraman like a battering ram, sending the rig skidding across the turf.
The lens cracks.
Ellie screams.
Finley gasps.
And Tank?
Tank is vibrating with fury, his massive frame bristling as he stalks toward Ellie.
“You’re a woman,” he says low and dangerous, “so I won’t hit you. But I suggest you get the fuck away from my girl right now.”
The air crackles.
Ellie opens her mouth, but Tank steps forward, and she takes a visible step back.
“That footage?” he snarls. “Gone. You try to air it, I’ll sue your network so hard you’ll be lucky to get hired on TikTok. You disrespect her again? You’ll be lucky to walk straight.”
“Hudson,” I whisper, barely able to breathe.
He turns, eyes softening the second they land on me.
“She’s not a gimmick,” he says, voice firm but full of emotion. “She’s not a ‘moment.’ She sure as fuck isn’t taking advantage of one goddamn thing. Daniela’smine. And you better believe I’m in love with her. Been falling since the first time she told me off in front of all the boys on the paddock her first day with the team. But that’s none of your bloody business.”
I’m stunned. Shaking. Blinking way too fast.
Finley steps in, ushering Ellie away with a don’t-make-this-worse expression, and the moment the camera crew disappears behind the locker room doors, I lunge for him.
“I’ll sue!” the nasty reporter yells, but I don’t care about her anymore.
“Hudson,” I choke out again, throwing my arms around his neck.
He catches me easily, burying his face in my shoulder.
His chest rises and falls, still heaving from the adrenaline.
“I love you, Dani. I mean it. Every single word,” he murmurs into my skin.
And I believe him.
God help me, I do.
The whole indoor stadium room feels like a storm front.
Word travels faster than a loose ball, and by the time Tank’s grabbed my hand and pulled me off the side of the field where that newsperson sabotaged me, every single Rover knows exactly what just went down.
They’re lined up shoulder-to-shoulder in the players’ tunnel—massive men, sweat-slick, hair damp from warming up for the match, standing in their cleats or boots as most of them say.
Their eyes burn with the kind of protective energy that could flatten a semi.
It’s not subtle. It’s primal.
Koa’s the first to step forward, his jaw tight.
“What the hell did she say to you two, bruh?”
