OFFSIDE HEARTS: His Dr. Anchor

Chapter 4: The First Touch

Maya's POV

"Are you ready, Doctor?" Marcus asks, his hand trembling as he grips the handle of the back exit door.

I look to my right. Ethan is standing there, zipped up in a sleek, black Westbridge United tracksuit. His jaw is clenched so tightly that a muscle tethers in his cheek. He doesn't look at me. He stares at the metal door like he’s about to walk into a war zone.

"I'm ready," I say, forcing my voice to remain perfectly calm.

"The moment we step out, the cameras will go off," Marcus warns, checking his phone screen one last time. "Don't look at the flashing lights. Just look at each other. Make it look like you're his anchor."

"Let's just get this over with," Ethan growls, dragging a hand down the front of his tracksuit.

Marcus pushes the door open.

The transition from the quiet concrete tunnel to the outside world is violent. A wall of noise hits us instantly. The questions hit us from every direction.

“Ethan! Over here!”

“Dr. Bennett! Is it true?”

“Cross, look up! Did you hit Julian because of her?”

Flash! Flash! Flash!

The blinding strobe lights of a hundred cameras explode in my face. The brightness is dizzying, cutting through the London drizzle. For a fraction of a second, my professional composure slips. I stumble, my foot catching on the edge of the pavement as the aggressive crowd of journalists surges forward, pushing past the metal barricades.

Before I can lose my balance completely, a massive, heavy arm wraps around my waist.

Ethan catches me. He pulls me hard against his side, anchoring my small frame against his solid, six-foot-two athletic build. The heat of his body radiates through his tracksuit, cutting through the freezing rain. My face presses briefly against his chest, catching the sharp, masculine scent of clean metallic sweat and luxury cologne.

Every coherent thought abandons me. My skin under his palm feels like it's on fire.

"Keep moving," Ethan commands under his breath. His voice is a low, vibrating rumble against my ear.

He doesn't let go. His fingers dig firmly into the fabric of my charcoal blazer, holding me impossibly close as he navigates us through the sea of shouting faces and blinding lenses. To the cameras, it looks like a protective, deeply intimate embrace. To the public, it looks like a boyfriend shielding his woman from the chaos.

But behind his calculated movements, I can feel his body. His muscles are rigid. His chest is rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths. He isn't just protecting me. He is using me as a shield to keep from exploding again.

"Breathe, Ethan," I murmur, keeping my face turned toward his jawline so the cameras only see an intimate whisper. "Four seconds in. Hold it. Four seconds out."

I feel him stiffen. He looks down at me, his hazel eyes dark, stormy, and flashing with a dangerous mix of shock and irritation. But he takes a deep, ragged breath anyway.

The security team shoves a path open for us, and Ethan guides me toward the back of a waiting black luxury sedan. Marcus opens the door, and Ethan practically pushes me inside before sliding in right after me.

The heavy door slams shut. Instantly, the roar outside disappears, leaving nothing but the strained silence trapped between us.

Ethan instantly yanks his arm away from my waist, backing as far into his side of the leather seat as possible. It’s as if touching me burned him.

"Don't do that again," he snaps, his breathing finally slowing down. He glares out the window at the flashing lights reflecting off the dark glass.

"Do what? Save you from a panic attack in front of the global media?" I straighten my rumpled blazer before tucking a few loose strands of hair back into place, hoping my unsteady hands aren't as obvious as they feel. "You're welcome, by the way."

Ethan turns his head, his hazel eyes narrowing into two icy slits as he stares at me. The vulnerability I felt under his ribcage a moment ago is entirely gone, replaced by the familiar, arrogant armor.

"I don't get panic attacks," he says, each word clipped with controlled anger. "And I don't need a shrink telling me how to breathe in my own car. We established the rules in the locker room, Doctor. This is a performance. The moment the doors close, the show is over."

I let out a soft, mocking laugh, refusing to let him see how much his sudden physical proximity actually rattled me.

"Good. Then we are on the same page, Mr. Cross," I reply smoothly, crossing my legs and looking at him with clinical detachment. "Because your performance needs work. Your heart was beating so hard I thought it was going to break my ribs. If you want the world to believe you're a changed man, you're going to have to do a lot better than that."

Ethan’s jaw tightens so hard the bone looks sharp. As he opens his mouth to strike back, "It's already online." Marcus interrupts from the front passenger seat, turning around with a panicked look.

Ethan slid his phone from his pocket. He looks at the screen. His expression goes entirely blank. He turns the phone screen toward me.

The headline is already trending globally, accompanied by a crystal-clear, high-definition photo of Ethan’s hand locked tightly around my waist, his face buried near my hair.

FOOTBALL'S TICKING TIME BOMB HAS A MATCH: ETHAN CROSS SPOTTED FLEEING STADIUM WITH MYSTERY WOMAN AFTER INFAMOUS PUNCH.

Below the article, another notification flashes onto the screen. Julian Vance. @JulianV9 "Good luck, Doctor!. You are going to need it." Thousands of likes. Hundreds of comments. The post is spreading by the second.

Ethan looks at me, his eyes burning with an intense, dark fire. "The game just started, Doctor. And Julian is already playing dirty."