Smitty did not appear to relish the moment he pushed the pictures across the table to Charlie. His public relations guy was showing a new face, a grim face. Whatever had happened, it wasn't good.

Charlie rocked forward in his chair, eyeing the expression of his management team. No one in the room was smiling. When his eyes flickered down eventually, he saw the reason why.

"Does Dylan know about this?" The words left his mouth before any thoughts about his own image could register. As far as he was concerned, that's what his team was there for—to control whatever havoc a guy like him could wreak and help him come out on the other end unscathed. There may have been people, a lot of people, who thought Charlie Wild was just another self-centered jock who had made it to the bigtime, but his own well-being was the furthest thing from his mind at that moment.

He lifted up the first photograph, studying the picture, even though it wasn't really necessary. He had lived that moment on the fifty-yard line with Dylan, after all—there was no reason to play voyeur to his own memory. In the picture, the two of them were still (at least partially) clothed, meaning it had been taken in the moments leading up to their epic consummation. Thank God for small graces.

"Dr. Rose has been informed, yes." Smitty shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was wearing his sunglasses, but Charlie had a feeling it was more in an effort to conceal what he was really thinking than to ward off the harsh light of the conference room.

"And the hospital?"

"If you're asking after her job, Charlie, I can confirm that although the general faith in Dr. Rose has been shaken, she's in no danger of losing her position at the moment."

"And they aren't going to strong-arm her into a resignation?"

"Charlie!" Another suit broke through their exchange in exasperation. "Do you understand what's happened? You just got caught fucking your doctor in the end zone—"

"Fifty-yard line."

"And these are the questions you decide to ask us? There's only so much interference we can run here on your behalf! The images of you and Dr. Rose have gone viral, and it doesn't look good."

"You don't think the two of us look good together?"

"That's not the point," Smitty interrupted impatiently. "You were rehabbing more than just your knee down in Lockhart, Charlie. You were rehabbing your image. We had planned for you to make your return to the Teamsters as a more mature, level-headed sports icon. Someone the kids could start to really idolize and look up to without their parents having to shield their eyes every other time your name made the headlines. With this latest stunt, that depiction is out the window."

Charlie leaned back in his chair again and crossed his arms behind his head. "Maybe I'm getting fucking tired of false depictions, Smitty. I fell in love with my doctor. Why don't you take that story and run with it?"

Charlie's idea was met with a resounding chorus of disbelieving laughter. Something in his chest clenched, and he could feel his own pulse skyrocket as he realized they thought he was making a joke. Either that, or they thought him so completely incapable of making a commitment outside of football that he didn't know what he was talking about. It was condescending as hell, and he'd had enough.

Charlie rose, flinging the folder of pictures back across the table and only narrowly missing Smitty's face. "Get it out there. What am I paying you guys for? Dr. Rose and I are in a committed relationship. That ought to sit better with people. We'll have our taboo cake and eat it, too."

"Have you actually spoken to her about this?" Smitty called after him. "It's likely those vultures in the press are going to try and reach her for comment, if they haven't already. I'm not going to risk putting a story out that's going to be immediately debunked by the other half of the…party…in question."

Charlie fell silent. In all honesty, he had been avoiding contact with Dylan since their bittersweet departure that day at the stadium. He didn't want her to know what he had planned behind her back. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, the adage went. Only now there was going to be a hell of a lot to forgive.

He wasn't sure they were going to make it through this. As he made his way out of the conference room and down the stadium hallway to the showers, he pulled his phone out. He had missed multiple calls from Dylan. He felt the clenching sensation again but knew he couldn't seize upon the easy remedy for it. Not now. Instead, he bypassed the missed calls screen and dialed the team doctor.

"Roberts?" he said as soon as he heard the other line pick up. "It's Wild. I assume you've seen it by now in the news. I can't have my doctor linked to me right now, so I'm going to need you to clear me. I don't care what you have to do. My knee is holding up fine."

Charlie paused, listening but not comprehending the droning voice and shuffling papers on the other end. He knew how sideline maneuvers like this played out. Roberts may have been the team doctor, but he was there to make sure Teamsters played.

"How early do you want that clearance?" Roberts responded.

"Tomorrow’s game," Charlie replied. "You got it?"

"Got it. Consider it done."

Charlie hung up the call, ignoring the anxiety rising within him. It was normal; he always got nervous before a big game.

It was nothing he couldn't handle.

* * *

"No comment," Charlie addressed the mic shoved into his face for the millionth time. He had never been one to refrain from expressing his opinion to the press, but these sideline reporters were starting to get abrasive, even by his standards.

The Teamsters were already deep into their first quarter against the Arrows. Every time their offense came off the field, another intrepid reporter, eager for a soundbite concerning the photos of Charlie and Dylan together, intercepted him. This particular specimen, Patricia, was one he had dealt with plenty of times in his career; she blinked in surprise at his refusal to answer, and Charlie almost took pity on her.

Almost.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a game to win," came his follow-up. He crowned himself with his helmet, vanishing behind the facemask as he hustled back out to the field.

No matter how much he tried, he could not stop thinking about Dylan. Where she was, how she was doing…if she would ever want to see him again after all of this blew over. Charlie knew he had fucked up big time, and his regret only grew as the minutes flew by in the first quarter.

He needed to get his head on straight. Hadn't he gone against Dylan's orders so he could recommit himself to his career and take his mind off things? Football was the only aspect of his life that had ever made any sense. He was born for it, bred for it, and hell—he was ready to die for it.

Or so he had always told himself. The Teamsters were currently ahead fourteen to zero. The crowd was rowdy but supportive. He should have been in his own personal heaven, except his bad knee currently felt like it was swimming around in its socket, despite the stretching and sports tape he had inflicted on it before the game.

In the aftermath of their next play, the opposing team called a timeout, and Charlie dropped forward to brace himself on his knees. He tried his best to appear as if he was out of breath, when the reality was it felt like someone was twisting a hot knife into his knee.

Just hold out until half time, he coached himself. You can take it up with Roberts then. You're Charlie Wild. Everything only seems like it's spinning out of your control, but that's just the way you like it. When have other peoples' rules and limitations ever fucking applied to you?

He watched a familiar pair of cleats saunter into his line of sight. It was Bolton, his wide receiver.

"You hit that?" Bolton asked him with a clap to his back.

"Hit what?" For a moment, Charlie mistakenly thought Bolton was referring to something or someone physically on the field. His head was finally in the game—exactly where he wanted it to be.

But when Bolton pointed, Charlie had a sinking feeling before he had even fully straightened to look.

Up on the stadium's screen, broadcast larger than life for all the world to see, was the unmistakably miserable face of Dylan Rose.