Chapter 4 The Lion's Den
Iris Reed.
Marshall’s apartment was exactly what I expected it to be; clean, cold, and expensive. It was located in a modern complex that overlooked the greener parts of city, far away from the chaos of the main student housing.
There were no dirty laundry piles or empty pizza boxes. Instead, everything was neat. It felt more like a showroom than a home.
“Sit,” he commanded, pointing to a massive L-shaped charcoal sofa that probably cost more than my car.
Huffing I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window instead, looking out at the city. “Do you ever stop giving orders, Marshall? Or is it just a biological reflex at this point?”
“When you start making smart decisions, I’ll stop making them for you,” he replied. He dropped his gym bag by the door and kicked off his sneakers.
He moved through the space with an effortless familiarity, removing his hoodie to reveal a plain black tank top underneath. The muscles in his back rippled as he reached into a cupboard for two glasses.
He poured water for both of us and walked over, handing me a glass. His fingers brushed mine again. It was becoming a habit, a deliberate one. He stayed in my personal space, forcing me to look up at him.
“I have three hours of game footage to review,” he said, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register.
“The desk in the corner is yours. It has a charger, high-speed Wi-Fi, and it’s quiet. Write your book. Don’t get up unless you’re going to the kitchen or the bathroom.”
I took a sip of the water, trying to hide the fact that my hands were shaking. “And if I decide to leave? What then? Are you going to tackle me like a wide receiver?”
Marshall leaned down, his face so close I could see the dark ring around his irises. “I’m a quarterback, Iris. I don’t tackle. . If you walk out that door, I won't chase you. I’ll just call the campus security office and tell them your car was stolen which, technically, it was, since I have the keys.”
“You are a villain,” I breathed.
“I’m the villain who’s keeping you from being a headline,” he countered. He straightened up and walked toward the massive television mounted on the wall. “The desk now.”
I stomped over to the desk. It was a beautiful piece of dark wood, perfectly positioned so that if I sat there, my back would be to him. I opened my laptop, the glow of the screen reflecting in the polished surface.
I tried to focus on my manuscript—a romance about a girl who falls for a man who actually treats her like a human being nothing like the devil behind me —but the sound of the television kept pulling me back.
For the next two hours, the only sounds in the room were the clicking of my keyboard and the muffled voices of sports commentators on the screen.
Marshall was locked in. He sat on the edge of the sofa with a notebook in his lap, scribbling notes as he watched plays over and over again. He would rewind a specific five-second clip of a defensive line ten times, his eyes narrowed in total concentration.
This was the Legend everyone talked about. It wasn't just talent; Marshall was obsessive about football and dedicated to perfection. It was the same intensity he was currently aiming at me.
I found myself staring at his reflection in the window.
He looked younger when he was focused like this, less like a campus god and more like a man carrying the weight of a thousand expectations. I wondered if Soren knew how much pressure Marshall was under.
I wondered if anyone did.
“You’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes,” Marshall said, not looking up from the screen.
I jumped, my fingers hitting a random string of keys. “I was... plotting.”
“You were watching me,” he said. He finally looked over his shoulder, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “It’s okay, Little Reed. I’m used to it.”
“I was not watching you. I was wondering why anyone would watch the same play ten times. It’s boring.”
Marshall stood up, stretching his arms over his head. The movement pulled his tank top tight against his chest, and I quickly looked back at my screen.
He walked over to the kitchen and started pulling out ingredients for a sandwich.
“It’s not boring when you’re looking for the crack,” he said. “Every defense has one. A shoulder that dips too low, a foot that’s a fraction of an inch out of place. If you find the crack, you win. If you don’t, you get hit.”
He started assembling a sandwich with the same precision he used for football. “Life is the same way. People have cracks. Your brother’s crack is his ego. Yours is your curiosity.”
“And yours?” I asked, turning my chair around to face him. “What’s the crack in Marshall North?”
He stopped, a knife in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other. He looked at me for a long beat, the silence stretching until it felt like a physical weight.
“You,” he said.
The word was so quiet I almost missed it. My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest. “What?”
“You’re my crack, Iris,” he said, stepping around the kitchen island. He walked toward me, his movements slow and predatory.
“You’ve always been. Since we were kids and you used to hide my footballs so Soren would stay home and play with you. Since you started writing those stories and looking at the world like it was something you could just invent. You’re the only thing I can’t predict. The only thing I can’t control.”
He reached the desk and leaned his hands on the surface, pinning me into the chair. He was so close I could smell the faint scent of mint and sweat.
“Soren thinks I’m doing this as a favor,” Marshall whispered, his eyes dark with a hunger that had nothing to do with lunch.
“But the truth is, I’ve been waiting for him to leave for three years. I’ve been waiting for a reason to put you in my car, to bring you to my house, and to make sure you have nowhere else to look but at me.”
“Marshall,” I breathed, my voice trembling. “You’re... you’re supposed to be my protector.”
“I am,” he said, his thumb reaching out to trace the line of my jaw. His touch was electric, sending a jolt of heat straight to my core. “But don’t mistake my protection for friendship. I’m not your friend, Iris. I never was and never will be"
He leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear, echoing the moment from the night before but with a thousand times more intensity. “I’m the guy who’s been dreaming about the day your brother finally looked away. And now that he has... I’m never letting you go back.”
He pulled away just enough to look me in the eye. I expected to see a joke, a tease, some sign that he was just trying to get a rise out of me. But there was nothing but raw, unfiltered honesty.
“Now,” he said, his voice returning to its normal, cool tone as if he hadn't just shattered my entire reality.
“Eat your sandwich. We have to be at the stadium in an hour for the pre-game walkthrough.”
“I’m not going to the stadium,” I said, my voice sounding far away.
“Yes, you are,” Marshall said, handing me a plate. “You’re going to sit in the front row of the bleachers. You’re going to wear my spare jersey and watch me.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said, heading back to the sofa to turn off the TV. “I play better when I know exactly where my prize is sitting.”
I looked down at the sandwich, then at the man who had just claimed me in a way I didn't think was possible. I was an author and fluent in words but as I sat in Marshall North’s silent, beautiful apartment, I realized that words were useless against a man like him.
I finished my lunch in silence, the air between us charged with a new, dangerous energy. Marshall didn't look at me again, but I could feel him. I could feel his eyes on me even when he was looking at the screen.
An hour later, we were back in the SUV, heading toward the Novak University stadium. The stadium lights were already flickering on, glowing against the darkening sky.
Marshall pulled into the players lot, but he didn't get out right away. He reached into the backseat and pulled out a folded piece of fabric. He tossed it into my lap.
It was a jersey. Heavy, purple with a large white 07 on the back.
“Put it on,” he said.
“Marshall, everyone will see.”
“That’s the point,” he replied, his hand reaching out to tuck my strand of hair behind my ear.
"Fine! Let's get it over with"
I pulled the jersey over my head. It swallowed me, the hem reaching my mid-thigh.As we stepped out of the car, the roar of the early crowd began to echo from the stands. Marshall walked beside me, his hand resting on the small of my back, guiding me through the gates.
“Go to the front row,” he whispered as we reached the sidelines. “Don't leave until the whistle blows. I'll be watching.”
I climbed the steps to the bleachers, the jersey felt heavy on my shoulders. As I sat down, I looked down at the field. Marshall was standing at the fifty-yard line, surrounded by his teammates.
He looked up, caught my eye, and gave a single, slow nod.
