Chapter 12: Going Public
The roar of Paycor Stadium still thrummed in Whitney’s bones hours later, a phantom echo beneath the quiet hum of Joe’s private mansion. Relief, pure and heady, had given way to a different kind of intensity. Tangled in his sheets, clothed in a pajama set he had gotten her and him in his boxers, they’ve been getting more adventurous but never crossing that line. The distant city lights painted stripes across the ceiling, the world outside felt impossibly distant. His hands were everywhere, mapping territory with a reverence that stole her breath, his mouth hot against her throat, her collarbone, the sensitive skin just below her ear. She arched into him, a soft gasp escaping as his teeth grazed the spot. "Joe..." Her fingers tightened in his hair, anchoring herself as sensation threatened to sweep her away.
Later, much later, wrapped in the warm, drowsy aftermath of the intense make out session, Whitney traced the strong line of his jaw with her fingertip. He turned his head, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm, his eyes heavy-lidded but impossibly blue in the dim light. "Your parents," she murmured, a smile blooming. "They were amazing today. Your mom hugged me like she’d known me forever."
Joe chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "They adored you, Whit. Dad was already grilling me about the literacy van schematics on the way out. Mom just kept saying how ‘grounded’ you seemed." He pulled her closer, tucking her head under his chin. "Told you they’d see it."
Sunlight, sharp and unforgiving, streamed into the Bengals training facility the next morning. Joe walked through the gleaming corridors, the scent of chlorine from the hydrotherapy pool mixing with the sharp tang of disinfectant and the distant thump of weights. He felt good. Lighter. The turf toe was a memory, replaced by the satisfying ache of a hard-fought win and the lingering warmth of Whitney curled against him. He nodded at trainers, exchanged fist-bumps with early arrivals, his focus already shifting to film review. He didn’t notice the smudge of berry-red lipstick, stark against the crisp white collar of his team polo. Didn’t feel the faint, purpling mark strategically hidden just behind his right ear, below the hairline.
Ja’Marr, his best friend, spotted it first. The star receiver fell into step beside Joe as they approached the locker room. "Lookin' sharp, Nine," Ja’Marr said, his grin wide and knowing. His eyes flicked pointedly to Joe’s collar, then danced upwards, lingering near his ear. "Real sharp. Long night celebratin' the W? Or… someone?" He waggled his eyebrows.
Joe frowned, momentarily confused. He caught his reflection in the polished steel of a door. The lipstick stood out like a beacon. Heat crept up his neck. He rubbed at the collar instinctively, succeeding only in smearing it slightly. Then memory clicked – Whitney, laughing, pulling him down for a quick, fierce kiss before he’d left her sleeping that morning. "Shit," he muttered, but a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. The mark behind his ear felt suddenly conspicuous.
Inside the locker room, the low buzz of conversation dipped for a split second. Eyes – curious, amused, speculative – tracked his progress to his stall. Teammates exchanged glances. A low whistle came from near the showers. Ted Karras, the veteran center, leaned back in his chair, a slow grin spreading. "Well, well. Someone had a better night than my sore back." He nodded towards Joe's collar. "That the Literacy Angel’s signature? Gotta say, Burrow, didn't peg her for the marking-her-territory type. Respect."
Joe chucked his towel at Karras, but his cheeks were definitely warm now. "Shut it, Ted. Film room. Ten minutes." He kept his tone light, dismissing, but the message was sent, received, and instantly disseminated through the locker room grapevine. Joe Burrow was officially, visibly, off the market. And the small-town girl with the big program had left her mark.
Liv materialized beside him as he was pulling his playbook from his bag. Her arrival was silent, sudden, radiating controlled displeasure. Her sharp gaze didn't miss the smudged collar or the way Joe subtly angled his head away. "My office," she stated, her voice clipped, devoid of its usual professional warmth. "Now."
The glass walls of Liv’s office offered no privacy. Joe followed her in, closing the door against the lingering stares. Liv didn't sit. She turned, arms crossed, her expression glacial. "Care to explain the walking billboard?" She gestured sharply at his neck, her voice a low hiss. "Or should I just pull up TMZ right now and see what creative caption they’ve paired with the inevitable zoom-in shots?"
Joe met her glare, his own expression hardening. The lightness he'd felt moments ago evaporated under her scrutiny. "It’s lipstick, Liv. Not a declaration of war."
"It’s a flashing neon sign!" she snapped, stepping closer. "After everything we talked about? After the warnings? Control the narrative, Joe! Don’t hand it to them gift-wrapped with a hickey bow!" She practically spat the last word, her eyes blazing. "The rehab focus, the comeback story, the wholesome literacy angle – it was pristine! And now this? It looks…" She searched for the word, distaste twisting her features. "Reckless. Juvenile. Like you're distracted. Again."
The accusation hung in the air. Joe didn't flinch. He’d known this was coming. He took a deliberate step forward, closing the distance until he was looking down at her, the force of his presence pushing against her anger. "She’s not a distraction, Liv. She’s not an ‘angle’. She’s Whitney." His voice was low, steady, carrying absolute finality. "And she’s staying in my life."
Liv stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The fury was still there, banked but fierce. She saw the resolve in his eyes, the same unyielding certainty he had on the field facing a fourth and goal. This wasn’t the Joe who blew off rehab. This was the Joe who won against impossible odds. He wasn’t asking permission.
Liv’s shoulders tightened. "Fine," she bit out, the word sharp and brittle. "Have your fling. But you will control the optics. You will be at every practice, every meeting, every promotional obligation the team schedules. You will make sure your ‘focus’ is unimpeachable. Because if you cost this team, if you cost yourself, because you’re too busy playing house with a college student—"
"She graduates in six weeks," Joe interrupted, his voice cutting through hers with icy precision. "And she’s coming to the NFL Honors."
The statement landed like a physical blow. Liv actually blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. The NFL Honors. The glitziest, most scrutinized night in the league calendar outside the Super Bowl. Red carpets, network cameras, every major player, sponsor, and journalist in the sport crammed into one room. Bringing Whitney there wasn’t just going public; it was launching her directly into the heart of the relentless, unforgiving spotlight he’d described to her in her dorm room what felt like a lifetime ago.
"You cannot be serious," Liv breathed, the anger momentarily replaced by disbelief. "Joe, that event… the exposure… the questions…"
"Is exactly where she belongs," Joe stated, his gaze never leaving Liv’s. "By my side. She’s earned it. The program, the press she’s navigated… she can handle it." There wasn't a flicker of doubt in his voice. "I’ve already cleared her as my plus one with the league office."
Liv’s carefully composed mask finally cracked, revealing pure, unadulterated incredulity. "You… you cleared it? Without consulting me? Without a plan?" She ran a hand through her sleek hair, a rare sign of agitation. "Do you have any idea the storm this will kick up? The ‘Literacy Angel’ and the Franchise Quarterback, making their red-carpet debut? They’ll dissect her dress, her hair, her past, her faith, Joe! They’ll speculate about your future, her motives, whether she’s distracting you! It’s a circus, and you just handed her a front-row ticket!"
Joe remained unmoved. "Then it's a circus she'll walk into with me. We handle it. Together." He picked up his playbook from her desk where he’d dropped it. "Now, I have film study. Ted’s waiting."
He turned to leave, the conversation clearly over. As his hand touched the cool glass doorknob, Liv’s voice stopped him, cold and precise. "This is happening, then? No turning back?"
Joe paused, looking back at her. The early morning sun glinted off the steel and glass of the facility, a stark reminder of the high-stakes world they inhabited. He thought of Whitney’s smile, the fierce light in her eyes when she talked about the kids, the quiet strength beneath the nerves. The smudged lipstick felt like a brand, not of ownership, but of choice. His choice.
"No turning back," he confirmed, his voice firm. He pulled the door open. The noise of the facility – the clatter, the shouts, the relentless hum of ambition – rushed in. "She’s in. All the way." He stepped through, leaving Liv alone in her glass cage, staring after him, the specter of the blinding NFL Honors spotlight already casting its long, demanding shadow. The game off the field had just entered a new, infinitely more public quarter.
The game off the field had just entered a new, infinitely more public quarter. The air inside the Bengals training facility buzzed with a different kind of energy later that week – the focused thrum of drills mixed with the low hum of media presence. Whitney smoothed the front of her forest green wrap dress, chosen specifically because Liv had tersely advised "something camera-ready, just in case." Her palms were damp. Liv stood beside her near the sideline of an auxiliary field, arms crossed, posture rigid as a steel beam. Her sharp eyes tracked Joe warming up nearby, then flicked to the approaching figure of Kyle Brandt, microphone in hand, trailed by a cameraman. "Deep breaths, Roberts," Liv murmured, not looking at her. "Don't fidget. Smile if he looks over. Look engaged, not terrified."
"Terrified is pretty accurate," Whitney whispered back, forcing her hands to still at her sides. She watched Joe finish a crisp throw to a trainer, then turn, spotting Brandt. A relaxed grin spread across Joe's face as he strode over, clasping Kyle's hand. "Kyle! Good to see you man." The easy camaraderie was palpable, a stark contrast to Whitney's coiled tension. The camera light blinked on.
"Joe Burrow! Back slingin' it!" Brandt boomed, his energy infectious. "Turf toe? What turf toe? Lookin' mobile!" They fell into an easy rhythm, discussing the win, the relief of being back. Brandt shifted gears. "Alright, gotta ask – biggest superhero comeback? Wolverine? Or Joe Burrow?" Joe chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "Wolverine heals fast, man. I had to put in the damn work. Hours in the pool, the weight room...sucked." His voice was light, but Whitney heard the underlying grit, remembered the late-night texts about ice packs and frustration. Liv shifted slightly beside her.
The conversation flowed – the pressure of the city, the specific challenges of rehabbing a quarterback's foot. Brandt was skilled, drawing out thoughtful answers without feeling intrusive. Then, seamlessly, he pivoted. "Speaking of support systems... gotta talk about the buzz. The 'Literacy Angel'." Brandt gestured vaguely towards Whitney and Liv. "Whitney Roberts. Her story’s everywhere. Battling MS, building this incredible program... and now, seems like she's got a pretty prominent fan?" He raised his eyebrows, playful but probing. "What's it been like having that kind of... positive force around during the grind?"
Joe didn't hesitate. He turned slightly, his gaze finding Whitney instantly across the field. The intensity in his blue eyes pinned her in place, stripping away the sidelines, the camera, Liv. A small, genuine smile touched his lips. "Whitney?" His voice softened, carrying clearly. "She's... incredible. Honestly." He looked back at Kyle, his tone firming, resonant with conviction. "Watching her fight for those kids, push through her own stuff with that smile... it puts things in perspective. Football's intense, yeah. But seeing her passion? Her drive?" He shook his head slightly, a look of pure admiration crossing his face. "It’s motivating as hell. Reminds you what real toughness looks like." His gaze flicked back to Whitney, holding hers for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "She’s special. Really special."
Heat flooded Whitney's cheeks, a dizzying mix of shock and profound warmth spreading through her chest. Liv let out a slow, almost imperceptible exhale beside her. Brandt grinned, sensing the gold. "Sounds like more than just a literacy partner, Joe?" Joe just smiled, a slow, confident curve of his lips. "She's definitely a big part of the good things happening right now, Kyle. A really big part." He didn't elaborate, didn't need to. The message, delivered calmly and directly into the camera, was unequivocal. Liv uncrossed her arms, her posture relaxing a fraction. She gave Whitney's elbow the briefest, most unexpected nudge. "Okay," she muttered under her breath, the word barely audible. "Okay, Joe." The interview wrapped with some final football talk, but the bombshell had landed. As Joe shook Kyle's hand again, he glanced once more towards Whitney. The connection crackled, charged and undeniable, even across the bright green turf. The private understanding they’d cherished was now public domain. The countdown to the Honors gala suddenly felt terrifyingly real, the blinding spotlight already warming the edges of her vision.
The countdown to the Honors gala suddenly felt terrifyingly real, the blinding spotlight already warming the edges of her vision. Kyle Brandt’s crew packed up, the sudden quiet on the sidelines amplifying the frantic thump of Whitney’s heart against her ribs. Joe jogged back towards the main building, throwing her a quick, reassuring glance over his shoulder before disappearing inside. Liv remained statue-still beside her, the sharp scent of her expensive perfume cutting through the lingering smell of turf and sweat. The silence stretched, thick and prickly.
"You handled that well," Liv stated abruptly, her gaze fixed ahead, not on Whitney. Her voice was flat, professional. "Didn't bolt. Didn't blush too much." A pause. "He meant every word, you know."
Whitney swallowed, her throat dry. "I know he did," she managed, her voice surprisingly steady. "That’s what makes it terrifying." She finally turned to face Liv fully, forcing herself to meet the agent’s assessing eyes. The memory of Liv’s fury in her dorm room, the accusation of being a distraction, a complication, was a cold stone in her stomach. But so was Liv’s grudging respect during the literacy program launch, her sharp efficiency. "Liv…" Whitney took a shaky breath, plunging in. "I need your help."
Liv’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched infinitesimally. "With?"
"With… me." Whitney gestured vaguely at herself, then towards the building where Joe had vanished. "With… this. The gala. The… everything that comes next." She squared her shoulders, channeling the determination she used facing skeptical school boards. "I need an agent. Someone Joe trusts implicitly. Someone who understands the machine he operates in. Someone ruthless enough to navigate it." She held Liv’s gaze, unflinching. "That’s you."
Liv’s expression didn’t flicker, but a subtle tension tightened around her eyes. "Me?"
"Yes." Whitney didn’t soften it. "Look, I haven’t forgotten you barging into my dorm room accusing me of being a fame-chaser. Or calling me a complication." She saw the briefest tightening of Liv’s jaw. "But I also saw you fight tooth and nail for Joe’s endorsements after the injury. I saw you pivot the literacy program press into gold. You protect what’s yours fiercely. And right now?" Whitney took another breath. "Joe is yours. This program, weirdly, is partly yours. And whether we like it or not, I am tangled up in both." She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping, intense. "I need someone who will protect me too. Not just Joe. Because protecting me is protecting him now. And vice versa. I trust you to do that. To protect us."
The silence returned, heavier this time. Liv studied Whitney, her gaze sharp as a scalpel, dissecting the plea. The chill of the facility seemed to seep into Whitney’s bones as she waited. Finally, Liv uncrossed her arms. A slow, almost imperceptible nod. "Alright, Roberts." Her voice was brisk, businesslike, but lacked its usual ice. "Consider me retained. We’ll draft terms. Standard commission for non-sports clients. Full disclosure: I’m expensive. And I don’t suffer fools."
Relief, sharp and sweet, flooded Whitney. "Understood." A tentative smile touched her lips. "So… agent… what’s step one? Besides the terrifying contract?"
Liv’s lips twitched, the ghost of something resembling amusement. "Step one, client," she said, pulling out her phone with practiced efficiency, "is surviving your debut without becoming a meme. The NFL Honors." She tapped her screen, pulling up a calendar. "Three weeks. Red carpet. Network cameras. Every vulture with a press pass and an opinion." She glanced at Whitney’s forest green wrap dress. "First order of business: What the hell are you wearing?"
Panic fluttered anew. "I… I have no idea!" Whitney admitted, running a hand through her hair. "Formal? Black tie? How formal is formal? Do I need a train? Can I even walk in a train? And shoes…" She groaned. "Heels are… complicated." She gestured vaguely towards her legs, the unspoken reality of MS fatigue and balance.
Liv snorted, a surprisingly human sound. "Relax, Literacy Angel. Breathe." She started walking briskly towards the facility exit, Whitney scrambling to keep pace beside her. "We’ll handle it. No trains. Think elegance, not circus tent. Structure. Support." She eyed Whitney’s curves appraisingly, but without judgment – purely tactical. "We need silhouettes that flatter and allow you to move without fearing a faceplant on national television. Comfort is non-negotiable, but so is impact." She pulled up a contact. "I know people. Designers who specialize in… discretion and durability. We’ll get options. Fittings. Soon."
They stepped out into the crisp Cincinnati afternoon. Liv flagged down her waiting town car. "Your immediate homework," she said, opening the car door for Whitney, a gesture so unexpected it startled her. "Research past Honors red carpets. Note what you like, what you hate. Colors that work for you. We’ll strategize tomorrow." She paused, her hand on the door frame. "And Roberts?" Her gaze was direct. "This gala… it’s a battlefield. Glittery, but a battlefield nonetheless. Every glance, every word, every fabric choice will be weaponized. You ready for that?"
Whitney looked from Liv’s sharp, expectant face to the imposing Bengals facility behind them. She thought of Joe’s unwavering blue eyes, the kids waiting for books, the quiet strength of her covenants. The fear was still there, a cold knot, but beneath it surged something fiercer. "Ready as I’ll ever be," she said, sliding into the plush interior. The car door clicked shut, sealing her into the quiet luxury. As the car pulled away, the looming stadium shrinking in the rear window, Whitney pulled out her phone. Not to browse dresses, but to text Joe: Liv’s my agent now. Also, HELP. What even IS black tie optional? A moment later, her phone buzzed. A single laughing emoji. Then: Told you she’d come around. Don’t panic. We got this. P.S. Optional means wear the damn tie. A small, genuine laugh escaped her, cutting through the lingering dread. The battlefield awaited. But she wasn't marching onto it alone.