Page 150 of Relationship Goals

“You’re bluffing,” John says, though he’s gone stark white.

Truly, the number of color changes in their faces in such a short span of time is alarming.

“Seriously, do either of you have any heart conditions?” I certainly don’t want to have to perform mouth-to-mouth if one of them keels over. Gross.

They swivel toward me like a pack of mean old dogs.

“What’s she doing here?” Charles snarls.

“Abigail Hunt is here as my shadow. She is currently starring in a film, as you may remember, about the corruption within the IFF and a certain whistleblower intern.” Her eyebrows arch, and she studies them with a sort of casual indifference that I make a mental note to emulate on-screen. “What you don’t know, gentlemen, is that I was the whistleblower and that I have enough evidence of this organization’s corruption and incompetence with which to bury you. Right now, all of that evidence is with my attorney, who is prepared to release it should I give the word.”

“Are you blackmailing us?” They’re outraged, sputtering, and utterly feckless.

I bite my cheeks, trying not to laugh. “Doesn’t feel good, does it?”

“Fuck you, you slut.” Charles leans in, radiating menace.

“Right. Did I mention I’m recording this?” I tap the phone in my sweater pocket, which is camera out. “I’m recording this, and it’s streaming to my agent’s phone, as well. Anything else you’d like to add toslutwhile you’re at it?”

He’s practically rabid, foaming at the mouth, but John sighs and sits back.

“What do you want, Michelle? Are you trying to ruin the Aces?”

“That’s the thing, Mr. Pugilisi. I love soccer, I love LA, and I love the Aces. What I don’t love is working for men who have as much moral backbone as a worm. Here’s how this can go.” She sets another sheaf of papers in front of each of them, her smile absolutely caustic.

It’s a contract, and she slides one in front of me, too.

“Option one: You agree to sell the club and see your way out with your dignity intact. Option two”—she puts another contract in frontof them—“Abigail and my lawyer and I go to the press and you will be forced to still sell the club, but you will also be dragged through the mud.”

She grins, and I’ve never seen a human look more like a shark in my entire life.

I wonder if she knows where the Mariana Trench is.

The men make more outraged noises, but they know they’ve been outmaneuvered, and I’ve never been prouder to be someone’s friend. My fist trembles with the need to throw it in the air like I just don’t care, but I settle on giving them my best Michelle boss-bitch impression instead.

Until she glances over at me, and it’s clear she’s stifling a laugh.

Then I want to laugh.

Mostly because I know I shouldn’t.

I definitely should not laugh.

Oh no. This is not funny, nothing about this is funny.

“Are you trying not to laugh at us?” Charles seethes.

“Nope.” My voice is pitched ridiculously high, and it’s disturbingly clear I’m lying.

“You fucking slut,” he starts again.

“You really need to work on your vocabulary.” I sniff.

Michelle holds up a hand. “You should know that I am part of a regulatory oversight board for the IFF and all the football leagues that are a part of it. Would you like to continue your speech and let Abigail release it onto her social media, which, last I checked, had over four million followers across different platforms, or…” She glances at the contracts in front of them.

“You bitch,” he says, this time directing his very unoriginal ire at Michelle.

John hands him a pen. “Jesus Christ. Sign the papers, Charles. Trust me.”