Holding (Moving the Chains Book 5)

by Kata Čuić

  “Yep.” He nods. “You’ve got it. Wow. You’re really good at this whole marketing thing. Case closed. Guess we’re done here.”

  I watch in confusion as he hops up from his seat on my couch and wipes his hands down the front of his jeans that cling to his muscular thighs. “Mr. Mitchell? I mean…Mike? We’re not nearly done here. Remember the whole threat about getting benched thing?”

  He offers me a completely fake smile before plopping back down. “Oh, right. Well, can’t blame a guy for hoping.”

  I sigh. This is going to be more difficult than I thought. My career ambitions have always been corporate marketing, not personal. If I’m going to make lemonade out of lemons, I have to hone in on my primary target market—Mike Mitchell. I need to sell myself to him before I can promote him to the masses. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you don’t really know how to market yourself, and the very idea of it makes you really uncomfortable. Can I suggest a quick exercise to give you a feel for how I can help you?”

  He nods again, but he also visibly swallows like I’ve just shoved a horse pill in his mouth.

  For his powerful size, I suddenly feel like I’m dealing with a skittish animal. With more than a little bumbling effort, I rise from my bean bag with my laptop in hand and oh, so slowly, approach to sit at his side. “This is going to be painless for you, I promise.” I thrust my computer toward him. “We’re going to use me for an example instead of working on you tonight, okay? Google my name.”

  As hoped, this is an easy enough task for him to complete. He does so with more than expected eagerness. “All right. You have every social media account known to man. Now what?”

  I grin at his compliment. I’ve been building curated content for years while working toward my degree. “Now, click a link. Any link.”

  At least he chuckles at my stupid game hostess impersonation. “Am I supposed to be looking for something specific?”

  “Nope. Just tell me what you think of when you look at my profile, timeline, and social interactions.”

  Instead of immediately firing off his initial impressions, he takes his time scrolling through one social media site then clicking the next link in the search results and doing the same. Another and another and another until he’s exhausted all easy possibilities.

  Already knowing he’s a man of action rather than words, I wait silently as he drinks his fill. I’m not even a celebrity, but the longer he reads the internet version of all about me, the more I squirm in my seat. This is good practice though. I can’t market him as effectively if I never get a chance to walk a mile in his shoes.

  He glances at me with a strange expression on his face. “I feel like I know you without really knowing you. Is this all fake? Or is this the real you?”

  “That’s the whole point,” I tell him gently. “I think—and please, feel free to correct me if I’m wrong—you’re the type of guy who values his privacy even though you’re in the limelight all of a sudden. I can help make fans feel like they know you and can relate to you, all without violating a shred of the privacy you hold so dear.”

  He drapes his arm over the back of my couch—an invisible touch against my shoulders. “Tori Russo…I have no idea who you really are, but I think this partnership could work after all.”

  That’s music to my ears.

  I hate away games. There’s something about being in a strange bed in a strange city with some dude who I’m not sure I want to be friends with snoring in the bed next to me that doesn’t make it easy to sleep.

  Templeman rolls over and starts talking in his sleep—mumbling about unicorns.

  Great. At least after years of sharing hotel rooms with Rob and Alex through high school and college, I knew what to expect even if it wasn’t always pretty. Or at least…I thought I knew those guys who were like my brothers. I also thought there were no secrets between us. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  I hate being wrong. Being wrong leads to nothing good. Trust is the absolute foundation for any relationship, and I’m running seriously low on that. My temples throb.

  I’ve had a constant headache all week. Another fucking fight with Alex turned my life upside down in just a few minutes. My pisshead teammates have been sending hookers my way all week. And then…the straw that’s breaking this camel’s back.

  Tori Russo. Vittoria is her full name. Saying it out loud gives my tongue a workout. Not that I’ve been practicing saying it out loud. At home. Alone.

  She reminds me of peaches with her orange hair, pink blushes, and pale skin. Peaches and cream. Cream I want to lap up like a starving cat.

  Cat. Pussy. Cream.

  I’m so fucked.

  Even my internal monologue is horny. This is all Evie’s fault with her insistence I date again, and my stupid teammates’ fault because of all their prostitute pranks. I was fine being in a committed relationship with my hand. Really.

  So, there’s a natural explanation for why I can’t stop fantasizing about bending Peaches over my kitchen table and…

  But I will not, cannot, let myself act on those fantasies. I haven’t jerked off once while thinking about her.

  Which honestly might be making my blue balls worse at this point. I’m not sure.

  I give up on sleep and roll on my side to grab my phone from the nightstand. A little green dot indicates she’s online.

  Not that I care.

  Okay, fine. I care a little. But only because I can still make this situation work to my advantage by using her the way she asked me to. She’s at my service as she said. Multiple times.

  Mike: Can’t sleep either? It’s after midnight.

  Tori: That is correct. Is something wrong?

  You need to rest before game day.

  Something is definitely wrong. I reach under the blankets and adjust my stiff dick in my shorts. I haven’t been faced with this much temptation since college. I can’t put my finger on why she’s getting under my skin more than any of the women Templeman has thrown my way. It’s annoying me to no end. I don’t have time for a distraction like her. I need these stupid hard-ons to stop, and the only way that might happen is if I get her out of my system. There has to be some flaw I can latch onto…

  Mike: Is your first name really Vittoria?

  Tori: It is.

  Just like your first name is really Michael even though you go by Mike.

  Is my name what’s keeping you awake?

  Only a little. That was just a warm up question.

  Mike: What if I tell you I also like SpongeBob?

  Are you going to use that against me?

  Tori: Against you? No. For you? Yes. But only if you want me to.

  So many things I’d like her to do for me, which is a huge problem.

  Mike: That doesn’t seem like something that would make me more relatable to football fans.

  Tori: Touché. It probably wouldn’t.

  I stare with way too much anticipation as those three little dots blink on my screen. She’s going to send me something big. Or else she’s typing, deleting, then trying again. I would know. Every word I text feels like a loaded gun, and I’m playing Russian roulette.

  Tori: I didn’t want to overwhelm you last night, and I definitely don’t want to keep you awake now, but I’d like you to think about five simple things that define who you are as a person. We’ll use those things to build curated content on your social media profiles to create a better image of you for the fans. For example, my five pillars of being are: SpongeBob, the beach, music, food allergy awareness, and family. You can make it as personal or as generic as you want, but it still has to be true to you.

  I reread her five things at least five times. So many questions pound on my poor brain, but it’s the last one that really sticks with me.

  Mike: You have five brothers, so I guess family is a big one for you. Your dad was in the Navy, and you don’t have a mom? That’s what I got from your social media. Doesn’t it feel weird I know that about you when yo
u’ve never told me yourself?

  Tori: Not really because that’s my life, and I’m used to it. Is that something that makes you curious to find out more about me?

  Yep. And that’s another problem. If it was just lust, I might have given up and jerked off until my dick was raw by now.

  Mike: I don’t want my family in the media. I chose to be a professional football player. They didn’t. Fame isn’t always a good thing.

  Tori: I agree with you, and I respect your decision to protect your family. We don’t have to use anything you’re uncomfortable with. The idea is just to give fans a glimpse of who you really are in a way that will make them want to know more about you.

  Mike: That’s not gonna work for me. If they don’t want to know me for my skills on the field, then that’s not my problem.

  Tori: I didn’t mean to upset you. You really need to get some sleep.

  Shit. This isn’t moving the chains forward at all. I’d actually like to play the rest of the season instead of riding the bench, and she’s being nicer than ever.

  Mike: Can we use your things for me?

  Tori: We could, but it won’t be authentic.

  That will make it more difficult for fans to really relate to you for the rest of the season.

  So, she’s saying we only have to lie for the rest of the season? Score. We’re already five weeks in. I can fake it ‘til I make it for a while longer.

  Mike: Sounds good. Let’s do it.

  Tori: Okay, if that’s what you really want. I have tons of SpongeBob memes saved. I’ll still need something to replace family with since you don’t want to use that. When you get back from your game, I’ll need a list of your favorite bands, any charity or cause you want to bring awareness to since you don’t have any food allergies, and pics of you at the beach.

  Shit. I’m from Ohio, and I eat, breathe, and dream football. Mostly. I’ve never been to the beach.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying, Miss Russo?”

  The actual freaking CEO of the Albany Wolves is in my cubicle, staring at me as he waits for my response. His laser focus incinerates any hope I had for a relatively quiet escape now that the season’s over. He didn’t send his assistant. He didn’t even send his assistant’s secretary for this task.

  With David acting as the moderator between our two worlds of lowly intern and powerful administrator, I have no choice but to accept the team’s offer.

  “I understand, Mr. Gallo. Thank you so much for this opportunity and for your generosity. I won’t let you down.”

  He winks. The dude actually winks at me before his gaze slides down my body. “I know you won’t, sweetheart. Keep up the good work and make our boy shine.”

  I don’t like the implication in his undertone nor in his slimy eyes, but I’m not about to question his proposal of paying for my master’s degree if I’ll only sign on for another year of indentured servitude.

  As if he senses I’m all out of gushing—albeit fake—excitement, David chimes in, “We’re going to make Mike Mitchell the MVP of this team. Not just on the field, but off of it. Your star player is in good hands, Mr. Gallo.”

  The CEO barely hides his sneer in David’s direction. “He’s off to a good start. The goal for the upcoming season is to elevate him to the next level. We want him to be competitive in the wide market with the other products of his draft like Fossoway and Falls. Underwear ads are out; personal touches are in. Make it happen.”

  David and I watch as Mr. Gallo intercepts Mike in the bowels of the marketing department. If David has miracle hearing to decipher their conversation beyond the obligatory handshake and overly-bright smiles, he doesn’t let on.

  “You did too good of a job,” he mutters.

  “I only wanted to help!”

  “You’ve helped yourself to another season of this nonsense.” David continues to stare at the impromptu meeting between Mike and our CEO. “You’re in the big leagues now, kid. Whether you agree with our marketing tactics is irrelevant. Your cute, simple social media campaigns aren’t going to be enough to achieve the goal Mr. Gallo has given you.”

  “I know.” The sad thing is I didn’t do anything special. Mike wouldn’t let me market him organically, so his social media campaign didn’t get as much attention from the wider fan base as hoped, even if it was enough to put him back onto the good sort of radar. The rest of the PR department hates me for taking matters into my own hands because they were ready and waiting to run a smear campaign on Alex Fossoway that ended up not being necessary after all.

  As for my so-called client? Judging by the lightness in his step and the smile on his face, he’s more pleased with this new development than expected. “It looks like we’re partners for another season.”

  David raises an eyebrow at Mike. “What instrument does Squidward Tentacles play?”

  Mike’s face scrunches in confusion. “Who?”

  I wince when David turns his displeasure in my direction.

  “This will not stand, darling. It is officially the off-season, so we have a little time. We need to plan carefully for how to rectify this mess you’ve gotten us all into. Mr. Mitchell, we’ll schedule a meeting for next week to go over your full media plans.”

  Mike glances back and forth between me and David. “Why? Tori’s done a great job. Mr. Gallo just told me so. Besides, I won’t be here next week. I have to attend a wedding in my hometown, then I’m gonna spend some time with my family. I won’t be back in Albany until the end of the month.”

  David rolls his eyes to the ceiling like he’s praying for deliverance from all the non-believers around him. “Will Mr. Fossoway also be in Ironville during your stay?”

  Mike shrugs. “Yeah. He’s in the wedding party, too.”

  “You want to help, do you, Miss Russo? Pack your bags,” David commands. “You’re taking a little trip to Ohio.”

  The sound of my forehead hitting my desk echoes around the marketing department. What have I gotten myself into?

  “That’s where I played in high school.” Mike gestures to the stadium that we pass by at a cool fifty miles per hour in a rental car, thank God.

  The flight from Albany to Cleveland was bad enough with him talking my ear off, but at least I didn’t have to make an eight-hour road trip with chatty Cathy over here.

  “And that’s the old rec center field. Where it all started.” He aims a tight smile my way. “Shouldn’t you be taking pictures? You’re always telling me we need personal photos to post.”

  Since we’re both wearing sunglasses, my glare goes unnoticed. “How am I supposed to take pictures when we’re just driving by all these places?”

  “With your phone?” He says it like I’m stupid.

  Which I’m not. I bite my tongue—literally—to keep from lashing out at my client. I am well aware that venting all my frustration out on him would be as beneficial as my phony social media campaigns have been.

  I’ll just dig myself deeper into a hole it feels less and less like I can climb out of without help.

  Steady posting to his accounts hasn’t been a failure, per se. It’s just much more likely that Mike keeping his nose clean and playing well for the rest of the season helped his image more than my stupid SpongeBob memes. Which is exactly why Mr. Gallo’s offer makes me so nervous. Surely, the bigwigs in the front office realize I’m not worth what they’re promising to pay me.

  This feels like a trap. A setup. A ruse.

  If David knows the real deal, he’s not sharing. Instead, he’s pushing me further into this mess by insisting I actually be the babysitter I was supposed to be during this trip. Honestly, this feels like a punishment.

  “Do I…make you uncomfortable?” Mike’s hesitant question snaps my attention to the bulky man in the driver’s seat.

  This is the perfect opportunity to come clean about everything. To assuage my client’s fears by telling him the truth. The only problem is that a professional wouldn’t burden their client’s much more capabl
e, muscular shoulders with any amount of baggage. Our job is to shoulder the load on our own, so the client never knows any extra weight is even hanging around.

  “No,” I say as brightly as possible. “You don’t make me uncomfortable, Mr. Mitchell.”

  He swallows like we’re in a convertible instead of an inconspicuous sedan, and he’s just inadvertently choked down a bug. “You’re back to calling me Mr. Mitchell, so I’m gonna go out on a limb and say I do actually make you uncomfortable. You’ve barely said a word since we met at the airport in Albany.”

  “It’s just this whole situation.” I think on my feet as best as I can under the circumstances. David certainly didn’t give me detailed guidelines before we boarded our flight other than to prevent Mike and Alex from creating more bad press. “I’m about to meet your family, your hometown friends, your old teammates. I have no idea how you want to play this. If you introduce me as your PR manager, but Falls and Fossoway don’t have theirs in tow, that will seem weird. It’ll be obvious to people who have known you forever that I’m not an actual friend of yours. I just…” I swallow and part with the small bit of honesty I’m willing to reveal. “I don’t know the best way to play me being here with you.”

  An expression of unmistakable shock crawls across Mike’s face from forehead to chin in slow motion, almost like the setting of the sun. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”

  His admission rattles something inside me. This might be the most authenticity he’s shown in the entire past season I’ve sort of known him. I don’t take it lightly. “I know you’re sick of hearing it, but I’m at your service, Mike. However you want to spin this to all these people is what we’ll do. You only need to tell me what you want.”