Breaking Bro Code

18

Roman stopped just outside the locker room doors, the heavy steel barrier separating the public spectacle from the inner sanctum of the team. He turned me toward him, his hands framing my face, his thumbs grazing my cheekbones. The roar of the stadium was a physical force now, vibrating through the concrete walls.

"I have to go do my job," he said, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register. "You’re going to be in the owner's suite. My security will take you there. They’ll keep the vultures away, but they can’t stop the internet."

"I can handle the internet," I said, though my heart was hammering.

"I know you can," he murmured, his eyes searching mine. "But just remember: once you're up there, you're not just Nolan's sister or a guest. You're the woman on Roman Alexander's arm. Every move you make, every look you give, is going to be dissected. Don't give them an inch. Be the storm, Allie."

He kissed me then—not the hungry, desperate kiss of the bedroom, but something sharp and commanding. It was a seal, a contract signed in adrenaline and silk. Then, without another word, he turned and vanished into the locker room, the doors slamming shut behind him.

The walk to the suite was a blur of luxury and tension. The security guards were stone-faced, treating me with a mix of caution and curiosity. When I finally stepped into the private box, the view was staggering. The field was a brilliant, neon green under the stadium lights, and the crowd was a sea of shifting colors and noise.

I didn't even have time to sit down before I felt my phone vibrate in my clutch. I pulled it out, and the screen was a disaster.

Instagram notifications were scrolling so fast they were a blur. Twitter was trending. I clicked on a trending hashtag—#RomanAndTheMysteryGirl—and saw the photos. The shots of us exiting the Lamborghini, the way Roman had gripped my waist in the tunnel, the dress that left nothing to the imagination. The comments were a war zone: some calling me a gold-digger, some praising my bravery, others speculating on who I was.

Then, a text message popped up at the top of my screen.

**Nolan: I saw the photos. You’ve lost your mind. Get out of that stadium and call me right now, or I swear to God, I will come up there and drag you out myself.**

I stared at the screen, the old Allie screaming for me to apologize, to panic, to run back to the safety of my brother's protection. But then I looked down at the field.

The teams were emerging from the tunnel. The crowd erupted in a sound so loud it felt like the world was splitting open. And there he was.

Roman didn't look like the 'Golden Boy' today. He looked like a warlord. He was locked in, his eyes hidden behind a dark visor, his movements predatory and precise. As he took his position on the line, he did something he never did. He didn't look at the scoreboard or the coach.

He looked up.

He found the owner's suite, and though we were hundreds of feet apart, I felt his gaze lock onto mine. He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He just stared, a silent acknowledgment that this game was for me.

The whistle blew, and the chaos began.

Watching Roman play was like watching a controlled explosion. He didn't just run; he tore through the opposing defense, his power raw and terrifying. Every hit he made sounded like a car crash; every yard he gained felt like a victory for the new version of myself. I found myself leaning over the railing, cheering not for the team, but for the man who had stripped away my inhibitions and dared me to be dangerous.

By the fourth quarter, the energy in the stadium was electric. Roman had played the game of his life, a performance of pure, unadulterated aggression. When the final whistle blew and his team secured the win, the stadium descended into madness.

But Roman didn't celebrate with his teammates. He didn't do the choreographed dance or the interview with the sideline reporter.

He walked straight toward the stands, ignoring the cameras and the cheering fans. He stopped at the edge of the field, right beneath my suite. He looked up at me, his jersey stained with grass and blood, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with a victory that had nothing to do with the score on the board.

He reached up, his hand gripping the edge of the balcony, and looked me dead in the eye.

"Come down here," he commanded, his voice barely audible over the noise but echoing in my soul.

I didn't hesitate. I didn't check my phone for Nolan's latest threat. I turned and ran toward the stairs, leaping from the safety of the suite and diving straight into the roar of the crowd, heading straight for the man who had taught me that the only way to survive the crash was to enjoy the ride.