“She makes content,” Tinnie says. “Social media, mostly. Sewing, fashion, upcycling. She partners with shelters and nonprofits to raise awareness through fashion, does campaigns for women’s organizations. There was a collab with a domestic abuse nonprofit that went viral last year.”
“Good for her.” I mean it. I admire anyone selfless enough to go out of their way to help. I just don’t know how I feel about it being filmed. It makes it seem…disingenuous.
“She’s well respected in the fashion community online. Young, philanthropic...”
“Hot,” the guy mutters under his breath, earning a look from Tinnie.
I keep my face still, but something shifts in my chest.
“Sounds like you’ve got a crush.” I tilt my head at him. “So, she’s got followers,” I say evenly, turning back to Tinnie. “Again, good for her. What do I have to do with it?”
“You touched her,” Tinnie says simply.
“I saw a woman who needed an out and used me to get it. I let her. That was it.”
“And now the internet has decided you’re in love.”
“That sounds like a them problem, Tinnie.”
“It becomes our problem when ESPN, E! News, and half of TikTok are tagging you in love story edits.”
The younger assistant flips her tablet around again, showing me a screen full of fan edits—me looking down at Jessica in slow motion, the rose, the pull, her face, my hand, all soundtracked to indie pop shit that makes it look like we’ve been dating since high school.
“Over five million views overnight,” she says. “And climbing. You’ve never looked better in the media,” she says smoothly.
“Her views have skyrocketed as well.” The younger PR guy taps the tablet again and spins it toward me. A video rolls of the girl at a sewing machine, dark-blonde hair tied back, a bright grin on her face while she talks to the camera, hands moving fast as she stitches fabric. Another clip shows her twirling in a dress she apparently made herself, sequins catching the light.
I keep my face blank even though inside, my stomach twists.
It takes me a few seconds to realize what I’m feeling.
I don’t like this.
The thought of her being accessible to millions of strangers makes my jaw tighten. Every asshole with Wi-Fi can hit play and watch her laugh, watch her move, watch her mouth form words. Over and over. As long as they want. Whenever they want. The idea grates like broken glass.
“Why am I here, Tinnie?” I ask, even though I already have my guesses.
“To understand why this matters.”
“Enlighten me. Because right now, all I see is a girl who knows how to hold a needle.” And make me ditch my own rules with a single look.
“Because she makes you look good. The media isn’t running clips of you playing or smashing a guy into the glass. They’re running this.” She gestures at the frozen frame on the screen—me with my arm around Jessica, her smiling up at me like I hung the moon.
I keep my face still. Inside, heat crawls down my spine.
“People love her,” Tinnie continues. “She’s wholesome. Approachable. She’s exactly the image we need to counterbalance yours.”
“Counterbalance?” My eyebrows shoot up. “You make it sound like I’m a fucking liability.”
Her look says exactly that.
“And this helps us how?” I ask, sharp.
“This helps you, Dom. Playoffs are around the corner. Every headline matters. Every audience matters. And right now, Jessica Brooks is the gateway to an audience you’ve never touched. She opens doors. She makes sponsors comfortable. She makes you look more approachable.”
“I’m not trying to be approachable.”
“And that’s the problem,” one of her assistants blurts.
