BLINDSIDE

Julio’s POV

"Don't be bloody ridiculous, Julio," Sierra says sharply in answer to my prying question, acting like nothing is wrong but  Sierra’s hand digs into my bicep so hard I can feel her nails biting straight through the custom wool of my tuxedo jacket.

I’ve spent the last ten years of my life reading body language on the ice. I know the exact, micro-second shift in a defenseman’s posture before he tries to pin me against the glass. I know what fear looks like, and I know what a threat looks like.

Now I don't think that man was a paramore.

It's like she’s looking at a predator.

"Sierra?" My hand, resting on the back of her emerald silk dress, tightens against the small of her back. "I'm asking again. Who is that?"

"And I'm telling you again, Hayes. No one," she breathes, her voice thin and completely devoid of its usual razor-sharp edge. Her fingers are still white-knuckling my jacket. "The flashes...they're um...it’s just a panic attack."

It’s a terrible lie. Sierra Rosso doesn't panic. She calculates, she argues, and she threatens to break my thumb when I touch her waist. She doesn't drain of all color because a camera went off.

I don't argue with her. I don't have time to. I simply pivot my shoulders, using my six-foot-two frame to physically block her line of sight to the elevated VIP lounge where Marcus Stirling is standing.

"Walk with me," I murmur, slanting my body to guide her toward the quiet perimeter near the brass-topped bar. "Just keep your eyes on me."

We don't even make it ten feet.

"Mr. Hayes. A spectacular performance against North Dakota last weekend."

The voice sounds like grinding gravel under heavy boots.

A man steps directly out of the shadows near a marble pillar, cutting off our path with a casual precision that tells me he’s done this a thousand times. He’s tall, broad-shouldered beneath a dark trench coat, and carries himself with the quiet, rigid discipline of former military or high-end corporate security. A thick, faded scar slices through the left side of his jawline.

Every protective instinct in my chest flares up. I step slightly ahead of Sierra, keeping her half-shielded behind my shoulder while maintaining a smooth, unbothered posture for the three photographers trailing us.

"Thanks," I say, throwing on the easy, arrogant grin I give to every scout and booster who wants a piece of my time. "Just trying to put pucks in the net."

The man doesn't smile back. His pale, dead-eyed gaze glides right past me and locks onto Sierra.

"And this must be the law student I've heard so much about," he says softly. His hands remain casually tucked in the pockets of his coat, but his stance is weighted, ready. "Ms. Rosso, isn't it? Corporate liability research must be exhausting work for a third-year student."

Beside me, Sierra’s entire body goes rigid as concrete. I can feel her pulse hammering like a frantic bird against the inside of her wrist where it’s pressed against my side.

He isn't guessing. He knows her name, her major, and exactly what she’s been digging into.

"She's brilliant," I interject sharply, cutting him off before Sierra can open her mouth. My tone isn't playful anymore; it’s a warning, wrapped in the smooth armor of a public figure who knows fifty people are watching us. "But tonight, she’s completely off the clock."

"Of course," the man replies, taking a slow step forward. "I only meant—"

He doesn't get to finish the sentence.

I know how to control a crowd, and I know how to kill an interview when the questions get dangerous. If this guy wants a show, I’m going to give him one that pulls every camera in the room directly onto us and forces him to back the hell away, because whoever this prick is, Sierra doesn't like him and I'm not going to stand here and watch him intimidate her.

I turn to Sierra, cup the side of her neck with my right hand, and pull her hard against my chest.

Her eyes widen in a second of pure shock, but before she can draw a breath, I tilt her head up and crash my mouth down on hers.

It’s calculated. It’s clause three of Vance’s stupid PR contract. It’s meant to look like an impulsive, passionate move from a star athlete who can't keep his hands off his girlfriend.

Then her lips part beneath mine, and the entire room disappears.

The roar of the ballroom, the clinking champagne flutes, the blinding white flashbulbs—it all turns to static. Sierra gasps against my mouth, a soft, sharp intake of air, and her fingers tangle into the lapels of my suit jacket. She isn't pushing me away. She’s holding on.

She tastes like dark cherries and expensive wine. The silk of her dress is burning hot beneath my palm, and the softness of her body pressed flush against mine short-circuits every logical thought in my head. What was supposed to be a five-second stunt turns into something deep, heavy, and terrifyingly unscripted. My thumb traces the soft skin of her jawline, angling her face closer, deepening the kiss until I hear an audible gasp from a reporter nearby.

By the time I finally pull back, my heart is hammering against my ribs like I’ve just skated a triple-overtime shift.

Sierra is breathing heavily, her lips flushed red, her dark eyes wide and fixed on mine. For a second, the icy, guarded law student is completely gone, replaced by someone utterly undone. And she's completely gorgeous.

I force myself to break eye contact, turning a razor-sharp smirk toward the scarred operative.

"If you'll excuse us," I say, my voice raspy and thick. "My girlfriend needs some fresh air."