I can’t fucking breathe.
“Do you think he’d be proud of you?” Matt presses, invisible venom tucked behind the question.
“Yes,” I mutter.
I feel my anger and my guilt, all one fuse, ready to blow. I know exactly what he’s doing. I know he’s setting me up. And yet, it still slices right through me. It still hurts, even when it comes from someone I have literally zero respect for. Matt tilts his head like he’s curious, like he’s not gutting me like a fish for the camera.
“Is that where the drive comes from?” he asks, still pretending this is a real interview. “Do you play for yourself? Or the brother you couldn’t save?”
I choke down everything I want to say—every ugly word.
“I play for everyone who has believed in me,” I say quietly.
It’s the truth. But it’s not what he wants to hear.
“So,” he says, stretching the word out as he pulls out photos of me from team events over the years. “You’ve been busy over the years. Models. Actresses.”
I go rigid. He’s baiting me. He’s bringing up the worst shit on purpose. Every headline, every assumption, he’s throwing them all back in my face.
Fucking Christ, I want to deck him.
“Different time in my life,” I mutter, voice low.
“And now?” he says, smile turning sly. “You’re putting in the best numbers of your career. Something must have shifted in your life. Someone serious, maybe?”
He leans in like a shark that’s smelled blood.
Every pivot Addison taught me runs through my head.No comment. Just focused on the team.
But then he looks at me, and something about it just slithers under my skin. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The room feels completely dark.
And then I flub it. The words come out before I can even pull them back.
“No one special,” I hear myself say.
Fuck.
As soon as it comes out, my stomach feels sick.
Because it’s a fucking lie.
She’s not just someone special.
She’severything.
Matt’s eyes gleam, like he’s congratulating himself on getting exactly the soundbite he wanted. I sit there, furious—at him, and at myself.
The second the cameras cut, Matt’s out of his chair, dusting off his jacket like he’s just put in some stellar award-worthy performance.
“A lot of touchy subjects in your life, Bradshaw. I had a lot of fun digging into your past. Single mother. Dead brother,” he says, clicking his tongue. “What a sad story.”
Before I even know what I’m doing, I’m grabbing him by the front of his shirt and slamming him back against the wall. His eyes flicker with surprise, but then he grins even wider. He loves it. Fucking loves it.
“Don’t you ever say my brother’s name again,” I snarl.
Like I can still do something.
Like I can still protect him.
