Chapter Six

Miles

M y lips are permanently arranged in the shape of a smile.

They don't know how else to exist, as though their corners are perpetually strummed up to my cheeks. Whether that's the consequence or the evidence of a happy childhood, I'm not sure. Although I like to think it's both, it is probably neither.

In the days that passed since the night spent in Zoe's company, however, they felt it. My lips felt that smile, and they carried it shamelessly.

I wouldn't try to pretend the reason isn't Zoe Westwood.

It's been days since I last saw her. I searched for her—I always do, sometimes unaware what I'm searching for until my eyes land on her and just stop, struck by her. And if they don't find her, disappointment sets in. Frustratingly, I think I will always scan every room hoping to find her.

But I haven't seeked her. I want nothing more than to be close to her and learn everything about her until I know her with my eyes closed. I know she needs a break, though. She needs space to breathe and time to process our shifting dynamic and, hopefully, recognize that I'm not the devil she's so sure I am.

That was my first mistake. Well, one of my first mistakes.

I've been suffocating her. For months on end, I've pestered and provoked Zoe with loaded words and tantalizing smirks. A beggar for any scrap of her attention—and hating myself for it, too. Starved, I survived on the only thing she gave me, and her poison became the fuel of my blood.

It's intoxicating.

Everyone else gets practiced smiles and clipped words and the bored blink of her lashes. She's ice: polished and impenetrable.

With me, she's proof that ice burns, too—and still, I can't let go. She can burn me to the bone, and still, I wouldn't be able to open my hand and let go.

I find solace in the fact that I seem to be the only one able to make the ice queen lose her composure. That I can disrupt her rigid balance just a little—like she has disrupted my life since the moment I saw her. She's taken possession of my entire mental space, uninvited and unapologetic, painting her pretty face with vibrant watercolors on the forefront of my skull. Every time I close my eyes, it's her portrait I see.

Like I was grieving something that never started, and acceptance wasn't the final stage. Revenge was, petty as that is.

So, again and again, I've done it—resorted to the dumbest tactic in the playbook, pulling the pigtails of the prettiest girl on the playground because I like her too much. And I hate that I don't stand a chance with her.

It kept some semblance of sanity in all the weeks and months on end I've lain awake and alone as I reevaluated all my truths and questioned my choices. As I told myself lies upon lies.

The evidence of it is right there in my eagerness to jump at the first—and tiniest—possibility to make her mine. Of the countless false prayers I repeated to myself in feeble attempts to evict her from my head, while hoping beyond hope for a way to change our circumstances.

And then… Then, our world collapsed and collided and created the perfect disaster.

It was wrong, what I did. There's no other way to go about it. I should never have touched Zoe without her express consent.

Yet…

Yet, for all the remorse that plagues me, what I can't regret is the consequences. Of all the ways I'd sought to change the status quo, I could never have orchestrated a predicament that gave me all the things I wanted in all the wrong ways.

I still can't quite believe Zoe said yes. I was sure of her resounding rejection, while still a little hopeful, against my own good sense. Hope is a sneaky thing like that. Self-sufficient, it survives all on its own against my will, uncaring of odds or possibilities or impossibilities.

But she said yes. As reluctant as it was, she said yes.

So, it's time I stop lying to myself and own the truth—and fight.

I've been at her feet from the first time I saw her, longing, in secret and in silence, for the day she'd see me; for the day she'd give any small scrap of herself to me.

I should have shown her, instead. I should have fought for every single piece of her .

I'm not much of a believer in fate or deity—and I won't put my mistake on third hands—but this feels like a second chance—one I won't waste.

So I needed some space, too. Precisely because I never want any more space between us—and I can't make any mistake that might blow up our careful balance.

Unsure of the protocol when it comes to flighty fake girlfriends, I decided that three days should be enough.

Either way, I won't wait any longer. I'll give her the space she needs, but I won't leave her to navigate the inevitable ramifications from the popularity of our relationship.

I tip my head back under the spray, feeling the warm water wash away the sweat of a game down the drain. Securing the towel around my waist, I hurry, wishing I could teleport to her in the blink of an eye.

Among the chaos of a happy locker room, I chuckle as I watch the newbie, Leo, struggling to reach his boat shoes hanging from the high ceiling.

It can be a heavy environment on the days when losses or injuries haunt us even off the field—we have to shoulder them until the next game.

On the days we succeed, joy and pranks and bursts of boisterous laughter can be heard from the other side of the stadium.

The pranks are part of the welcoming party and last until we get bored. Poor Leo. If there's one thing about adult athletes, it's that we don't get bored of these childish antics.

I sit and check my phone. Not many people have my number, but I find a few text messages waiting.

My mom, always the first one. I smile, though I don't type. She knows I'll call her on my way home. It's our ritual; a religious video chat in which she repeats over and over how proud she is.

Something from my father too, gone with a swipe. Some old friends from high school and college, and my manager.

Charles : Great game. Keep it up and the sharks will be on your door.

I shoot him a quick thank you, glad he didn't mention meeting Zoe—and praying he wouldn't follow up with the same demand again. Or anytime soon. He has a lot of opinions and as many words— too many—about my girlfriend. Particularly her job. Since the kiss that never happened, he's become a reliable warning about being wary of whom I trust—that I should be careful sharing a bed with the enemy.

Much to my dismay, we're not sharing beds.

Yet , hopefully.

Although Zoe being a spy would explain her unexpected acceptance of my pretend proposal…

The cotton is efficient, soaking the roaming droplets of water from my skin in record time. I forgo half of the products I would normally apply, pulling my pants on as I half listen to one of the new picks going on a passionate ramble about some video game I've never heard of. To be fair, I've never been a fan of such games, either.

"In a rush, Blackstein?" Davis raises a brow at me as he gathers his toiletries for the showers.

He's a good captain, always putting his neck on the line for the team, though his attitude towards our adversaries isn't one I fully understand. Provocative and bloodthirsty, he thrives on instigation and aggression, a version of passion that I don't believe belongs in soccer.

"Of course, he is," Gus, the goalie, pipes from his seat. He hasn't even taken his jersey off, too busy smirking at his phone. "Can't make the lady wait," he quips slyly.

I show him the most famous finger, without looking up from the laces I'm tying. If I see his face, I'll remember him on the sidelines, beaming at my girlfriend as he answered her questions like they were old friends in a cafe rather than professionals performing their duties.

He doesn't even like interviews—none of us do—yet these days they all seem to have a lot to tell the press.

But Zoe is my girlfriend. If there is anyone she should interview, it is me.

"Have you seen her?" asks Collins, the resident jerk. My back straightens, locked and alert. "I wouldn't keep her waiting either."

"Oh, yeah. Me neither." Leo interrupts before I can snap, infamous boat shoes now in his hands as he fiddles with the laces, struggling to untie the several knots of the intricate prank.

I'm about to snatch the damn shoes from his hands and beat him with them, but his hands rise fast in apology. "She kinda scares me, man! She's terrifying."

Something about that statement makes me fucking proud of my girl—and pisses me off on her behalf at the same time.

I grab a shoe and hit him across the head.

There's a point to make.

"Keep my girl's name out of your mouths."

My voice is heavy with warning. It drips from every syllable, so it permeates the air and penetrates every pair of ears in the room. The light mood dies to match my mood as I address the room.

"Keep her name out of your mouths. Keep her face out of your heads. In fact, erase it from your memories or I might feel more generous than usual and do it for you."

Cheery chaos evaporates as a stunned stillness settles, a heavy silence.

I am not the man they know.

Miles Blackstein is all charming grins and silly jokes, cheerful and easygoing and unbothered. He never takes anything seriously, much less personally.

This one, this growly protective version, is new. So they gauge, measuring the seriousness of my threat, unsure how to respond.

I've never been a violent person, but this is non-negotiable. I'm fluent in locker room talk—and Zoe will not be the main topic within these walls. Most of the guys toe the line between playful and respectfully offensive, having long outgrown the pimpled teenage phase where misogyny was cool. But some of them seem content to never grow up.

"Would you look at that?" Gus's chuckle slices through the tension. "Looks like the man finally found his balls."

His joke would have sounded offensive coming from any other guy, but from him, I see it for what it is. An attempt to defuse the quiet pounding in my chest, each heartbeat a tick on my jaw counting down the seconds before I blow up and obliterate a healthy team to rubble.

"He does have a use for them now," Davis adds with a contemplative tilt of his head.

"Yeah, maybe she found them." Fucking Collins has to open his fucking mouth again, and if he doesn't shut it right fucking now, his tongue might be mopping the dirty floor with his bleached hair. "Must've been an exhausting exploration, with how far up they were stuck. Poor Zo— "

He doesn't get to the last syllable of her name before I'm on him, his navy jersey crumpled in my fists. We're pretty similar in height, a matter of centimeters and blind rage separating us. I'm bigger.

"I won't fucking say it again, Collins." My biceps strain with tension as I push the sentences through gritted teeth. "Say her name one more time and you might not finish the season."

He tilts his head in victory, pleased to have goaded from the reaction he desired with his incendiary words. If it's a game to him, I couldn't care less that I played right into his hand as long as I've gotten my point across.

Around us, the team watches the scene unfold, unwilling to pick sides.

I unfist his jersey, his smirk stuttering as he staggers back when I shove him.

"Great game, my people!" Andrew Bass storms in with clapping hands as though he belongs here with his unwrinkled suit and meticulously styled hair. "Great work, team. Proud of you."

Blindly, I reach for a shirt, still pulling it on as I cross the room. I need out of this fucking place, and yesterday would've been too late.

Apparently, it's not my lucky day. One second after the heavy door slams shut behind me, it creaks open again.

"Miles B.!"

With remnants of untempered rage threatening to reignite, I pretend I didn't hear him with the fuss back in the room. For both of our sakes.

He's undeterred, though, quickening to match the hasty pace of my escape .

"The star of the night! There's got to be a lot of knocking at your door." It's a half-assed attempt to get any intel.

"Bass," I sound flippant to my own ears, a blatant dismissal—one he disregards. "Rest assured, I'm focused on the game."

"Good, good. Keep it up and there'll be a chubby contract waiting for you at the end of the season."

Silence answers him as he waits for the hint of a response, confirmation or denial, but he's met only by the tap of my sneakers against concrete.

Bass resorts to an unsubtle switch of gears. "Between you and me, the president's been pushing to seal you sooner than later. We should get lunch this week, talk a little ab—"

"My agent deals with that stuff," I interrupt.

It's rude, but I can't muster the energy to make myself care.

My mom would be disappointed. The thought is sobering, and I conclude I need to get out of this damn place right this moment.

Before he can get another probing word out, I end the conversation. "Gotta go. See you."

Hopefully not soon.

Bass seems to get the hint, finally leaving me alone. I welcome the walk to shake the red fog obfuscating my mind, clenching and unclenching my fists to purge the tension strumming my shoulders.

As I round the final corner, the sharpness of crisp air ruffles the tips of my wet hair, carrying with it the voices mingling in conversation and the faint scent of wet grass.

Instantly, my eyes find her. Like a moth to a flame, they always find her first. Zoe seems to be the only thing I can always see so clearly, whether in a room crowded with people or a stadium full of fans .

She's clad in a two-piece slate gray suit, the strapless asymmetric top landing lower over her hip on one side, her slender shoulders now covered by a straight blazer.

Rivulets of dark, inky hair fall lusciously down her back in waves, a curtain that conceals the black backpack she carries, whose straps she sinks her nails into.

She laughs and…

Fuck.

She laughs and everything quietens and stills and strains to hear the sound.

My heart holds its breath, and my eyes slow to blink in order to memorize the sultry lilt of her lips and the subtle rasp that caresses my skin into tender goosebumps.

It doesn't matter that she's laughing with another guy.