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“Okay, I know we don’t like know each other so well, but I have to ask…”

“Ask what?” I press Lo as I stir my margarita. I usually stay away from tequila, but when she suggested Mexican for an early dinner, it made it hard to say no. When in Rome, they say. “Keep in mind, if you ask me something about my family and I tell you the truth, I might have to kill you.”

Lo’s eyes bulge.

“I’m kidding,” I inform her, bringing the short glass to my lips. “Ask away.”

Lo eyes me hesitantly for a minute. “Did Fitz give you a pounding last night?”

I choke on my tequila.

“You waddled. I don’t know if you noticed.” Lo laughs.

Returning my glass to the table, I reach for a napkin, blotting my mouth. “I’m just sore from riding.”

Across from me, Lo raises her eyebrows.

“Not Fitz. My horse. A horse,” I clarify. “He’s technically not mine. I was at the barn all afternoon and I’m just getting back into the swing of things.”

“You need to relax a bit,” Abby says. “He can feel you hesitate.”

I try to take a deep breath, letting go of some of the tenseness I hold in my thighs as I press them into Bernard’s side. “Can he feel me manifest him making it over that set of cross poles? Because I am.”

Fourteen-year-old Parker would be ashamed by thirty-year-old Parker. I used to canter over this style of jump at triple the height without thinking.

“We have a few more minutes. Want another run?” Abby asks.

I shake my head. “I think I stressed him out today,” I say, patting Bernard. “I’m sorry, big guy.”

Horses feed off energy. Bernard is stressed because I’m stressed. I’ve got my first campaign event tomorrow, and well, a lot on my mind.

Like how I can’t stop thinking about kissing Fitz.

“If you get out of your head a little and let your body lead, you’ll be just fine,” Abby says as I dismount Bernard, leaning against the saddle.

The thing is, I did that at the bowling alley—led with my body—and I’m not sure it was the smartest decision because when I woke up, I could still feel my lips swollen and let myself lay in bed remembering how good it felt to get them that way. And days later, I’m still thinking about it.

“I didn’t know you rode horses,” Lo says, pulling me out of this afternoon’s memory.

“I used to, when I was younger. I really just started picking it up again.” I reach forward, grabbing a chip to dunk in salsa when my phone dings. “I bet they’re almost here,” I say about Fitz and Josh, who are coming to meet us from the Rebels facility.

FITZY

Won’t be home until super late.

“Do they usually work this much during the off-season?” I ask, as I type back.

Lo sighs when I frown. “Usually not late night.”

Everything okay? Can I bring you home a quesadilla?

FITZY

No thanks. Having a bite with Coach now. Got film to watch.

“What’s your take on Coach Foller?” I ask her. She’s silent for a minute, so I expect maybe she doesn’t really have much of an opinion at all, which is fair. But when I look up from my phone, Lo isn’t quiet because she has nothing to say. She’s quiet because she’s chugging her drink and returns an empty glass to the table.

“He’s an asshole.” Lo sighs. “I mean, I guess all football coaches have to be assholes at some point, but Foller? He’s extreme. This is Josh’s fourth year with the Rebels. He comes home from practices and games ready to quit at least three times a week during regular season. The night before the Super Bowl he called and told me he didn’t think he had it in him to suit up.”

I widen my eyes. “Isn’t he the starting center? Why wouldn’t he play?”

Lo looks off to the side. “I mean, at some point enough is enough, you know? Josh is sensitive, I’m not denying that. But coaches should care about their players, especially someone like Josh who has given so much to the Rebels for years. He shouldn’t be, I don’t know what the word is. Scolded? Belittled?”

“Berated?” I offer.

Lo shrugs. “Maybe. This is professional football. These guys live and breathe the game. Trust me. All of them are tough enough on themselves in their own head. They don’t need their coaches to do that too. They’ve got to lift them up a little. Foller, he just keeps them down. And, okay, it’s football. You have to be mean in football. Players, coaches, all of them.” Lo waves her hand back and forth.

I purse my lips together. I’m not sure if you need to be mean to play football more than you need to be tough and brave. And I’m not sure how a coach being mean to players makes them want to be either of those things.

“I know the whole story, how he was Fitz’s coach when he was a kid, and I’m sure he has his own stories to tell,” Lo continues. “But Foller makes Josh feel awful. And then it’s this cycle where Josh thinks Foller’s right. There’s enough damage done to these guys in this game. I don’t think coaches need to add to it.”

“They don’t,” I agree. For a moment, I wonder if it’s worth bringing up the investigation Fitz told me about, but I recall how short he was on the topic. I decide against it.

Something inside of me feels protective over Fitz and his feelings, even when they’re in support of someone I can’t stand, someone I worry isn’t good for him. And I guess that’s what I should be doing as his fiancé—supporting and protecting him—even if it doesn’t matter at the end of it all.

Lo looks over, getting our waiter’s attention when my phone chimes again.

FITZY

Actually, grab me a margarita to go

A roadie? That kind of night at the office?

FITZY

No. Just an excuse to have a night cap. Haven’t seen you since last night.

I can’t help it. My mouth melts into a smile.

“Oh, there’s that look.”

I lock my phone’s screen. “What look?”

“The one you just tried to erase.” Lo laughs. “I had that look once. And I only knew Josh three months before I married him. You have it and you’ve already known Fitz a lifetime. How amazing is that?”

But the way I’ve known Fitz is so different than the way I know—or am getting to know—him now. And the truth is, I’m worried I’m not sure which version of him I prefer anymore—the boy I grew up with, or the man everyone believes I’m in love with.

* * *

Madeline told me my job was simple. Stand. Clap. Smile.

Here I was thinking the last one would be difficult. It’s been the easiest part of the night.

But I’m not smiling because I believe one word of my mom’s bullshit. The truth is, I know nothing about inflation, and I’m sure I’m high on the IRS’s hit list because I’ve never once filed taxes. No. I’m smiling because, in this small New Hampshire town where this early campaign event is taking place, people showed up in droves, nearly all in uniform—in Fitz’s Rebels jersey.

I know it must kill my mother, and never more than when she’s interrupted during her teleprompter speech by a lone ranger shouting, “Where’s Fitzy?”

All the laughter I’ve tried to keep inside for the last eighteen minutes bursts to the surface. And even though it’s swallowed in the loud auditorium, my mother doesn’t miss it.

In a very un–Candice Montgomery manner, she turns around and beams her distaste right into me. When the Fitzy , Fitzy, Fitzy chants start up, I think for a minute that half of my problems might be solved right here and now because my mother might die of a stroke.

I’m not that lucky, though, but I do take pride in the fact I see the teleprompter and know she wraps her speech up early. I’m about to fulfill my last requirement, a strong wave like I’m Miss America as I cross the stage, when my phone vibrates from inside my blazer.

As discreetly as I can, I pull it out as my mother and the mayor shake hands with the university personnel co-hosting the event.

I ignore Fitz’s text, and instead open FaceTime, peeking up at the crowd as I wait for the connection to go through. When his face pops up, I take one more look at my mother, smiling because she isn’t distracted. Her eyes are exactly where I want them—right on me.

“Just checking on you.” I barely make out the sound of his voice as I inch toward the podium, increasing my pace as I pass it.

I give Candice one more smile before I spin, raising the phone.

“Check this out.”

There’s a slight chance I could make a fool out of myself, or at least give my family fodder for future institutionalizations, because I’m not sure anyone can even see my screen.

But one person in the front row does.

And then another.

And another.

And soon enough, the chanting resumes.

Fitzy. Fitzy. Fitzy.

I can’t hear Fitz’s laughter over the noise behind me, but his mouth is gaping and there’s a light shudder of his body. I take a screenshot as fast as I can before the view changes and I see nothing more than the Rebels emblem, telling me he’s at the team facility, until Josh’s face comes into view, and he laughs too for a few seconds before drifting to the side.

And then there’s Mr. Foller, who narrows his eyes. After two more Fitzy s, the call ends.

I stare at my call log before I feel a stare boring into me. Candice is calling. She might be a few feet away and not say a word, but the look says it all.

Knock it off, Parker .

I turn on my heel, lifting an arm and giving a gentle wave, but not before an agent arrives at my side as soon as I get off the stage and out of view. It’s not Agent Samuels, who, though I don’t like, is at least familiar. I don’t know this guy. And when he takes a hold of my elbow, I decide I don’t need to know his name to hate him.

“You can let go,” I spit through gritted teeth as I get to the side of the stage. “You should let go.”

But he doesn’t. Even when he stops moving and halts me with him once we cross through the partition. Everyone has cleared out from the hallway.

The mayor.

My mother.

Everyone.

“I said let go ,” I repeat. “Now.”

But he doesn’t, and you’d think I would’ve learned my lesson all those years ago, that sometimes, fighting back doesn’t get you anywhere.

Fuck. That.

I drag my feet even though we’re going down the same hallway we entered. I’m about to yell when we make it to the backdoor we came through after I parked Fitz’s Mercedes alongside Agent Samuels’s SUV.

But my voice flees, as does my courage, when in front of me, another agent opens the door to an SUV where my mother sits.

“Get in, Parker.”

Now the goon lets go of my arm, expecting me to comply. But I’ll never get in a car with my mother. It doesn’t matter that she wasn’t in the vehicle that took me that night. She arranged it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I find Fitz’s car where I left it, but it’s no longer flanked by my security detail. The only other SUV in the parking lot is this one, followed by two other smaller vehicles.

I shake my head. “I’m not riding with you.”

My mom’s eyes dart behind me, no doubt to make contact with the agent who dragged me out back. “You will. We have some things to discuss. The first being this ridiculous, immature behavior. Between tonight and whatever you two staged at that bar”—Mom pauses, wrinkling her face—“and the second, your engagement party.”

She nods, and from behind, I sense the agent getting closer. I go to reach for my phone. I’ll call the police. I’ll tell them I’m being taken against my will.

But when I reach into my pocket, my phone shrills, and I sense the agent’s hesitation behind me. I quickly open the call, not caring who it is. But fuck, I’m so happy it’s Fitz.

“Sorry, we were watching film and needed to finish up.”

My mother stares hard.

“Parker?” Fitz’s voice booms in silence. “Can you hear me?”

“Y-yeah. Sorry.” I clear my throat, putting the call on speaker. “I can hear you.”

There’s a beat of silence, but thankfully not a long one. “Are you alright?”

“I’m about to head home. I’m in Littleton.” I try to think of the name of the university we’re at, which I’ve seen plastered all over the last hour but suddenly can’t remember. It makes me panic more. “I’ll be… I’m about to get in the car?—"

Fitz interjects, clearly sensing my panicked rambling. “What’s going on?”

I don’t want to go with her , I nearly scream. But I can’t understand why I don’t.

“Parker?”

“I’m about to head home. Alone. In your car,” I say to Fitz while looking straight at my mom, who doesn’t do much to release the intense lock of her jaw.

She just turns her head forward.

From behind me, I sense the agent backing off and stepping to the side, where he waits for me to move. I take three big steps quickly, and as soon as there’s enough space, he closes the door and hops into the passenger seat.

As soon as my mother’s motorcade drives away, I let out the last bits of air I’ve been holding onto. Each one makes a sound as it pelts from my mouth.

“Parker?” Fitz’s voice is stern and worried. “Can you give the phone to Agent Samuels?”

I back up slowly toward the building, pressing my body against the stone.

“Parker.”

I shake my head, as if he can hear me say no.

“Parker? Are you?—"

“I-I’m here.” I blow out an exhausted breath, and press a hand to my chest. My heart feels like it might burst straight through.

“What happened?”

“I just want to go home.” Like my panic, the tears behind my eyes pool fast and furious. I feel for my keys, but realize they’re in my bag I left with Samuels. “I…I need to find my keys.”

“I don’t want you driving.” Fitz’s voice is rough. “Where is Samuels?”

I look around. “I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean you’re not sure?”

“I don’t know!” Every bit of my energy is occupied by the fight or flight mode this alarm has enveloped me in. Every cell in my body is telling me Run. You’re not safe here. I try to get my mind to take control, because there’s no one to take me. I’m alone.

All that fails when the lights of another SUV pulling into the lot catch my attention.

“Fitz?” I swear, I hear him hold his breath just as I do. But then I let out a sigh of relief when Agent Samuels steps out of the vehicle.

“He’s here. I-I need my keys,” I announce to both of them.

“No, you’re not driving,” Fitz says.

“I’m fine, I?—”

“I’m coming,” Fitz promises. “I need an hour, maybe less. I need you to stay put.”

He doesn’t understand I don’t want to stay here for another minute. I can’t . “No,” I whine. “I want to go home, Fitz, please?—"

“Samuels.” I’ve never heard this kind of menacing tone from Fitz. I’ve also never felt more comforted by something so threatening sounding. “Have your colleague drive my car home. You bring my fiancée back safely in the SUV.”

Immediately, I object. He doesn’t get it. “Fitz?—”

“Don’t hang up.” There’s torment in the sound of his sigh. “Keep the call open.”

“I don’t really feel like talking,” I admit.

“You don’t have to,” Fitz says. “You’ll just know I’m with you.”

It takes more than an hour and a half to get back to Boston. And even though I say absolutely nothing the entire ride, Fitz keeps letting me know he’s there.

I’m here. I’m with you.