Chapter 5

Ethan

By the next evening, every major sports outlet in Europe had turned our photograph into headline news. The silence inside my minimalist penthouse is loud enough to make my ears ring.

I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass, staring out at the blurred London skyline. The rain streaks down the window like tears. The marble floors are freezing. The sleek, modern furniture looks immaculate because nobody ever sits on it. I spin the lucky silver ring around my neck, watching my reflection. To the world, I am Ethan Cross, the invincible striker. Inside this penthouse, I am just a guy eating a pre-cooked meal alone in a multi-million-pound cage. A sharp buzz from my phone shatters the quiet.

Marcus: The car is downstairs. Alistair wants you and the doctor arm-in-arm at the Westbridge Annual Gala in thirty minutes. Julian is already there making statements. Do not mess this up. I let out a low growl, shoving the phone into my tuxedo pocket. I glance at myself in the mirror. The black velvet jacket fits perfectly. My tie is straight. The armor is on.

But as I head down to the garage, my chest tightens. The show is about to begin. The grand ballroom of the Savoy is a blinding sea of flashing lights, clinking champagne glasses, and fake smiles. The moment the gold-trimmed double doors open, the media pack swarms us. Security guards fight to keep them back, but the shouts are deafening.

"Ethan! Look this way!"

"Dr. Bennett, are you really dating a violent man?" Beside me, Maya freezes for a microsecond. I look down at her. She is wearing a simple, elegant Emerald green silk dress that flows down her slender frame. Her dark hair is styled in loose waves, tumbling over her bare shoulders. She looks breathtakingly beautiful, a stark contrast to the sterile, corporate blazer she wore in my locker room.

She catches me looking. Her dark eyes narrow slightly, her professional mask instantly sliding into place. "Smile, Mr. Cross," she murmurs through her teeth, her lips barely moving. "You look like you're heading to a funeral." "I am. Mine," I mutter back.

I slide my hand down, locking my fingers firmly with hers. Her hand is small, cool, and trembling just a fraction. I squeeze it, anchoring her to my side as we push through the crowd. Forcing a confident, easy smile for the cameras.

As we stop in front of the main media banner. Immediately, a notorious sports journalist named Harrison, a man paid to destroy my reputation, shoves a microphone directly into my face.

"Ethan! Harrison from the Daily Sports," he barks, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight. "People are saying this relationship appeared the moment your reputation started falling apart. Is Dr. Bennett just the club's latest attempt to repair your image after what happened with Julian Vance? Julian himself hinted that Dr. Bennett is just a paid handler. How do you respond to claims that this love story is complete fiction?"

The ballroom chatter drops. Heads turn. The air grows thick with anticipation. Behind Harrison, I see Julian Vance standing near the VIP bar, holding a glass of champagne, a smug, mocking smirk plastered across his face. He is waiting for me to lose control, to throw another punch and throw my career away for good. My blood starts to boil. The suffocating pressure crashes down on my shoulders.

Beside me, Maya tenses. She opens her mouth, her clinical instincts kicking in to diffuse the situation. "Mr. Harrison, as a professional…" 

"It's not a show," I interrupt, my voice echoing over the microphone. I don't let her finish. If she gives a clinical, defensive answer, Harrison wins. The sponsors leave. Julian takes my jersey.  

I act on pure instinct. I drop Harrison's microphone out of the way, step into Maya's space, and wrap my hand around the nape of her neck. Maya’s eyes widen in sheer shock. Before she can pull away, I lean down and press my lips firmly against hers.

The blinding camera flashes blur into a singular, warm light. The deafening roar of the media fades into absolute silence. The only thing that exists is the soft, sweet taste of her lips and the sudden, breathless gasp she lets out against my mouth. The instant my lips meet hers, her entire body goes rigid. For one suspended heartbeat, she doesn't move. Then her palms press firmly against my chest, not hard enough to make a scene, but enough to tell me exactly where she stands. She isn't kissing me back. She's enduring it.

I pull back slowly, my thumb lingering on her bottom lip for a heartbeat too long. I can still feel her lips, and my breathing is completely wrecked.

Maya stares up at me, her chest heaving, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of shock, confusion, and raw fury. A slow wave of color spreads across her cheeks, impossible to hide. The media goes absolutely feral. The camera shutters sound like machine-gun fire. I turn back to Harrison, my arm wrapping tightly around Maya's waist, pulling her possessively against my side. I look past the journalist, locking my icy hazel eyes directly onto Julian Vance across the room. The younger striker's smug smirk has completely vanished. His face is pale with rage.

"Does that look like fiction to you, Harrison?" I demand, my voice low, dangerous, and utterly commanding. The journalist stammers, stepping back.

I don't wait for a reply. As I guide Maya away from the press line, my hand is still locked firmly around her waist. She walks beside me in stiff, rigid silence.

I saved the contract. I silenced the critics. But as I feel the absolute fury radiating off the woman next to me, I realize a terrifying truth. The media isn't my biggest problem anymore. She is.