The Red Carpet

Jaxson

I hated tuxedos.

They felt like a cage designed to keep a man from moving his shoulders, which, when you spent your entire life throwing body checks on the ice, was a miserable sensation.

"Stop pulling at the collar, Reed," Liam, my agent, said as we stood in the holding area outside the university’s grand ballroom.

“The photographers from the Standard are right outside. The network has a dedicated livestream feed running on the homepage. Smile. Look like a man who isn't staring down a potential grand jury indictment."

"The university deferred the charges, Liam," I muttered, checking my cuffs

.

"The university deferred the internal campus discipline," Liam corrected me sharply, his voice dropping.

“The donor's lawyers are still pushing the city police to file a formal misdemeanor assault charge. This gala tonight? This reality show? It’s the only thing keeping the DA from signing that warrant. If the public loves you, the DA won't touch you. If the public thinks you're a thug, you're done. So when Summer Brooks walks through that door, you treat her like she's the center of your universe."

The heavy oak doors at the back of the hall swung open.

I turned, expecting the usual media circus. Instead, the room seemed to go entirely quiet.

Summer stepped into the light. The midnight-blue dress she was wearing was simple, but on her, it looked devastating.

Her dark hair was styled in soft waves that hit her bare shoulders, and the sharp, defiant line of her jaw was accentuated by the subtle silver earrings she wore.

She didn't walk with the practiced, swinging gait of the influencers Sarah usually hired; she walked with her head held high, her eyes scanning the room like a general evaluating a battlefield.

I found myself moving toward her before Liam could even give me a nudge.

"Brooks," I said, stopping a foot away.

She looked up at me, her dark eyes flashing under the crystal chandeliers.

For a second, the cool, professional mask she always wore slipped, and I saw a quick, involuntary flash of appreciation in her gaze as she looked at the tailored black tuxedo.

"Reed," she replied, her voice steady.

“You actually cleaned up well. I didn't think it was possible."

"Don't get used to it," I murmured, offering her my arm. "The shoes are killing me."

A small, genuine smile touched her lips—the first real smile she had ever given me without a camera prompt.

“Good. A little humility is healthy for your ego."

As her hand slid into the crook of my elbow, her touch felt light but incredibly grounding.

The heavy silk of her dress brushed against my trousers, and the clean scent of her perfume something like rain and vanilla instantly cleared the stale, corporate air of the holding room.

"Listen," I said, leaning down slightly so only she could hear me over the rising chatter of the arrivals.

“Vanessa is already inside. I saw her name on the seating chart. She’s at table four. With us."

Summer’s grip on my arm tightened just a fraction.

“I know. Chloe told me. Are you going to be okay?"

I paused, surprised by the question. "Me? I'm

worried about you. Sarah's going to try to paint you into a corner tonight."

"Let her try," Summer said, her chin lifting with that fierce, stubborn pride I had grown to look for.

“I’ve spent three years tearing down arrogant men in print, Jaxson. A reality TV producer isn't going to break me."

"Alright, people! Cue the entrance!" a production assistant shouted from the doorway.

The double doors opened to the main ballroom, and a blinding wall of camera flashes hit us like a physical blow.

The roar of the crowd, the shouting of reporters, the blinding light—it all rushed in at once.

But as I led Summer forward onto the red carpet, my hand moving to cover hers where it rested on my arm, I realized something terrifying: I wasn't playing a part anymore.

I wanted her next to me.