Her Brother’s Best Friend

Chapter 4: The Fake Dating Protocol

The team facility smelled like industrial floor wax, old leather, and the heavy, metallic reek of thirty guys sweating through a morning lift.

I sat near the back of the offensive meeting room, my right shoulder strapped beneath my hoodie with a low-profile carbon-fiber brace Knox had dug out of his locker. Every time I raised my arm to tap a note onto my tablet, a dull, restricted ache radiated down my collarbone.

Up at the front of the room, Coach Vance clicked through a slideshow of defensive formations from the Michigan State game, his voice echoing off the cinderblock walls.

"We got the W, but let's be clear," Vance said, his gaze sweeping over the rows of players before landing directly on me. "Our pocket protection broke down three times in the second quarter. If Avery doesn't get rid of the ball half a second faster next week against Purdue, we’re carrying her off the field in pieces. Clean it up."

A few seats down, Miller leaned back in his chair, a smug, tight-lipped smile playing across his face as he exchanged a quick look with our starting left tackle.

My jaw tightened. Before I could look away, the heavy double doors at the back of the meeting room swung open.

A wave of low murmurs rippled through the room. Three reporters from the local sports beat, accompanied by a camera crew from the regional sports network, pushed past the threshold with a university media liaison trailing frantically behind them.

"Hold on, you can't just” the liaison started.

"Coach Vance!" a reporter called out, holding up a microphone as camera lights flared blindingly bright in the dim room. "We’ve received anonymous tips regarding last night’s housing assignments at Oak Street. Is the athletic department sponsoring co-ed quarters for the starting quarterback?"

Silence slammed over the room. Every head whipped around first toward Vance, then straight back to me.

Miller’s smirk vanished, replaced by a sharp, calculating gleam.

Vance slammed his dry-erase marker down on the desk, his face darkening to a furious crimson. "This is a closed team meeting. Clear the room now."

"Is it true that Knox Ellison has moved in as her personal bodyguard?" another reporter shouted, flashing a snapshot taken from the sidewalk outside our house earlier that morning.

Panic hit me like a physical blow. My lungs seized. If the media caught wind of an unsupervised co-living arrangement between a male star defender and female quarterback on the heels of a historic, controversial roster spot, the narrative would explode before noon. They would tear my reputation apart, painting me as either a preferential liability or a s*x scandal waiting to happen.

Before Vance could cross the room to throw them out, the back row scraped loudly.

Knox pushed standing room from his seat near the door. He didn't look flustered, nor did he look surprised. He just straightened the collar of his black practice jersey, his tall, broad frame instantly dominating the space between the cameras and my desk.

"You're barking up the wrong tree," Knox said, his voice cutting through the chaos with a calm, lazy authority that immediately drew every lens in the room toward him.

The lead reporter pivoted. "Ellison! Care to comment on your vehicle being parked at Avery Hale’s off-campus address?"

Knox stepped closer to the camera lens, unbothered, and flashed a slow, impossibly confident grin that belonged on the cover of a GQ spread rather than a gritty athletic film session.

"You mean our address?" Knox asked smoothly, sliding a hand into his pocket. "It’s not a secret, guys. Vance didn't assign a bodyguard. I asked for the transfer because we’ve been dating for three weeks."

The room collectively stopped breathing.

My brain completely short-circuited. I froze in my chair, staring at the back of Knox’s broad shoulders as thermal shock rushed through my veins.

What is he doing?

"Dating?" the reporter repeated, blinking rapidly. "The star corner and the female QB? Since when?"

"Since the end of summer camp," Knox replied effortlessly, his tone dripping with casual conviction. "Try getting a text back from her when she’s obsessing over offensive playbooks until two in the morning it’s a nightmare. We just finally decided to make it official and share a lease off-campus so we didn't have to dodge the media circus every time we wanted to grab dinner. So if you're looking for a scandal, you're out of luck. Now, turn the cameras off before I start charging for autographs."

The press corps erupted into a flurry of shouted follow-up questions, but the athletic department security guards finally flooded the room, bodily steering the reporters backward out the double doors and slamming them shut.

The heavy oak doors clicked locked.For five seconds, you could hear a pin drop in the meeting room.Coach Vance turned slowly toward Knox, rubbing his temples with a hand that looked dangerously close to shaking. "Ellison. My office. Now."

Knox didn't even flinch. He glanced back over his shoulder, his dark eyes meeting mine across the sea of empty seats. He didn't wink this time. Instead, he gave me a single, imperceptible nod a silent anchor thrown into a rising tidebefore turning to follow Vance down the hall.

Ten minutes later, the team was dismissed into chaotic, whispering clusters.I hurried out of the building, my sneakers crunching against the gravel parking lot, pulling my hoodie up to shield my face from lingering student onlookers. Before I could reach my car, a large, warm hand clamped gently around my uninjured left bicep, spinning me around.

Knox stood there, his keys dangling from his fingers, looking completely unbothered by the fact that he had just upended the entire university’s social dynamic.

"What," I hissed, my voice shaking with a dangerous mix of fury and adrenaline, "was that?"

"That," Knox said smoothly, leaning his hip against the side of my sedan, "was damage control. You're welcome, QB."

"You didn't tell me you were going to tell them we're dating!"

"If I gave you time to think about it, you would have overthought it and blown our cover in five seconds," he countered, dropping his voice as a group of walk-on linebackers jogged past us toward the practice field. He stepped closer, invading my space until I had nowhere to go except flat against my car door. "Think about it logically, Avery. If the media thinks we’re shacking up because of a s*x scandal or special treatment, you're a target. But if they think we're a campus power couple? It completely neutralizes the narrative. They can't cry favoritism when it's a mutual romance."

"And what happens when the season ends?" I demanded, pressing my hands against his chest to push him back, though the solid wall of his muscles barely budged under my palms. "What happens when people expect us to act like a real couple?"

Knox went quiet. The arrogant amusement drained from his face, replaced by an intensity that made the air between us suddenly feel thin. His dark eyes dropped from my eyes down to my mouth, lingering there for a long, scorching beat before rising back to meet my gaze.

"Who says we're pretending outside of these walls?" he murmured softly, his hand reaching out to gently brush a loose blonde curl away from my cheek.

My heart slammed against my ribs, a wild, traitorous rhythm that had nothing to do with the game, the media, or my shoulder.

Before I could find my voice to answer, Knox dropped his hand, stepped back, and unlocked my car door for me with a lazy, infuriating smirk.

"Get in, Granger," he said over his shoulder, walking toward his own truck parked three stalls down. "Training room opens in twenty minutes. And you're getting that shoulder iced whether your stubborn pride likes it or not."