Page 4 of MOM
Rocky gives a curt nod. The bags under his eyes almost match his thick mop of black curls. The poor guy. Talk about the week from hell.
One by one, the guys get up, whisper something to Rocky, then head out, avoiding looking at me.
Except for Kynan.
Maybe it's because he's had some experience navigating a huge amount of media attention since coming out as a single dad and being with Sawyer, not only a man (gasp), but a man at least two decades older than him (gay gasp).
He not only meets my eyes, he smiles a friendly smile before whispering something to Sawyer who looks over at me with a curious grin.
Once everyone has left, I take a seat on the opposite side of the massive rectangular table dominating the whole room. Above the dark bags, two light-green eyes track my every movement.
Despite my extensive research on Rocky Summers, I still don't have a clear read on the guy. On his socials, he gives offgoofy, golden retriever energy. A little ditzy, likely to put his foot in his mouth, but ultimately harmless.
But he's smart.
He and the BBA do a ton of promotions and are often seen at bars and clubs. Rocky does the required posing and smiling, but he doesn't look like he belongs there. I have a sneaking suspicion I know where he'd rather be and what he'd rather be doing.
All of which is to say, the persona and the man could very well be two distinct, and different, entities.
Then there are all the rumors about his sex life. Do I think he's a player?
That's irrelevant.
What matters is that his sponsors, MoM, and his legions of fans—many of whom are young kids who idolize him—believe he's a good guy who didn't expose himself to the world for the sake of a few follows, likes, and shares.
"Hi," he says across the table, mustering up a tired smile.
Thank fuck I'm sitting down because that voice is like a tidal wave. So deep and masculine.
"Good morning." I retrieve two sets of documents from my briefcase and slide one set across the smooth dark walnut surface of the table.
When he reaches to get it, the upper part of his arm flexes with muscles I don't even know the names of. He's wearing a tight-fitting black shirt thatclingsto his body, but given his size and insane physique, the shirt doesn't really get much say in how it fits him.
"What's this?" he asks.
"It's a blueprint for getting you out of this mess and back to competing as quickly as possible."
From what the head honchos at MoM I spoke with told me, that's his number one priority right now. Unlike me, Rocky comes from humble beginnings. From what I've been toldand have seen myself in interviews, bodybuilding isn't just his passion—it's his life.
He lets out a low rumble, slips on a pair of reading glasses, and flips open the document. I study him as he reads, searching for signs that might indicate whether he's going to be an easy client or a difficult one.
When the CEO of MoM reached out, he assured me Rocky was on board. But I know better than to believe someone with a huge financial interest in someone else doing what they need them to do. Managers, agents, and CEOs say one thing, talent does another. Almost always.
But so far, Rocky seems to be calmly taking everything in, which means he actually is on board…or he's a really good actor.
"So, what do you think?" I ask after a few minutes, caught off guard by how much his reaction matters to me. Why do I care? I get paid handsomely either way.
He closes the document and folds his reading glasses, placing them gently on the table. "I think this whole thing is crazy and has been completely blown out of proportion. I can't believe it's derailed everything I've worked my whole life for…"
He blows out a heavy breath, sinking back into his chair. The thing creaks under all the weight. "I just want this whole mess to blow over so I can get on with my life. If you think me staging a fake relationship is the way to do that, then let's do it."
"That's just one of many steps we'll be taking," I tell him, since he didn't have the time to read the whole action plan. "But it's important we neutralize the whole f-boy angle. That keeps you a target. Showing you're in a relationship immediately frames you, and this entire incident, differently."
He continues looking at me, like he might need a moment to let my very PR-centric view of the world sink in. Everything's an angle. Or about reframing. Or taking control of the narrative.
It's not normal. I know that. Then again, nothing about my twenty-five years on this earth has been. Being born into a family where Dad is an NFL legend and Mom was one of the best actresses of her generation means I got all the benefits that come with such privilege, but no normal.
"Okay, so where do we get this fake boyfriend from? Do they grow on trees?" he asks, the humor in his deep register blending beautifully, like honey on warm toast.