Breaking Bro Code

17

Roman didn't just let me wear my own clothes. When I reached for my modest sweater and jeans, he stepped in, his hand catching my wrist.

"Not today," he said, his voice a command. "If we're doing this, we're doing it right. You're not the wallflower today, Allie. You're the main event."

He led me to his massive walk-in closet—a temple of tailored suits, designer sneakers, and high-end athletic gear. He rummaged through a section of the closet I hadn't noticed, pulling out a dress that looked more like a weapon than a piece of clothing. It was a slip of midnight-black silk that hugged every curve and dipped dangerously low at the back. Beside it, he tossed a pair of strappy heels and a leather jacket that looked like it cost more than my first car.

"Put these on," he ordered, a flicker of anticipation in his eyes. "I want them to see exactly what I see."

As I dressed, I felt like I was putting on armor. The silk felt like a second skin, daring and provocative. When I stepped out, Roman stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't say a word, but the way his gaze traveled slowly from my heels up to my eyes told me everything. He looked like he wanted to tear the dress off me right then and there, but the clock was ticking.

The drive to the stadium was a blur of high speeds and heavy silence. Roman drove his matte-black Lamborghini with the same aggressive precision he used on the field, weaving through traffic as if the laws of the road didn't apply to him. I sat in the passenger seat, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, watching the city skyline slip past.

"You're shaking," he noted, though he didn't sound concerned. He sounded amused.

"I'm not shaking," I lied, though my hands were trembling in my lap. "I'm vibrating. There's a difference."

He reached over, his large hand covering mine, his thumb stroking my knuckles in a way that was unexpectedly grounding. "The secret to this life, Allie, is that everyone is pretending. The fans, the owners, the press—they all want a show. So we give them one. Just stay close to me, and don't let them see you blink."

The moment we arrived at the players' entrance, the atmosphere shifted. The air was thick with the smell of exhaust and expensive perfume, and the distant roar of the crowd was already audible, a low-frequency thrum that vibrated in the pavement.

As the car door opened, the world exploded.

The flashbulbs of the paparazzi were blinding, a strobe-light frenzy that turned the afternoon into a series of jagged, white-hot images. The shouting started instantly—reporters screaming Roman's name, asking about his injury status, his contract, and then, the moment he stepped out and reached back for my hand, the questions shifted.

"Roman! Who is she?"

"Is this the mystery woman?"

"Roman, is she with you?"

Roman didn't answer. He didn't even look at them. He simply gripped my hand, his fingers locking firmly around mine, and pulled me close to his side. He walked me through the gauntlet with a terrifying level of confidence, his chin held high, his expression one of utter boredom.

I felt the eyes of a thousand strangers on me, the judgment and the curiosity swirling like a vortex. I felt the phantom weight of Nolan’s disappointment, the memory of the "good girl" I had been only twenty-four hours ago. But as I looked up at Roman—his jaw set, his shoulder shielding me from the most aggressive photographers—I felt a surge of power.

We entered the stadium tunnel, the noise of the crowd intensifying into a deafening wall of sound. As we walked toward the locker rooms, we ran into a group of Roman's teammates. The silence that fell over them was instantaneous. They looked at Roman, then at me, their expressions a mix of shock and knowing amusement.

"Damn, Roman," one of the linebackers grinned, shaking his head. "I thought you said you were taking a break from the drama."

Roman stopped, pulling me flush against him, his arm wrapping around my waist in a gesture that was blatantly possessive. He looked at his teammate with a cold, triumphant smile.

"I am," Roman replied, his voice echoing in the concrete tunnel. "I'm done with the drama. I've moved on to something much more dangerous."

He looked down at me, his eyes burning with a hunger that promised that the game on the field was nothing compared to the game he intended to play with me once the final whistle blew. I leaned into him, a smile of my own tugging at my lips. I had stepped into the lion's den, and for the first time in my life, I realized I didn't want to be the prey. I wanted to be the one holding the leash.