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She glances up. Pauses.

Then she narrows her eyes.

“Ohhh. Sothat’swhy the big guy’s been walking around with the goofiest smirk on his face since before I got here at six a.m. He was practically humming in the locker room.”

I arch a brow. “Humming?”

“Like a man who’s spent the weekend getting laid, or he just won the lottery.”

“Maybe he just likes snow.”

“Mm-hmm,” she says, totally unconvinced.

“You two good?”

My stomach flips.

Because,yeah, we’re good. At least, Ithinkwe are.

But there’s a fine line between good and real, and I’m still trying to figure out where we land.

“We’re figuring it out,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek.

Finley smiles, soft but sly.

“Well, in case you missed it, you’re trending. Or should I say,you and Tankare. People are shipping it hard.”

“What?”

She taps the screen and turns it so I can see.

“Realtionshipping.You know, they are into this whole fake relationship thing. Very enthusiastic!”

I freeze.

There it is.

A blurry screenshot someone took from a long-range drone during the snowstorm.

The cabin, the glow of firelight through the window, and whatdefinitelylooks like a man hauling a blanket-covered woman out onto the porch to make snow angels.

“Oh my God,” I breathe. “Is that?—?”

“Yup,” she grins. “Welcome to fame, baby. You’re officially America’s sweetheart. And Tank is now ‘rugby’s sexiest sports snack.’”

I groan and bury my face in my hands.

This is fine.

Totally fine.

Just, you know, also a little bit terrifying.

“What’s the problem? You two were certainly lighting fires in those Thanksgiving sequences, I didn’t think this was a secret,” she observes,

“Oh, come on! I mean, yes, we were flirting a little in the clips I shared on the team’s socials. But I had no idea some paparazzi weirdo would stalk us and take a pic, for fuck’s sake!”

“There’s another,” she says, and her cheeks go bright red.