"PR's been watching you two. Wesley cornered me earlier."
That gets my attention. "What did he want?"
"To know if you'd behave yourself if they assigned her to shadow you for that new program."
Ice slides down my spine. "What did you tell him?"
"That you're a grown-ass man who can keep it in his pants for the sake of your career." He gives me a pointed look. "Please tell me that's true."
I don't answer. Across the room, Avery's nodding at something Thompson is saying. Her lips—lips I was just kissing—press into a thin line.
"Jax," Hawk warns. "Tell me nothing happened."
"Nothing happened." The lie comes easily.
Wesley appears, clapping me on the shoulder. "Carter! There you are. We need to talk about the shadow program."
"Not interested," I say flatly.
"It's not optional." His smile is all teeth. "Board's orders. Every star player gets paired with a journalist for six weeks. Inside access, personal stories, the works."
"And you want to pair me with Monroe?"
Wesley's smile tightens. "She's the best. And you're our biggest star. It's a natural fit."
I think about Avery in my space. In my home. Around Riley. The risk is unacceptable.
"Find someone else."
"Can't. It's already decided." Wesley lowers his voice. "Look, Carter, this isn't a request. The league needs good press after last season's scandals. You play ball with this, or there will be consequences."
He walks away before I can argue further.
Across the room, Avery looks up. Our eyes meet. For a second, I see the same heat from the balcony—then she looks away, saying something to Thompson that makes the older woman nod approvingly.
Whatever just happened between us, whatever this is—it's about to get a lot more complicated.
CHAPTER 5
AVERY
Ilove chocolate chip muffins.I inhale the warm gooey-ness as I take a huge bite.
"And that's why the Phantom's PR team chose you to shadow the team!" Ann announces.
I choke, muffin lodging in my throat as Juan pats my back.
"Ah, good, I see you're excited about this!" Ann's smile doesn't reach her eyes.
"No," I croak.
"Excuse me?" She arches a pencil-thin brow.
"No!" I repeat.
Her eyes turn steely. "I'm not sure you understand what you're being offered." She rises from the conference table, commanding the room. I gulp.
"The NYC Phantoms made it to the Super Bowl finals last year," she says, pacing. "Finals," she repeats with emphasis.
