"You left the custom spikes on the kitchen island," I said into my phone, pacing the pavement outside the VIP entrance.

"I need them for the afternoon drills," Kenton’s voice buzzed through the receiver. "Just drop them off. I’ll leave my private locker room unlocked."

"I have a meeting with the PR board in an hour."

"Elowen, please. I can't break in the new turf without them."

I ended the call.

The stadium corridors smelled of bleach and old sweat. I carried the black mesh bag down the hall. No security stopped me. They all knew my face. I was the shadow that fixed everything.

I reached the heavy oak door of his private suite. It sat cracked open an inch.

A wet, slapping sound echoed from the gap.

I stopped. My fingers tightened on the mesh bag.

"Fuck, Seraphina," Kenton grunted.

I pushed the door open another inch.

Seraphina was bent over the leather massage table. Her custom jersey was shoved up to her armpits. Kenton stood behind her, his practice pants pushed down to his knees. He gripped her hips, driving his cock deep into her pussy.

"Shove it in harder, Kenton," Seraphina moaned, her fingers gripping the edge of the padded table. "Fuck my pussy."

"Spread your legs wider," he ordered. He pulled her hips back against his groin, burying himself completely. "I'm going to wreck your fucking cunt."

"Do it. Fuck me until I scream."

He slapped her bare ass cheek. The loud smack bounced off the metal lockers. "You like taking my cock before practice?"

"I want your cock all day," she gasped, throwing her head back. "Ruin me."

Kenton thrust faster, his skin slick with sweat. He pounded into her, raw and violent. "I'm going to fill your fucking pussy right now."

"Fill me, Kenton. Fuck."

He let out a harsh groan, driving his hips forward one last time and holding himself deep inside her.

I didn't gasp. I didn't drop the bag.

I just watched his face. The same face that told me last night she was nothing but a billboard. The same man who locked a diamond necklace around my throat.

A cold, heavy stone settled at the bottom of my stomach.

I stepped back into the hallway. I let the heavy oak door drift shut, leaving a tiny sliver of space.

I leaned my spine against the concrete wall.

I checked my watch. Eleven-forty. My PR meeting was at twelve-thirty.

Inside, zippers rasped. Fabric rustled.

"You're amazing," Kenton murmured through the crack.

"Hurry up," Seraphina replied. "The paparazzi are waiting by the south gate."

The door swung wide open.

Kenton stepped out first. He froze.

His eyes darted from my face to the mesh bag in my hand. The blood drained from his cheeks, leaving his skin a sickly pale gray.

Seraphina stepped out behind him, adjusting the hem of her jersey. She paused, her gaze sweeping over me.

"You forgot your cleats," I said. My voice held zero inflection.

I held the bag out.

Kenton stared at my hand. He swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. He reached out and snatched the mesh strings, his fingers trembling slightly.

"Who is this?" Seraphina asked.

She crossed her arms, leaning her weight onto one hip. Her eyes dragged over my oversized gray sweater, my faded jeans, my flat sneakers.

Kenton opened his mouth. No sound came out.

"Kenton?" Seraphina pressed. "Did a fan wander into the VIP wing?"

He blinked, panic flashing in his pupils. He looked at me, silently begging me to play along. To fix it. Like I always did.

"She's just my nanny," Kenton blurted out.

The word hit the concrete floor like a lead weight.

"Your nanny?" Seraphina raised an eyebrow.

"House manager," Kenton corrected quickly, his voice cracking. "She handles my groceries. My laundry. That kind of stuff."

A vicious smirk curled Seraphina's lips.

"A babysitter." She scoffed, stepping closer to inspect me. "Honey, you dress like a high school math teacher. Did you buy that sweater at a thrift store?"

I kept my eyes locked on Kenton.

"Nannies shouldn't be wandering the VIP locker rooms," Seraphina continued, waving a manicured hand in my direction. "Tell your agency to teach you some boundaries. You can't just stalk your boss at work."

"Is that all, Kenton?" I asked.

He flinched at the sound of his name.

"Yeah," he muttered, staring at the floor tiles. "Go home. I'll handle my own schedule today."

"Don't forget to wash his practice gear," Seraphina sneered.

Kenton wrapped a thick arm around her waist. He pulled her against his side, practically dragging her down the hallway toward the exit.

"Let's go, Sera," he urged. "We have cameras waiting."

"Bye, babysitter," she called over her shoulder.

I didn't reply.

I stood in the fluorescent light, watching his broad shoulders disappear around the corner.

Five years.

I gave him my twenties. I gave him my absolute loyalty. And he reduced me to a punchline in front of the woman he just fucked on a massage table.

The cold stone in my stomach cracked open. Something entirely different spilled out.

It wasn't sadness. It wasn't grief.

It was absolute, freezing clarity.

I pulled my phone from my back pocket. I opened my messages.

Julian’s name sat at the top of the screen.

*Elowen: The Velvet Noir photos. Leak them right now.*

*Julian: I thought we were changing the narrative?*

*Elowen: We are.*

I typed out the next line, my thumbs striking the glass screen with pinpoint precision.

*Elowen: Leak the photos of him and Seraphina. But attach the medical records I kept from his Miami trip last season. Let the world know the MVP has a highly contagious strain of herpes.*

I hit send.

The screen flashed green.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and walked toward the exit. The game was finally over. Now, we were playing by my rules.