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Pausing, I swallow, mentally searching for a way to reset the balance between us. Eventually, I glance back over my shoulder and settle on, “Oh, and try not to throw yourself at me, if you can. I doubt smeared lipstick on my face would be a good look for the photos.” The look she gives me should peel the skin from my bones, and I duck out before she finds something to throw.

Outside, the driver is standing back beside the limo, his black suit immaculate and expression blank. I move to stand beside him, checking the time on my watch. Shortly after, the driver checks his, and not so long after that, my phone starts buzzing. I ignore my father’s calls, but I do read the message that follows.

Father: I expect a united front between the two of you. Ensure Miss O’Connor understands the tone of the evening.

I almost laugh. He should be praising me for getting her to turn up at all. Besides, I’ll give Meg the benefit of knowing exactly how these functions work. She knows exactly what it means to be dressed up and put on display for the academy’s sake. Securing funding and sponsors is half of the battle when championing a college sport. Finally, the temporary athletic block door opens, and every bitter thought in my head goes silent.

Meg steps out in a vision of red. For a moment, all I can do is stare. The dress clings to her like a second skin, satin catching the fading light, the slit revealing a long stretch of leg with each careful step. Her hair is twisted into a sleek knot at the nape of her neck, makeup minimal, and her mouth bare. I smirk at her contempt for my lipstick comment. It takes everything in me to remain leaning against the limo, to not close the distance between us and tell her she looks beautiful. Because, fuck me, she looks beautiful.

Lifting her chin defiantly, Meg strides closer with small stomps of her heels. She’s furious, so stunningly furious. Opening the rear door before the driver can, I offer her my hand and then twist when she tries to punch me in the dick. A genuine smile stretches across my face, much to our driver’s confusion, and I climb into the back seat behind her.

The car pulls away from Hollowbrook, carrying us toward lights, cameras, and another performance neither of us asked for. I wish the journey was longer. That I could simply sit beside her, not speaking, not acting, not thinking.

However, the closer we get to our destination, the more I notice Meg tense, her fingers fidgeting with the slit in her dress. I remove the tie from my pocket and busy my hands knotting it around my neck so I don’t do something stupid like reach for her. She doesn't want me, doesn’t even like me. The notion that I would be her comfort is ridiculous, yet as I spot the first flash of a camera up ahead, I know that’s exactly what I’m prepared to do.

We slow to a stop, the driver opening the rear door, and that’s when it starts. Flash after flash, shouts and questions being yelled over one another. I slip out first, blocking the doorway with my body to give Meg one second to adjust. That’s all I’m able to afford her.

The courtyard has been transformed. Ivy-covered walls have been draped with warm lights, a red carpet laid down the center, framed by velvet ropes intended to hold the photographers. However, they stretch so far forward that the ropes seem obsolete. Straight ahead through an arched entrance and lingering around a makeshift stage, sponsors, alumni, donors, and selected press mingle. Although it’s the servers drifting in between with trays of champagne that capture my attention. Alcohol, that’s what we need.

Stepping aside, I offer Meg my hand, and this time she takes it. Her fingers close around mine with more force than necessary, and I let her use me for balance. Her palm is warm and tense, her body angled half a degree toward mine before she catches herself.

Outwardly, I remain relaxed. Captain Calloway, polished and bored, with one hand guiding his co-captain forward. Inwardly, every protective instinct I didn’t know I possessed sets on high alert. The photographers shout for us, but I filter out the noise, listening to her breath instead. She’s breathing rapidly, but there’s no quiver in the sound. She’s not broken just yet.

Guiding Meg along the carpet, I place us where the light is best and the angles are kindest. She lets me position her, which tells me more about her discomfort than any confession ever could. Meg doesn’t surrender unless the alternative is worse. My hand settles at her lower back, gentle enough to be removed if she wishes it but firm enough to provide her subtle cues. She pushes back against me, and I withhold a shudder.

Her responsiveness does something intrinsic to my brain, making me want to whisk her away and tell her how much of a good fucking girl she is. Instead, I remain where we are, tilting my head inwards to mutter instructions into her ear.

Turn, pause, stand tall, smile, look left, breathe.

I don’t intentionally try to make the movement appear intimate, but the cameras eat it up anyway. The golden boy and the fallen captain, a rivalry turned into a relationship. My father will be thrilled. Someone calls my name, and I pivot us together, fingers pressing once at her spine. She moves with me as if we’ve rehearsed it, and I can envision the headlines now. Natural chemistry, strong leadership presence, united front.

Guiltily, I bask in the attention for longer than I should. As soon as we step out of the bright flashes, Meg will have no need for me anymore, but right now, right this second, she’s leaning into me, her hand gripping the back of my jacket. Meg’s smile remains tight, her body stiff and responses wooden, but she makes it through, allowing me to guide her towards the panel room when I can’t stall anymore.

We’re led through the ivy-walled entrance into a room dressed in black and gold, sponsor logos flanking the academy crest behind a raised platform. Rows of white chairs fill the space, someone announcing it’s time to take our seats. Dean Colt welcomes us, her professional smile pinned into place, and Coach Collingwood nods once.

Leading her onto the stage, Meg sits with her ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap and spine straight enough to look painful. I take the chair beside her, calling on my years of training to look like I was born in front of a camera. Resting one ankle over the opposite knee, I drape my arm along the back of Meg’s seat casually. Close enough that she can lean back if she needs me, distant enough that no one can accuse me of caring too much. That’s the line I walk now. Protection disguised as arrogance.

Dean Colt welcomes everyone, introduces the new unisex program, speaks on collaboration, opportunity, and excellence, before handing the floor over to the leeches gripping notepads in front of us. I mean, journalists. I always get those two confused.

“Captain Calloway, what should people expect from this new leadership dynamic?”

“Will the roster restructure affect the championship strategy?”

“Are you aiming for the title this season?”

The questions roll in, and I answer them in turn. It’s boring within its predictability. Just as expected, I sell them a vision of high standards and shared responsibility, promising to make Hollowbrook stronger. Meg chimes in when prompted, her face angled toward me more often than not. I don’t make the mistake of believing it’s because she trusts me, but more because she prefers the devil she knows.

To my pleasant surprise, we make it through the bulk of the interrogation without any blood being shed, metaphorically speaking. Meg’s focus drifts, but that’s okay. Her blue eyes remain open and her posture unchanged, even if her breathing does alter. I pick up on the shallow hitch, her focus starting to glaze over. Discreetly, I lower my hand onto her thigh. Not intimately or possessively, but just to provide a quiet, physical anchor. Meg flinches anyway, and I pray no one noticed. That’s the last thing we need plastered all over the papers.

I continue speaking as if nothing happened, though my attention is now split between the questions being asked and the girl beside me about to fall into the depths of a panic attack. Every time I try to round the questioning up, or to catch the Dean’s eye to indicate we’re done here, another reporter pipes up. Shifting forward, ready to stand, a man in the front row raises his hand.

“Miss O’Connor, one final question, if you don’t mind.” I mind, lifting my hand to signal that the moderator should cut him off, but she doesn’t. Meg shifts, giving the tiniest incline of her head. “Do you have any concerns about a mental relapse in the height of championship season?”

Everything inside of me freezes. I note the blood draining from Meg’s face, her fingers curling tighter in her lap. I open my mouth and then close it again, my mind at war with the pounding of my heart. Would Meg want me to answer for her, or would she accuse me of taking away her voice? During my hesitation, Meg fumbles with a few broken syllables until another journalist jumps in from further back.

“You’re referencing your kidnapping. The individual responsible still hasn’t been apprehended. Does that uncertainty affect your sense of safety? Do you worry he might attempt contact again?” Cameras lift higher, the story they’ve all been waiting for coming to life beneath the spotlights.

“Do you believe he’ll come back?” another journalist calls out. Meg goes red, her chest falling and rising heavily within the dress that should empower her, not make her a spectacle. Grabbing her hand in her lap, my eyes narrow at the crowd.