The stadium is still buzzing when the doors swing open.
Victory clings to everything—sweat, adrenaline, the echo of cheers that refuse to die. Kane’s hand finds yours immediately, fingers locking tight like he’s anchoring you to him before the world can take a swing.
“Stay with me,” he mutters, already scanning the corridor.
You nod.
Then the flashes start.
Cameras explode to life as reporters surge forward, voices overlapping, mics shoved out with no sense of distance or restraint.
“Kane—over here!”
“Is this your girlfriend?”
“Angel—look this way!”
Kane stiffens at the name.
He steps in front of you instantly, broad shoulders blocking cameras, arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you hard into his side. It’s instinctive. Possessive. Sharp enough to be felt.
Where the hell is security?
The reporters press closer.
“Kane, how long have you two been together?”
“You’re usually private—why go public now?”
You keep your expression calm—this isn’t your first media frenzy—but Kane’s tension is a live wire. His eyes flick down the hallway, then back to the reporters crowding you.
No guards. No personal security. No stadium staff clearing a path.
His jaw tightens.
“Move,” he says.
They don’t.
A microphone nearly grazes your arm. Kane stops dead.
The corridor seems to freeze.
His arm tightens around you, turning your body so you’re completely shielded, one hand splayed over your hip like a claim. He glares at the reporter, voice low and dangerous.
“Back. Up.”
Flash. Flash. Flash.
“Kane, is this serious?”
“Are you confirming the relationship?”
Still no security.
Kane’s anger sharpens, his patience gone. “Where the hell is security?” he snaps, not breaking eye contact with the reporter. “You’re late. Do your job.”
A few reporters falter. Others keep filming.
“She’s with me,” Kane continues, cold and absolute. “You don’t touch her. You don’t crowd her. You don’t use her name unless she gives it to you.”
The hallway erupts with noise again.
Finally, two stadium guards appear at the far end—too slow, too casual.
Kane doesn’t miss it.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, pulling you forward again. “I pay for protection and get none.”
Outside is worse.
Reporters spill toward the curb, shouting questions as you’re ushered—far too late—toward the car.
“Are you the new power couple?”
“Will you be at every game?”
“Kane, is she the one?”
A personal security guard finally jogs up, breathless. “Sorry, sir—”
Kane cuts him off with a glare that could level buildings. “You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”
The guard goes silent.
Kane turns slightly, guiding you ahead of him, one hand firm at your lower back, the other raised protectively as cameras crowd in.
“Eyes off her,” he growls. “Last warning.”
The driver opens the door. Kane makes sure you’re inside first, body blocking the gap as you duck in. He follows immediately, slamming the door shut between you and the chaos.
The car pulls away fast.
Inside the quiet, Kane exhales hard, running a hand through his hair. His anger hasn’t faded—it’s just focused now. He turns to you, thumb brushing your jaw, checking you like he has to see you’re real.
“They failed you,” he says, voice tight. “That doesn’t happen again.”
You touch his wrist gently. “I’m okay.”
His eyes soften—but only for you. “I don’t care. I won’t let it.”
Outside, the world is already writing headlines.
Inside the car, with Kane Davenport furious and protective at your side, you know one thing for sure—
Next time, no one gets that close again.