I don't follow her or try to explain. What could I say? Riley is off-limits to the media, to the public, to anyone outside my innermost circle. If Avery pulls away because I won't reveal this part of my life, then so be it—though something in me hopes she won't.
For the thousandth time, I question whether keeping Riley sheltered from the media's relentless scrutiny is the right call. My gut says yes. But am I really willing to walk away from whatever this is with Avery—just to maintain my sister's privacy for a few more years?
The memory of my parents' funeral flashes through my mind—photographers with telephoto lenses capturing our grief from across the cemetery, Riley's face splashed across tabloids the next day: "Orphaned Siblings of NFL Rookie." She was just a child then, clutching my hand as I tried toshield her from their invasive stares. I'd made a promise that day—no one would exploit her pain again.
My room is past Avery's. As I approach her door, I slow my steps. Is she standing just inside, fuming and waiting to see if I'll knock? Or has she already buried herself in work, pretending our moment never happened?
"Don't bother trying anything else with me," her voice carries through the door.
I can't help but smile. She was waiting, listening for my footsteps.
"I mean it, Jaxon."
The fact that she's standing there, monitoring my approach, tells me everything I need to know. She's irritated but not truly angry about seeing a woman's name light up my phone.
I step closer to her door. "Oh, you think I was going to knock? To beg for an audience with the woman who seems to love jumping to conclusions?" The teasing comes naturally with her, different from the practiced charm I use for cameras and fans.
The door swings open. She stands there with her suit jacket discarded, the silk blouse and fitted skirt showcasing every curve. One hand rests on her hip, the other grips the door.
She snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Eyes up here, mister."
But there's no real fire behind her words.
"Well?" she asks, equal parts curious and indignant.
She's an enigma—sometimes melting into me, sometimes building walls higher than any defensive line I've faced. I've spent years reading opponents on the field, but Avery? She keeps me off-balance in a way that's both frustrating and exhilarating.
"I can't disclose personal phone calls, if that's what you'reasking." The words taste bitter—another secret, another wall between us.
She rolls her eyes with such theatrical flair that I laugh. "Convenient." Her posture stiffens. "You know what? I don't care. But no more kissing me in elevators." She wags a finger at me like I'm a misbehaving rookie.
"What about outside of elevators?"
"What about this: no."
She moves to close the door.
"Avery."
Something in my tone makes her pause. God, she's stunning when she's angry—eyes bright and challenging, cheeks flushed with color that spreads down her neck. I take a deliberate step forward, testing her boundaries the way I test a defensive coverage.
A soft sound escapes her lips as she presses her thighs together—a tell I'm learning to recognize.
"You want help with that?" I ask, my voice dropping an octave as my gaze drifts down to where I'd give anything to taste her.
For a heartbeat, I think she might surrender. Then she sighs.
"No."
That single syllable stings worse than any blindside hit I've taken.
"No?"
She shakes her head, resolve hardening in those expressive eyes. "I can't trust you. And that's a nonstarter for me, even for a...hookup."
Ouch. She's not wrong. I am deliberately keeping part of my life hidden from her. But it's not what she thinks. It's not about protecting my image or my career—it's about protecting the one person who matters most.
"It's not what you imagine. Is that enough to change your mind?"
