Page 15 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

Nolan leaned into his elbow on the chair’s chrome arm, his hands clasped together in a relaxed position.

His smirk deepened. “A sign of a good leader is knowing when to step down and let new blood take over. The Tidebreakers have been slipping backward, not moving forward. Even the fans have expressed frustration with how the team’s been managed recently.

While other owners are investing in their teams, Eddie’s been stingy to protect his bottom line—and it’s costing them.

” His dark gaze briefly lowered to the glass table between him and Yousef, his smile fading.

“I was raised as a Tidebreakers fan, but I didn’t have the privilege of growing up as an elite in that world who felt entitled to possess the team.

I advocate for the fans who are there for the love of the game, not for what it can do for them. ”

Dylan’s blood steamed. As if Nolan cared about anything but himself.

He shut off the television as his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He dug it out—a call from his manager. One of the last people he wanted to talk to.

He let it go to voicemail and dropped it on the bench before stretching his arms and back.

A few seconds later, his phone pinged with a voicemail.

As Dylan sat on the bench, he scrolled through his notifications.

Five missed calls from Jeff and a text demanding he call him back “ASAP.”

Dylan grabbed the towel to wipe the sweat coating his skin, still warm from the summer sun. Resting his elbows on his knees, he tapped his manager’s name to get it over with. Jeff picked up almost instantly.

“Dude, where the fuck you been?”

“Please tell me there’s not another fire to put out,” Dylan muttered, kneading his thumb and forefinger into his brow. He’d had enough of those in the last several months. Really, since the beginning of his professional career. The media talked more about his life off the field than on it.

“Nope. Luck is finally turning in our favor. A whole damn fire truck showed up today, baby.” As Jeff took a dramatic pause, Dylan’s sweat-filled brow furrowed, wondering where he was going with this. “Why didn’t you tell me you ran into Maeve and Huey from High Wave?”

“Who?”

“At Blue Iris. They said they met you there, with your ex-wife.”

Dylan’s brain struggled to catch up. What did it have to do with him if she met with music producers? The implication gave him some hope, though—was she already working on another record deal? Was that why she was in Arden Beach?

“They’re producing a reality show. Arden Elite . One of those shows that follows hot rich people around while they party and shit. She’s going to be on it,” Jeff continued.

“Wait—what?” That didn’t sound like Lennon. “Are you sure?”

“Sure as shit. I talked to them an hour ago. I’ve been trying to reach you since I got off the phone. They want you on the cast, man.”

Dylan didn’t know if the intense workout had left him dehydrated or if he was so distracted by Lennon’s return that his synapses weren’t firing, because none of this made sense.

Lennon liked binge-watching reality shows but had always been fiercely private.

The idea of fame was the one thing that had unnerved her about her music aspirations, but she’d pursued them anyway because her passion for it had been stronger than her fear.

One thing he admired most about her was her bravery in living life on her terms.

Dylan wished he were more like her.

How did they go from Lennon clamming up when that woman in the restaurant—one of the producers, he now understood—recognized him and asked about their relationship to her wanting him on a show with her?

Unless she didn’t know.

Lennon would’ve called him if this were her doing. It must have been happening behind her back. He knew all too well how that kind of shit went down.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Dylan said, hanging his head as he peered between his knees at the black rubber floor.

“Fuck off, bro. You know it’s a fantastic idea.

This is the perfect opportunity to repair your image, which, as you know, sucks right now.

If you want to have a future in baseball and get your sponsorships back before your opportunities dry up, you need to win back the public’s support. This could do that for you.”

Dylan’s jaw clenched, as it often did during conversations with Jeff. He wanted to tell him to fuck off. Selling himself, managing a public image—by far the worst part of his job. But as he’d seen in the last four months, failing at it could end his career overnight.

Part of him wanted it to end. To be free from the pressure, the weight of his family’s legacy, the monetization and sensationalism that stripped the fun from a game he used to love. The mere thought shed some tension in his shoulders, unfurling something deep within.

But Dylan had too much to lose. Baseball was his life. It was his identity. His birthright. The reason he had anything in this world. And it wasn’t only about him. Too many people were counting on him to return to the game.

He was done disappointing people, so he had to figure this out. Getting in Lennon’s way to do it, however, was not an option.

Dylan breathed steadily through his nose, readying himself for diplomacy. “I’ve stopped drinking and going out. I’ve been serious about getting my shit together—”

“But the public doesn’t know that. The old you is stuck in their minds,” Jeff interrupted, reminding Dylan of his conversation with Erin at the tournament.

“The way to change it is to show them—to let them see what your life is like now. What you’re like.

A reality show is the perfect platform for that.

People fucking love a comeback story. They’ll eat that shit up.

Sponsors will be begging you to hock their crap.

Teams will be taking turns sucking your dick trying to sign you. ”

Dylan ran his fingers through his damp hair.

As much as he loathed to agree with him, he knew what Jeff was saying made sense, but he doubted Lennon was on board with it.

If she was going on a reality show, there was no way he was going to step on her toes and screw that up for her.

He’d done enough damage in her life already.

“I can’t,” Dylan said with finality, lifting his head.

“Dude, listen—”

“The answer’s no, Jeff. I gotta go.”

“Damn it, Dylan. Just think about—”

Dylan ended the call. He blew a gust of air from his lungs. Looking at his phone, he debated calling Lennon to let her know he’d turned them down.

He slipped the phone back in his pocket. He’d promised not to impose himself on her. If she wanted to talk about it, she’d call him.

His ears rang in the silence of the gym. In the stillness.

Dylan unloaded the barbell. He needed a different outlet to burn off the tension in his body.