Holding (Moving the Chains Book 5)
Page 3
David sits at his desk and wakes up his computer, immediately opening several websites that I’m not at all familiar with. They look like trashy gossip rags, but for sports. “You’re right. It is not an intern’s place to question the methods of her boss. You’re getting a pass because you’re so eager to learn, and I admire that about you. It is as important to know our client as it is to know our enemy. For now, and under these circumstances, Fossoway must be treated as the enemy.”
“But that’s my point. He isn’t the enemy. This is the wrong play for this situation. Couldn’t we just—I don’t know—play up on the fact they’re old friends, and friends sometimes argue?”
David stares at me with a deadpan expression that screams, Shut up and let me do the heavy lifting, darling.
Yes, he calls everyone darling. And yes, I’m well aware my co-workers think I’m too inexperienced to handle this delicate situation. Let’s not even mention the fact that I know virtually nothing about football and am only well-versed at online stalking my favorite band rather than ripped professional athletes.
Honestly, I’m not even sure how my dad got me this internship that most college grads in my position would be thanking their lucky stars to land.
David rests his elbows on his desktop then steeples his fingers. It’s a sure sign he’s about to put me in my place, which he never hesitates to do in equal measure as taking me under his wing. “You researched enough to know our client, Mike Mitchell, is old friends with enemy number one, Alex Fossoway. And yet you never questioned why I felt the need to carefully choose your attire for today’s meet-cute, in spite of needing to use our lunch hour to shop for your clothing. You either didn’t notice or chose to remain willfully ignorant of the bets being placed in the department about whether the team would mistake you for a hooker. And you have yet to tell me how receptive Mr. Mitchell is to your new role in his life. So, please. Explain to me why I should heed your suggestion about the best way to proceed with righting this media nightmare.”
“As a gay man, you should be more supportive of one of our players having his sexuality questioned after a stupid fight that probably had nothing to do with sex at all!” I slap my hands over my mouth to stop any actual vomit that might escape after all the verbal diarrhea I just released on probably the worst possible target in the department. Surely, he’s going to eviscerate me for that completely honest yet horribly abrasive statement.
Surprisingly, he smiles. It’s not even evil like Kaylie’s usual grins. “Tori, you’re cute. I like you. But you have a lot to learn if you want to succeed in any career in public relations. As a gay man, I know firsthand how questions about sexuality can impact a professional male athlete.”
Oh, now I just feel like dirt.
He gestures with his finger for me to lean down, presumably to keep our conversation more private. Like I should have.
His gaze gentles as his eyes roam over my face that’s—once again—probably the same color as my hair. “You’ve just been given the kind of assignment no one in this industry will ever bestow upon me even though I have a proven track record of doing a damn good job. Management doesn’t trust me to be professional, and neither do the players. In a world where sex sells, they don’t want to buy what they believe I might try to peddle. Do you understand?”
I don’t actually. “If most professional athletes are heterosexual, then shouldn’t working with a member of the opposite sex be even more frowned upon? I might not know him personally, but Mike Mitchell seems like a genuinely good guy. I’m sure he’d be happy for the best possible PR person the Wolves have on staff to represent him. He wouldn’t care you’re gay.”
David shakes his head. “Oh, darling.”
There it is.
“You’re so naïve.” He pats my hand that’s resting on his desk. “No worries though. We’ll fix you right up and send you on your way, ready to tackle whichever industry you land in.”
And there it is again. I may be young, but I’m not as stupid as they think I am.
Pick up. Pick up. Please, pick up.
Just as I’m about to end the call, she answers. “What?”
“You sound like shit. What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been throwing up all day.” A crackly sigh filters through the speakers. “I don’t think I’m done yet, so make it quick.”
On instinct, I hop out of my cushy leather recliner and search for my keys. By the time I’m slipping my sneakers on at the front door, I realize…I can’t do a damn thing. “Why did you have to move to New York City?”
“Because this is where I got a job.”
“You could’ve gotten a job in Albany just as easily! If you weren’t almost three hours away, I could take care of you!” I toe off my shoes and retreat back to my living room where SportsCenter is still on the TV that I never bothered to turn off in my rush.
I brace for the expected I don’t need anyone to take care of me.
“Why did you call, Mike?” She doesn’t even argue, so she must be feeling really shitty.
I hate to burden her with my problems when she’s so sick, but there’s no one else who has the perfect mix of insider knowledge to help me sort out this mess. “The team assigned me a PR rep, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Um, listen to him and do whatever he says?”
“It’s a she. And I can’t do that.”
Evie cackles then coughs. “Oh, that’s hilarious. A woman is about to own you. I actually do wish I lived closer to witness this for myself.”
“Hey! I get along just fine with women!”
“Sure,” she drags out. “Whatever you say, Mikey.”
“You’re my best friend, and you’re a woman. What does that tell you?”
“It tells me I’m stupidly loyal. A fact you love throwing in my face when it suits you.”
I click the remote to turn off the TV when a clip of Rob’s latest game plays. “I deserve your loyalty. Unlike some people who you still haven’t served divorce papers.”
“Right.” Her voice is tight like she might actually be swallowing back the puke she warned me about. “Good talk. Bye.”
“Wait!” I listen for a beat to make sure she hasn’t hung up on me yet. I’m willing to hold while she throws up if it means nipping this problem in the bud now. “How am I supposed to keep this PR chick from poking into things I don’t want the whole world to know?”
Another deep sigh carries across the line. “Shit. I do empathize with that.”
“I know you do,” I choke out around the ball lodged in my throat. “And you’re one of the only people who knows what sort of skeletons are hiding in my closet. These scavengers find things that we think are buried. It’s their job. And I can’t…” I breathe through the vise grip around my chest. “I can’t let that happen. Not again. I couldn’t protect you. Help me at least protect them.”
Evie blows out a breath that cuts straight to my heart. “Use me as bait. All my skeletons are already exposed, but it still might be a good enough distraction to keep her from digging any further into the past.”
“What? No way! You’ve been through enough!”
There’s a clattering sound followed by unmistakable retching. After a toilet flushes, her voice is hoarse and monotone. “Apparently not.”
“Evie…” I hate to kick her when she’s down, but maybe if she would just listen to me, she wouldn’t be down so low. “Are you even taking your meds anymore?”
“Yeah. They’re just not working anymore. We’re not talking about me tonight. You called to talk about your problems for once. I’m trying to help you, so why don’t you just accept it?”
“And you call me a hypocrite?” I’d laugh if this conversation wasn’t so fucking sad. “I’m not going to use you as a distraction. There’s gotta be another option. We just haven’t thought of it yet.”
“Well…play nice. Don’t get into any more fights with people who used to be your friends. That’s the most obvious option.”
“Sometimes the most brilliant solutions are the simplest.”
“Yeah? Then divorce Rob already.”
She hangs up on me.
Great. I’m so screwed.
The sound competes with the reality show on my television, instantly springing goosebumps across my skin. No one ever knocks on my door. I glance at the clock. A little after eight, so not too late to automatically mean trouble. Not early enough to be a neighbor seeking a cup of sugar either. Do people even do that anymore?
I grab the baseball bat my brother gave me from its resting spot by the door before checking the peephole, then I tighten my grip around the Louisville slugger. I might be needing it after all.
Still, it’s my job, so I swing the door open to reveal a very irritated-looking Mike Mitchell.
For some reason, the sight of me guarding the entrance to my tiny kingdom makes him crack a smile. He raises his hands in defense. “I definitely can’t mistake you for a hooker now.”
I glance down at my SpongeBob SquarePants pajamas that were a gift from Ben. Because he knows how much I love cartoons. Another furious blush heats my cheeks as I lower my weapon. “I…” I cough to force my voice into something resembling professional. “My apologies. I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
Mike stuffs his hands in the pockets of his worn, faded jeans. He stares at his sneakers. “I wasn’t expecting to be handed a PR person, but here we are.”
“Here we are…” I trail off, unsure why this up-and-coming celebrity is even standing in the dingy hallway of my apartment building after he stormed off from our first meeting.
With his eyes still firmly fixed on the ground, he clears his throat before speaking with more confidence than his appearance suggests. “I’m sorry to bother you after work hours, but I wanted to…apologize.” He winces then takes a deep breath. “We got off on the wrong foot, but I wanted to take the opportunity to set the record straight. I swear I’m not a spoiled asshole football player who thinks he’s above the rules. I understand my poor behavior caused all this, and I’m ready to make amends. I asked my coach for your address, so I could offer you my total cooperation.”
Huh. This is completely unexpected. I can’t afford not to run with the golden opportunity he’s laying at my feet. Or, maybe…his feet. Which he still won’t quit staring at.
“Thank you for the olive branch. Apology accepted. Would you like to come in? We can get started right away if that’s what you want.” I totally don’t have a plan for this, but marketing is nothing if not pivoting direction when the situation warrants. It actually is my job to keep him as occupied as possible when he’s not under the direct supervision of his coaches.
“Sure. Thank you.”
Several beats of silence pass by as he remains frozen outside my front door, avoiding eye contact.
“Is everything all right?”
He makes this weird sort of choking sound and gestures with his hand toward vaguely where I’m standing. “I don’t want to offend you again, but could you maybe, uh…cover up a little? I’m cool to wait here if you want to change.”
I know SpongeBob isn’t a business suit, but geez. What’s this guy’s problem? He’s the one who showed up on my doorstep after all. He could’ve just called or texted.
“Excuse me?”
“Side boob,” he coughs out, almost barely audible.
I glance down again, and sure enough. I am dangerously close to giving him a reason to think I’m a sex worker. My tank top is twisted so far to one side that I’m in a full-on wardrobe malfunction with a nip slip. “Oh my God! Please, come in! I’ll be right back!” I fling the front door open wide before hightailing it down the hallway to my bedroom. I call to him as I yank a hoodie from my closet, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Mitchell!”
“Please don’t call me Mr. Mitchell,” he yells back with a strained voice.
By the time I’m covered enough and already sweating in leggings and my old university hoodie, he’s sitting on my couch, one of my throw pillows strategically on his lap.
His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and he swallows thickly. “We good?”
“I’m so sorry, Monk.” Every part of me feels as red as my hair. For so many reasons. The heat further short-circuits my brain. “I mean, Mr. Mitchell. I mean, Mike. If it makes you feel any better, the other day in the weight room was like live porn to me. It’s been years since I’ve had sex either.”
I’m going to throw up. Seriously. How bad can I possibly screw myself over? Why on earth did I think I could salvage this horrid assignment into a professionally beneficial launching pad?
His chest rumbles with a strange mix of sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a whimper. He thumps his head back against my couch. “You know about that stupid nickname?”
I cringe. “Yeah. I have it on my list of things to help you improve upon.”
He trains a suddenly sharp gaze on me. His gorgeous brown eyes are all business. “What else do you know about me?”
I gesture to the bean bag situated in the corner of my little living room—a relic from college I can neither afford nor bear to part with. I mouth silently, I’m just going to sit over here. Quickly, I turn off the TV before he can judge me for my choice of programming. Not that he shouldn’t be judging me. There’s plenty to judge tonight.
He nods but doesn’t break his forceful eye contact, obviously waiting on my answer.
I pull my laptop from the coffee table as I collapse into the soft, pink cushion. My file on him is already front and center on the screen. “Um, just the basics. Your position and number on the roster. Stats so far this season. Where you went to college and high school, and how you performed there. When you were selected in the draft. Since we’re already in the habit of not holding anything back…” My self-deprecating laugh does nothing to relieve my anxiety. Or his, by the looks of it. “It’s not a ton to work with, honestly.”
Honesty must be the best policy when dealing with Mike Mitchell because he finally relaxes, and the expression on his face turns into a bright smile. “Great! That’s why I’m here! To give you something to work with!”
He wouldn’t be so excited if he knew the Albany marketing team already has plenty of dirt to work with. This is just another chance to prove myself. To the team and to him. Then again, maybe he already knows I’m just his babysitter, and he wants to use that to his full advantage. A good marketing agent always runs an A/B test on any theory. I glance at the pillow still covering his crotch.
He follows my gaze then snaps me a wide-eyed stare. “I did not mean it that way.”
I have too much to lose to get smothered by this blanket of awkward sexual tension. He might be scorchingly hot, but he’s off limits. Our abysmal sex lives have no place in this relationship. We’re co-workers. He’s my client. Sort of. That kiss between us that I keep replaying? The one that was Oscar-worthy even though it was built on total miscommunication? I hit my mental delete button.
With a few cleansing breaths and a renewed vow to be a true professional, I square my shoulders. “You know what? Let’s start over. I’m Tori Russo, and I’ve been assigned as your PR manager. I’m at your service.”
The thing about marketing is that you have to be good at bending the truth. Not blatantly lying because most people can see through that in a heartbeat. Spinning the truth for the purposes of accomplishing a goal is fair game though. If I had told Mike the Wolves assigned me to be his handler, he would never have shown up at my door to offer his cooperation. My little white lie benefits him as much as it does me. He gets to save face, and I get more experience.
Mike nods. His chest heaves with a deep sigh. “I’m Mike Mitchell. And…apparently, I’m in trouble. I would appreciate your help with turning around my image very much.”
“I can definitely do that.” I fl
ash him a smile that hopefully conveys we’re starting with a clean slate.
“So…” He blows out a forceful breath then places the throw pillow in its original position in the corner of the couch. “Where should we start?”
I can’t help but sneak a peek at his crotch. It seems his issue is completely under control now, which means we’re finally on the same page. “You said you came here to offer me your total cooperation. I admitted I don’t have much information to market you with. How about if we start there? How would you like me to present you to the world?”
His relaxed posture doesn’t match his heated words. That’s a skill we can use to our advantage if he can be taught to use it all the time. His body language has been all over the place so far tonight. “I’d rather you not market me at all. I want to prove myself on the field by working hard, but my coaches flat-out told me if I don’t play nice with you, they’ll bench me.”
I wince because I empathize with his situation more than he knows.
No one made me aware of how much is on the line for Mike in this arrangement. As far as I know, I’m just supposed to keep him out of trouble by being a glorified babysitter while feeding intel to the actual marketing department. The words “look pretty and be a good distraction” might have been used. Which I have no intention of doing. Mike’s just given me a very good reason to add to my list for not doing exactly what I’ve been told.
“I want to make this as easy as possible on you, so let’s start at the beginning.” I have my own ideas, but it’s time to run another test. “Tell me what the fight between you and Alex Fossoway was about.”
“I would rather not,” he states flatly. “It was personal. Our argument had nothing to do with football.”
So, when he told me he was here to offer his full cooperation, he lied. That makes me feel a little bit better about my ruse. “Because you’re old friends, and friends sometimes fight?”
Darn it. I wasn’t supposed to lead him in any way.