Maya

"Are you insane?"

My voice cuts through the thick, cigar-smoke air of the Westbridge United executive boardroom. I slam both hands onto the mahogany table, glaring directly at Chairman Alistair Vance-who also happens to be the billionaire uncle of the kid Ethan Cross just flattened on the pitch.

"You want me to do what?" I demand.

Alistair doesn't blink. He calmly sips his whiskey, his tailored suit completely unwrinkled despite the absolute chaos unfolding on the television monitors behind him.

"Westbridge isn't paying you to save Ethan Cross, Doctor Benette. It is paying you to save this club." Alistair says, his voice smooth and cold. "Ethan Cross is a global asset. Right now, our stock prices are plummeting because he acted like a feral animal. Our biggest sponsors are threatening to walk away. Apex Athletics

"Then fine him," I snap. My pulse stutters. "Suspend him. Let me treat him clinically. But forcing me to sign a public relations contract to play his supportive girlfriend? That violates every ethical boundary I have as a licensed psychologist."

"You won't be his clinical psychologist anymore," Alistair counters easily. He slides a thick manila folder across the polished wood. "We will assign Cross to Dr. Sterling. Your clinical hands remain clean. To the public, you met during a team assessment, sparks flew, and you are now the grounding force helping football's bad boy find his inner peace."

"I refuse," I say, stepping back from the table. "My integrity isn't for sale."

"Are you sure about that?" Alistair smiles. It is the smile of a shark that has already caught its prey. He opens a folder and slides it towards me. My blood turns cold. "No, not that folder.Not Leo." I whisper as I go through the folder, revealing medical documents with a Swiss logo at the top.

"Your brother, Leo, is just twenty years old. A former Westbridge Academy prospect until his spine injury last year."My breath catches in my throat. The room suddenly feels entirely too small. "Leave my brother out of this."

"The neuro-regeneration clinic in Zurich has a slot open next week," Alistair continues, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "The experimental surgery costs two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Your insurance denied the claim yesterday, didn't they?"

My hands begin to shake. I ball them into fists inside my blazer pockets so he won't see.

If I don't do it myself, it crashes, my mother's voice whispers in my mind, a reminder of a childhood spent cleaning up everyone else's ruins. Rely upon no one.

For months, I've fought insurance companies, begged for loans, and chased every impossible solution. Leo is running out of time. So am I.

"Six months," Alistair says, sliding a pen toward me. "Play the part. Attend the galas. Move into his penthouse so the paparazzi catch you together. Keep him out of the headlines. The moment the season ends, the club pays for Leo's surgery in full.

My soul screams at me to walk out the door. But then I think of Leo, sitting in his room, staring at his useless legs.

I reach out. My fingers lock around the heavy fountain pen.

"No touching unless the cameras are flashing," I say, my voice trembling but sharp. "And the moment Ethan Cross acts out again, the deal is off, but you still pay for my brother."

"Deal," Alistair purrs.

I sign my name on the dotted line. My signature stares back at me like a prison sentence.

Ten minutes later, I am walking down the cold, concrete player tunnel toward the away locker room.

The weight of what I've just done crushes my chest. I am a professional. I am a woman who prides herself on logic, control, and independence. Now, I am a paid prop for an arrogant athlete who doesn't even know how to control his own temper.

I stop in front of the door. I can hear the muffled sound of things being thrown inside. He is angry. Volatile. Dangerous.

I take a deep breath, forcing my clinical mask into place, and push the heavy door open.

Ethan

The heavy locker room door clicks open.

I don't look up from my hands. I brace myself for the storm, my fingers gripping my hair as the footsteps approach.

"Leave me alone, Marcus," I growl, assuming it's my agent coming to tally up the millions I just lost. "I'm not in the mood."

"I'm not Marcus." A calm, unfamiliar voice replies.

I drop my hands and look up. Standing in the doorway isn't my frantic agent. It's a woman. She wears a sharp, charcoal-grey blazer and a crisp white shirt. Her dark hair is pulled back into a flawless, no-nonsense bun, and she carries a sleek digital tablet under her arm. Her dark eyes are incredibly steady. They lock onto mine with a cold, analytical precision that instantly makes my defensive walls slam up.

"Who the hell let you in here?" I snap. Standing up to my full height of six-foot-two. I deliberately use my size to crowd her space, stepping off the wooden bench until the clean, calming scent of her vanilla perfume cuts through the heavy smell of grass and adrenaline.

She doesn't flinch. She doesn't take a single step backward.

"The board let me in," she says, her voice smooth, level, and entirely unimpressed by my size. "I'm Dr. Maya Bennett. I'm the new head of sports psychology for Westbridge United." I let out a harsh, bitter laugh, running a hand through my messy hair. "I don't need a shrink. Get out."

"The punch you just threw on live television says otherwise, Mr. Cross." She taps her tablet, turning the screen toward me. A video loop plays the exact moment my fist collided with Julian Vance's jaw."You don't need a public relations apology. You need to learn how to breathe before you tank this club's valuation and ruin your own career."

My chest tightens. The familiar, burning arrogance that usually protects me from the outside world flares up, masking the sharp spike of panic in my throat. I step even closer, invading her personal space until she has to tilt her chin up to look into my eyes. "You don't know anything about me, Doctor," I hiss, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You see a clip on a screen. You don't know what happens on that pitch."

Maya doesn't back down. Her gaze tracks the tight line of my jaw, then moves down to my hands, which are still trembling slightly. Her eyes narrow, seeing straight through my anger to the hollow, terrifying fear underneath. "Maybe I don't exactly know what you are, Ethan," she says softly, using my first name like a scalpel. "But right now, you act like a man who's forgotten who he is without a scoreboard telling him."

The truth of her words hits me like a physical blow. Before I can find a way to strike back, the door flies open again with a loud bang. Marcus bursts into the room, his face pale and his forehead slick with sweat. His phone is clutched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles have turned white. "Ethan!" he gasps. "Thank God. The Chairman just called." Marcus swallows hard."He's got a solution."I let out a humorless laugh. "A fine? A suspension?" Marcus slowly shakes his head.

"Worse. They want you in a relationship." I stare at him. "What?"

"A fake one," he continues. I bark out a disbelieving laugh. "You've lost your mind."

"I am serious." Marcus takes a ragged breath, his eyes darting frantically between the psychologist and me. "With Dr. Maya Bennett." I turn to her so quickly my neck protests.

She doesn't deny it. She meets my gaze. "I have already signed the agreement." For a moment, I forget how to breathe. "You did what?"

"I accepted the club's offer." She says, lowering her gaze and nervously tapping her fingertips together.

"No. this is not possible," I shake my head. "Call the Chairman back." I point at Marcus. Tell him I'd rather take the suspension. I am not parading around London with a shrink to protect a corporate image. I don't do fake relationships." Marcus doesn't move. "Ethan..."

"I said call him back. "I cut in, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. His face tightens. "If you refuse..." He hesitates. "They are activating the morality clause. They'll bench you for the rest of the season."Marcus says, stepping closer. "They'll take the captain's armband from you. And when the transfer window opens, Julian Vance will take your place, your Number 9 jersey for good."

The words hit harder than the punch I threw. My breath hitches. The room suddenly feels devoid of oxygen. Julian. Wearing my shirt, leading my team, and replacing me. The aggressive mask slips entirely, replaced by utter disbelief. My gaze snaps back to Dr. Maya.

She stands perfectly still, watching me in complete silence. Her professional composure masks whatever she's feeling. Her dark eyes are calculating my every micro-expression. But I notice her knuckles are completely white where she grips her tablet. "I am trying to save your career, Mr. Cross," Maya finally speaks, her chin lifting defiantly. "Now, you will help me by doing your part."

"Fine," I spit out, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. I step up to her, erasing the distance between us. I narrow my eyes, making my voice ice-cold. "Let's get one thing straight, Doctor. This is strictly professional. I don't want you thinking you have some actual rights over my life, and I definitely don't want you catching feelings. We do this for the cameras, and nothing more."

Maya doesn't blink. A small, mocking smile touches her lips, completely unfazed by my warning.

"You don't have to worry about that, Mr. Cross," she replies smoothly, her voice cutting like glass. "You are completely safe from my feelings. "Fortunately for both of us, you are not my type."