There is ice in her tone, and from the worried, wide-eyed expression on Katie’s face, she hears it too.
“Yeah. Just helping with some social media stuff. It’s totally no big deal.” I smile and wave it off.
“Isn’t this your second day?”
I look to Katie for help, but she’s shaking her head subtly.
“Ummm … yes?”
“This is so typical.” Mara stands up with a huff. “Since you’re going to be so busy with the Fortunato account tomorrow, you can take my shift now.”
She bolts for the secret door, leaving me and Katie staring at each other across the receptionist desk.
“For some reason,” Katie says, as she turns to watch the door shut, “I get the sense that Mara’s a little unhappy.”
It’s such an understatement that I laugh. “What am I supposed to do? Tell her that I’m sorry? Offer to trade with her?”
“No! Also, why would you? Gabriel Fortunato—who I’m Googling right now—just fell into your lap. You take that …” Her voice fades as images load on her phone.
“Katie?” I lean across the top of the desk to see what she’s looking at. Link after link of headlines like “Hot Mess Soccer Star” and “Chicago Fire Star Comes Under Fire … Again” fill her screen.
She looks up at me and scrunches her nose. “At least he’s nice to look at.”
KATIE GIVES ME A THIRTY-SECOND CRASH COURSE ON HOW TO ACCEPT and transfer calls and shows me how to log in to Patty’s computer so I can get my interoffice email before she goes back to collating copies for William. Chaos ensues. Phones are ringing. The elevator is pinging. And I have sweat dripping down to my elbows.
Okay, not literal sweat. But it feels like I should be sweating. I disconnect the first two people I try to transfer—I know because they call back and yell at me—and maybe a third one, before I finally get the hang of things. Then, the phones stop but the computer dings. There’s an email from my aunt that says simply, “Please review” and has an attached file titled “Gabriel Fortunato—PRIVATE.”
Besides managing the front desk, I’ve got one little project to finish for William before I can dig into Gabriel Fortunato’s dirt. And I’m actually grateful. Something about the file makes me feel like Aunt Em handed me the key to Gabe’s house and told me to rifle through his underwear drawer. When I’m searching through tabloids for other athletes, it’s like a history project. I wouldn’t worry about the filthy secrets I’d discover about Babe Ruth or Pelé because they aren’t anyone I’d meet in real life. They’re figures, not people.
Gabe is different. He’s a boy I spent a weekend daydreaming about, which is ridiculous now that I know who he is. But even so, he was so nice to me at the beach both after I crashed and when he returned my phone. He played with Watford. He had a conversation, albeit an uncomfortable one, with my mother. And even after the Wednesday panties comment, he did sort of apologize. I want to hang on to those few shining moments of humanity before I let the tabloids throw shadows.
I take my time collating the presentation William prepared for a ticket-pricing study, hole punch each of the copies, and put them into folders I find in the copy room.
William’s office door is shut, but as I raise my fist to knock, it flies open. Mara brushes past me without even making eye contact. Her steps are a little louder than they should be against the carpeted floor.
Still unhappy.
I tap on the door frame before poking my head into William’s office. “Hey,” I say when he looks up. “Is Mara okay?”
“Yeah. She’s fine. Those my copies?” He changes the subject smoothly.
“Yeah. They looked important, so I thought I’d dress them up a bit.”
He turns back the cover and flips through the pages. “Nice. I like your attention to detail.”
Was that a compliment? Before long he’ll call me by my real name. I mentally do a little happy dance. “Thanks—”
“Which is good since I hear you’ll be working on the Fortunato account?” His pitch lilts up at the end of the sentence, turning it into a question.
“Yeah. It was a surprise to me too.”
“Hmm.” He nods a few times, the wheels turning behind his eyes. “Emma’s running point, but with her other clients she doesn’t have time to helicopter you on this. Everything you intend to post will need my approval before it goes live.”
Oh. I sort of thought that I’d be handling the social media on my own. Which is ridiculous because I’m just an intern. Interns don’t handle accounts; they make copies and do grunt work.
“Put Emma’s plan into play, and don’t deviate from the script unless there’s a way to upgrade her suggestions. Which you should definitely want to do.” He gives me a significant nod.
I envision a little kitten pouncing on a ball of yarn. No! my imagination shouts. You are a lioness. POUNCE!
“In the end, I’m still responsible for making sure that everything is disseminated, filtered, proofread, and on-brand.”
Did he just use the word disseminated in a sentence? And actually mean it? “Of course. And Emma wants Gabe to have more involvement in what is posted on his accounts, so I’d planned to get his input.” Which is a lie. I hadn’t planned anything, but I’m planning it now because I’m a lioness.
William waves off that idea. “I know guys like him. He’ll do what we want as long as it doesn’t require too much effort on his part. Don’t expect Gabe to come up with anything helpful.” William moves the stack of folders to the corner of his desk, and I get the sense that this conversation is over. Not that I said much.
Feeling like an ignored house cat, I stand, preempting my dismissal. “Is there anything you want me to work on right now?”
“You can look through other players’ Instagram feeds to get an idea of what types of things we should post on Gabe’s accounts. Emma asked me to be on-site with you tomorrow to help get footage.”
“Are we meeting here first?”
He hesitates before answering, and I almost think he’s going to tell me not to bother showing up at all. “Be at the stadium by nine a.m. Go straight there. No point commuting twice. How much experience do you have editing video?”
Besides adding hashtags and text? None. “A little.”
“I can ask Mara or Arman to help you with Final Cut—”
“No!” I say too loudly, then soften it with a smile. “Thank you, but I can handle it on my own. I’m pretty good at figuring out these sorts of things.”
I have no idea what I’m talking about. I don’t even know what these things are, but I have to impress William. He’s the intern manager. He’s going to write my letter of recommendation.
“Emma sent me some info. I’ll go catch up on everything Fortunato-related and look at the editing program.” I’m assuming it’s a program. Or an app? Either way, William doesn’t stop me as I back out of his office. “See you later. Thanks. Bye.”
My ridiculous exit is the least of my worries. What have I gotten myself into?
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Full name: Gabriel Dominic Fortunato
Age: 19
Place of birth: Sanremo, Liguria, Imperia, Italy
Height: 1.89 m (6 feet 2 inches)
Weight: 77.1 kg (170 lb)
Playing position: Forward
Current team: Chicago Fire Soccer Club
Number: 7
THE FIRST PAGE OF GABRIEL’S INFORMATION SHEET READS LIKE a Wikipedia page, including all his career highlights, trophies won, goals scored. It looks like he started to make a name for himself when he was fifteen, which was right around the time I quit watching soccer permanently. That makes me feel a little better about having no clue of his identity.
I skip over his ridiculous list of awards, international appearances, and style of play, and stop after the “Personal Life” section, totally disappointed.
I’ve attended—or stolen snacks from—enough of my mom’s romance writers’ group meet
ings to know the importance of a good backstory. That tattooed, motorcycle-riding, brooding alpha male secretly has a heart of gold. He rescues puppies or has military scars or a family death he can’t forgive himself for. I was hoping I’d find something in Gabe’s past that made him redeemable—not that I’m wishing someone murdered his imaginary brother—but it’s just not there.
No diseases overcome, no financial hardships, no broken family. It looks like the only excuse for his behavior is privilege, money, and overindulgent parents. From the photograph pasted into the file, his family is the picture of perfect. His dad owns a successful ship-building business and his mom comes from a floriculture dynasty. Which is apparently a thing? There’s even a pixelated photo of a much younger Gabe standing with his mom, dad, and a sister in front of a gorgeous field of cultured flowers with an ancient-looking mansion in the background.
When sifting through his past doesn’t yield any positive results, I move forward. Onto controversies. Yikes. Red cards. Flagrant fouls. Game suspensions. Words and phrases like hothead, out of control, fiery temper are listed in bold, and that’s all before the car wreck. Some people believed he was drunk, others said it was a suicide attempt. For the last four months or so, he’s been pretty clean except for reports of the occasional partying and carousing, right up until the fight at the club this weekend.
Wait … he chartered the plane himself? I guess it’s possible. Thanks to the detailed analysis of his life, I also know exactly how much he made in La Liga. With 150,000 euros per week, he could probably buy his own plane.
After the official report ends, the magazine clippings begin. He’s with a different woman in every picture, appearing at red carpet events, parties, film festivals. One article in an Italian tabloid, which has a helpful English translation in the comments, claims he leaves heartbreak everywhere he goes.
I’m not sure how much damage a guy can do when he’s a serial dater, but I’ll give the journalist this: Gabriel Fortunato is devastating in a tuxedo. Some people were made for formal wear.
Not really something I can use, as the fans we’re trying to target aren’t the gala-attending crowd.
I spend the entire day at the front desk, skimming articles about Gabe and poking through his accounts. His Instagram posts are all action shots taken by professional photographers. There’s nothing personal, very little text, and no responses to any comments. Given the other photos I’ve found online, I expected shirtless selfies, questionable parties, and lots of dudebros. His Twitter feed—what little there is—is mostly retweets of other players’ messages and an occasional “Good game.”
At five p.m., everyone starts to filter out of the office, telling me goodbye as they walk through the lobby. Mara, Javi, Arman, and Katie all leave together, but only Arman and Katie say good night. Mara and Javi are deep in a whispered conversation, so I tell myself they aren’t actively ignoring me. And I believe it until they get in the elevator and Javi’s gaze lingers on me. I wave goodbye, but he rolls his eyes and leans closer to say something in Mara’s ear. Her jaw is set hard enough that I can see a muscle twitching.
I try not to let myself feel bad about it. I pounced when an opportunity presented itself. Mara would have done the same thing if the situations had been reversed.
A half hour later, Em sends me a text telling me not to wait for her. She’s got lots of work to catch up on and is meeting a friend later for drinks. I walk out of the building alone, but as I turn right on Michigan Avenue the sun breaks between the buildings. And with it, I think, this is finally it—I’ve turned a corner in my life, I’ve been handed an opportunity, and I’m going to use it to make everything better.
I STAY UP LATE WATCHING YOUTUBE TUTORIALS ON HOW TO USE THE video editing software. It takes hours, but by one in the morning, I can cut video, lay in audio and text, and add music. I’m not a pro by any means, but I won’t look like a total idiot when I try to edit the footage tomorrow.
Emma wasn’t home by the time I climbed in bed with Watford curled into my knees, but she must have come in sometime, because the next morning, I find a fresh grapefruit on the kitchen counter and a sticky tab that says to meet her at the field at 8:30 a.m.—a half hour earlier than when William told me to be there. As I take a thirty-second shower, I wonder if he told me the wrong time.
That’s got to be it. He wouldn’t sabotage me intentionally.
I throw my hair into a bun that won’t stay on the right side of messy, drag Watford out to the park to take the slowest dump possible, and speed walk to the closest bus stop so I can get on the first train out to Soldier Field. There’s a line to climb on, and I’m mentally coaching the man in front of me to shuffle a little faster when my phone rings.
“Have you gotten on the bus yet?” Emma doesn’t wait for an answer, powering on in a verbal rush that matches the physical rush of my morning. “If not, don’t. Gabriel isn’t answering his phone, and Scott thinks that means he’s still asleep. Apparently, he’s a very deep sleeper, so I need you to swing by his apartment and make sure he’s on his way.”
“Go to Gabe’s apartment?”
“It’ll take too long for one of us to come back from the stadium, but since you’re close you can get him out here faster.”
“Yeah. Of course.” While I’m happy to do something that is actually helpful, the idea of going to Gabe’s apartment isn’t super appealing. What if I wake him up and he answers the door in his underwear?
Okay, that’s a little appealing. And sort of a nice payback.
“I’ll send a car to pick you up. See you in an hour.”
And that’s how I find myself standing outside Gabriel Fortunato’s apartment door. I smooth my dress—a blue-and-white pin-striped A-line with a boat neck collar and cinched-in waist—over my hips, mostly to wipe my clammy hands.
I start with a soft tap-tap-tap, wait for a short eternity, and tap-tap-tap again. There’s no answer. I check my phone, praying there’s a text message from Em saying, “Just kidding, he’s here. Come back!” No such luck.
I knock again, a little harder this time, and the door opens a tiny crack.
A squinting eye peers at me from below the chain. “Yes?” a feminine voice whisper-growls.
My eyes flick to the number on the door. Yep, right place. I’d mentally prepared to find Gabe in his underwear, but this is so much worse. Who is this girl? Is this his significant other? Hookup? There was nothing in his file about a girlfriend.
“Um, hi. I’m Maddie. From Velocity Marketing?” I fumble for my ID badge and hold it toward the crack in the door like a cop in a rerun of Law & Order. “I’m here to pick Gabe up for some social media videos we’re working on today? About him?” Obviously. I give a nervous-sounding laugh. “Anyway, umm, is he here?”
She huffs an angry breath. “Yes.” She fumbles with the chain for a second, then flings the door open. She’s wearing a Fortunato jersey, and probably nothing else. I don’t recognize her face from any of the tabloids, but even sleep-mussed and grouchy, she’s beautiful.
“Come in,” she says.
As she retreats, I get my first clue at her identity. Her legs are long and shapely, just like the girl in the silver dress from the bar fight.
I step into the dark entryway, half-closing the door behind me. Curtains block out some of the light from the huge windows, but I can still see a bit of Navy Pier and the lake beyond it. To my right, there’s a good-size kitchen with four barstools tucked under a white-and-silver-speckled granite countertop. A grand piano fills the space where a kitchen table should be, and a leather couch forms a barrier to the rest of the living space. Blanket-covered feet hang over the armrest.
He’s asleep on the couch? In his own apartment? Whoa. My mind tries to find explanations for why in the world he’d be there, but skids to a stop at an argument with the girl who answered the door. She looks the right height, has dark hair, is in his apartment. Yep. Definitely the girl who left with him after the bar fight.
Bar
Girl leans down and shakes him. Gabe bolts upright, the tops of his bare shoulders flashing above the couch’s back. She whispers something to him in what sounds like Italian, but that’s just a guess on my part—according to his file, he speaks four languages fluently. His head whips toward me, eyes wide with shock.
“Morning,” I say and immediately feel stupid for the too-cheery greeting. “You weren’t answering your phone, so Emma sent me to get you.”
He bursts off the couch and says, “Five minutes” before disappearing down the hall at a near run.
Bar Girl and I stare at each other awkwardly.
“Would you like to sit down?” She motions to the couch that five seconds ago Gabriel was asleep on. “Or coffee? I should make some for him anyway.” She has a much heavier accent than he does, and it’s sexy in a painfully recognizable way.
“Um. Yeah. Sure.” At least that’s better than standing here in a semi-dark room for five minutes, playing with my phone so I look like I’m doing something.
Bar Girl moves efficiently around the kitchen, popping little plastic cups into the Keurig, pulling down two travel mugs. Since she knows her way around the room, I think it’s safe to assume she’s probably not a hookup. An interminable amount of time (or three minutes) later she offers me a cup with a smile.
She’s older than I initially thought, probably in her early twenties. I don’t know why this surprises me. Gabe might only be nineteen, but he’s rich, famous, and not painful to look at. I can’t blame her for dating down.
“Thank you,” I say.
She nods and goes back to the kitchen, rinsing the utensils in the sink and putting them in the dishwasher. Which definitely sends the vibe that she’s here a lot. I’m about to strike up a conversation when Gabe flies down the hall, pulling an Adidas T-shirt over his head as he walks.
I gape at the body that could have posed for Michelangelo. Or was it Donatello? Everything from last year’s humanities class flies out of my head when I’m presented with a real Italian masterpiece. I look away but apparently not fast enough because Bar Girl sends me an amused simper. I take a swig of my coffee to break eye contact, but it scalds me worse than the shame heating my cheeks.
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