She’s not supposed to be in my hotel room. That’s the rule. But she’s sitting on my counter in that damn uniform, legs swinging, hair still curled from halftime like she didn’t just break six contracts walking in here. “You gonna say something,” she asks, “or just keep staring at me like you forgot how this works?” I toss my jersey on the chair, slam the door shut behind me. “No, I remember exactly how this works. We f*ck up, we both get benched. Fired. Blacklisted.” She shrugs like her heart’s never pounded over me. “Then don’t let them find out.” And when she pulls me in by the collar like she owns me? Yeah. I stop caring who finds out.