Breaking Bro Code

Chapter 8

The stadium was a cacophony of sound—a roar that vibrated through the very floorboards of the private VIP box. Down on the field, the game was a blur of collisions and calculated chaos, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from Roman. He moved with a lethal grace that commanded the entire field, the team moving around him like satellites around a sun.

I was tucked away in the corner of the box, wearing the emerald dress from the day before, my hair loose and cascading over my shoulders. I felt like an impostor. Being here, watching him command thousands of people, made the reality of what we were doing in that penthouse feel like a fever dream.

Then, the play broke. Roman dropped back, eyes scanning the field with predatory precision. He launched the ball—a perfect, spiraling arc that landed right in the endzone for a touchdown.

The stadium erupted. The glass of the VIP box rattled with the sheer volume of the crowd. And then, it happened.

Roman didn't turn to celebrate with his teammates. He didn't look at the cameras. He jogged toward the sidelines, his helmet off, his hair matted with sweat, and he looked straight up. He searched the rows of the VIP boxes until his eyes locked onto mine.

It wasn't a casual glance. It was a silent, searing communication. He stood there for a split second, chest heaving, his gaze stripping me bare in front of thousands of people, his intent undeniable. I felt my breath hitch, a heat blooming deep in my stomach that had nothing to do with the stadium lights.

"That's some stare," a voice beside me commented.

I jumped, realizing Nolan—my brother—had slipped into the box. My stomach dropped. I quickly turned away, my hands gripping the railing until my knuckles turned white.

"I... I was just looking at the crowd," I lied, my voice sounding thin.

Nolan laughed, oblivious. "Roman's on fire today. Best game of his career."

I didn't answer. I just watched as Roman finally turned away, a wolfish smirk ghosting his lips.

By the time the game ended—a blowout victory—the post-game energy in the stadium was manic. Roman had to do press, but he’d sent a text that burned through my phone screen: *The VIP lounge. Ten minutes. Don't be late.*

The VIP lounge was a dimly lit, velvet-draped sanctuary where the "real" party happened. It was crowded with team owners, sponsors, and players, the air thick with the smell of expensive champagne and victory. I slipped through the crowd, my heart hammering against my ribs, until I reached the shadowed alcove near the back.

Before I could even blink, a hand shot out from the dark, grabbing my waist and hauling me into the narrow space behind a partition.

I let out a sharp gasp, but it was muffled by Roman’s hand.

"You were watching," he growled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against my ear.

He didn't give me a chance to answer. He pressed me back against the cold stone wall, his body towering over me, a wall of hard, adrenaline-fueled muscle. He was still wearing his game-day compression gear, his skin damp and smelling of sweat and aggression.

"I saw you," he repeated, his hands roaming over my body with a possessive, frantic urgency. He pressed his hips into mine, a hard, grinding friction that left no doubt about his state of mind.

"Roman, we’re in public," I whispered, though my body was already arching toward him, my hands finding their way into the thick, damp hair at the base of his neck.

"I don't care," he rasped. He leaned in, his lips finding the sensitive cord of my neck, his teeth grazing the skin in a way that made my knees buckle. "You were mine the second you looked at me in that box. You were mine the moment that ball left my hand."

His hand slipped under the hem of my emerald dress, his palm warm and calloused against the bare skin of my thigh. I let out a strangled cry, my head falling back against the wall. He moved with a raw, dangerous hunger, his fingers exploring, teasing, pushing past the boundaries of safety.

"People are right there," I gasped, clutching his shoulders, my fingers digging into the muscle.

"Let them look," he muttered, his lips trailing upward to hover just an inch from mine. "Let them see exactly who you belong to."

He kissed me then—a raw, bruising collision of mouths that tasted like victory and desperation. His hand moved higher, his touch mapping every inch of my skin with a claim that felt permanent. It was a high-risk, high-stakes encounter, the noise of the party roaring just feet away, the threat of discovery hanging over us like a guillotine.

But I didn't care. As Roman’s hands roamed over me, possessive and urgent, I realized I didn't want to be hidden anymore. I wanted to be his.

He pulled back, his eyes dark, dilated, and blazing with a manic, triumphant light. He smoothed my dress, his hands lingering on my waist for a second longer than necessary.

"Go," he commanded, his voice raw. "Before I lose control and take you right here on this floor."

I stumbled out of the alcove, my legs shaky, my lips swollen, and my heart racing. I walked past the cheering crowd, the champagne-fueled laughter, and the flashing lights, feeling like I was walking on air. I had just risked everything for a few minutes in a dark corner, and as I looked back, seeing Roman emerge from the shadows, his eyes locked onto mine with a possessive heat, I knew the game had only just begun.