Reporters shout questions over each other. Sweat-soaked players weave through the mess while PR girls herd them like wild horses.
I hover behind a crowd of media until I spot him.
Dominic stands in front of a backdrop plastered with sponsors, microphones jammed near his mouth, TV cameras shoved close enough to catch the water still dripping from his hair.
He’s all authority and post-game adrenaline simmering under his skin.
“…full team effort,” he says into a mic, voice low and steady. “We knew what we were up against.”
His eyes shift just a fraction and catch mine for an instant. My stomach drops straight to my knees. His gaze changes, just slightly, and a hint of a smile plays across his full lips. Then he looks away, answering another question.
Reluctantly, I admit this man is hot.
Unfairly hot.
The interview wraps. Reporters shout more questions, but Dom cuts through them with a curt nod and steps away from the backdrop.
This is my window.
I move before I think, while cameras swivel toward him as he exits the interview cluster.
Perfect.
I slip right into his path with a too-sweet smile and fling my arms around his neck like I have every right.
Click-click-click-click-click.
The cameras go feral around us. Dom goes still for a moment before his hands come up automatically, one gripping the small of my back, the other sliding lower than any PR-friendly photo requires. Big, warm, and claiming without even meaning to.
My breath stutters, and I pull back a little before he can feel my heartbeat.
I raise my mouth to his ear, whispering, “Is this what the WAGs do?”
His fingers tighten, and he dips his head just enough to brush his lips along my cheek in a pretend-kiss forthe cameras, but low enough that only I can hear the growl that leaves him.
“No. You need to go to Tinnie for some media training.”
But the way he drags me tighter to his chest contradicts every syllable.
I smile wider, letting the cameras catch it.
“Looks like you don’t mind, Captain. Wonder what else I can get away with.”
Dom leans lower, stubbled cheek brushing mine. To everyone watching, we look like a picture-perfect couple having a soft, intimate moment after a win.
“Don’t you fucking dare make a scene,” he warns, all steady captain-command, while his thumb strokes slow, hot circles just above my hip.
Electricity rips down my spine.
“What if I do?”
His hand slides even lower, fingers pressing into my waist.
“Don’t test me,” he murmurs, mouth grazing my ear.
His touch is nothing like his voice. His voice says be careful. His hold says don’t you dare move.
He guides me with a firm hand on my hip toward the next round of cameras.
