“I did,” he insisted, stepping closer, lowering his voice. “I said, ‘She’s not wearing that,’ and they said, ‘Okay,’ and passed me this instead.”
Well, shit.
“I know you don’t need it,” he said. “But you deserve to feel like yourself. And you can’t do that when you’re pulling at your clothes every five seconds.”
My chest warmed. Stupidly. Annoyingly.
I swallowed. “You can’t just fix everything because you feel bad.”
His jaw flexed. “I don’t feel bad.” Then, softer: “I feel protective. There’s a difference.”
I blinked at him. That was not the quip I’d prepared for.
He lifted the top, a bit gentler. “Try it. If you hate it, I’ll go back and get something else. Or start a riot. Dealer’s choice.”
“Connor—”
“Teddy.” His voice dipped, a low, steady line that slid down my spine. “Let me help.”
I exhaled slowly, grabbing the tank top with reluctance, but really, under the surface of my skin was a gratefulness I’d never felt toward him before.
Not because he’d swooped in like some overgrown golden retriever with a savior complex, but because, for a split second, someone actuallysawthe thing I’d swallowed down before walking into this place.
I was prepared to do anything to make this season work. Anything. Even be here in a crop top I hated, pretending I didn’t feel every inch of skin on display. Even let the message slide, the one I should’ve been challenging, the one I’d lectured rookies about. The quiet, corrosive expectation that women in sports had to polish themselves into palatable versions of strength. To prove we deserved it if we looked good while doing it.
If it meant getting the Valkyries the spotlight they deserved? Fine. I’d have sold my soul and smiled for the camera.
But he… paused all that and reminded me that I don’t have to take it. And the fact that it was him making me think that had me realizing that maybe he wasn’t the arrogant guy I knew in college anymore. Maybe he’d changed.
“Thanks,” I said, barely above a whisper, not looking directly at him, in case my honesty opened another doorway of a truce between us. I wasn’t sure how many I could survive. I slipped the top on and immediately felt better.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
We didn’t get long to pretend this wasn’t weird before the photographer arrived and immediately started rearranging us like two cardboard cutouts. His accent was thick, his scarf was loud, and his instructions were a blur of “closer, closer,” and “give me the tension.”
The issue was, my day wasn’t a normal day, so when he told me to relax, I physically tensed more. It was useless.
“Non, non, non,” he said in horror, waving a hand between Connor and me. “This... this is too much distance. You do nothateeach other; you are not here to duel! You must sizzle! You must sparkle! You must have tension. Alas, this is not tension fromspite.This is tension from... longing. Rivals... but also...lovers.”
I resisted the urge to crawl into the nearest pile of branded energy drinks and never return. The issue was,Claude,we didn’t like each other.
The photographer clapped his hands. “Now lean in. Close. Closer. Imagine you are about to kiss, but you cannot. Not yet. You ache.”
“I don’t ache,” I muttered.
“Youwill,” he replied dramatically. I was almost certain the only ache I was forming was in my head and it felt permanent.
Connor smirked, stepping in. I tried not to notice how close he was. How warm. How good he smelled, like cedar and whatever deodorant brand was clearly working overtime on his behalf. His hand brushed mine, just slightly, but it didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was just one of those things that happened when two people were being physically shoved together by what could only be described as brute force.
But it was there. Whateverthatwas between us, again. Something I thought was fueled by hate suddenly felt a lot like a blurred line. Which was the problem.
“Relax,” Connor murmured, so quietly that only I could hear him. It sounded like he was in on the joke but also kind of serious about playing his part. “You’re stiff as a board.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered back, “did you want me to go limp in your arms like a damsel?”
His grin stretched wider. “I wouldn’t say no.”
There was a flutter somewhere I didn’t need to be fluttering. I needed him to stop talking. Or maybe develop a minor cold that would make him just a little less attractive. Snot definitely wasn’t attractive. Because this was spiraling. Not outwardly—I was still technically holding my pose—but internally? I was chaos. And I needed to get the hell away from him.
