The kiss wasn’t even a real kiss, but it had short-circuited every wire in my brain. I didn’t even deliver my stupid rehearsed line about what a great game he’d played. I just let it happen, let the stunt blur into something that felt terrifyingly real.
When he finally pulled back, eyes dark and unreadable under the lights, I couldn’t look at him. My cheeks burned hotter than the bruise on his jaw. The jersey suddenly felt like it was choking me.
“Tristan,” I started, voice barely audible, but the swarm of reporters swallowed it. They closed in, shouting questions about the “new couple” and the “twin rivalry,” and before I could lash out at him for crossing every boundary we hadn’t even properly set, his teammates and Coach were calling his name from down the tunnel.
One of his teammat
