Page 7

Chapter 7

Evie

I wait in media room number three, half-expecting Logan not to show up. Just in case, I send him an email with a map of the building, with a big red cross on the target meeting place. He sends me a three-character response— o, k, and a period— and I sit back to wait.

It's cool. I'm collected. One-on-one meetings will not be an issue, when he clearly doesn't remember me. The pang behind my breastbone will be ignored. I'm glad he doesn't think of it enough to recognize me. So, so glad. This way, I get to keep the memories for my own, uhm, pleasure . I can keep things with him professional.

The time has come to find a way to convince myself that fitting as well with someone as I did that night with Logan isn't magic. That the fact my hookups have only been sufficient in comparison doesn't mean it will never happen again.

The Strike's new quarterback comes into the room on time, teeth clenched and a frown on his brow, but with an otherwise calm demeanor.

A small round table sits in the middle of the room. It's a simple office, with a projector hanging from the ceiling and a bunch of connector cables sprouting from a plastic-rimmed hole in the middle of the circular surface. I brought my laptop as part of my plan, and it lies closed in front of me, already connected to the right cable.

Four chairs flank the table, and Logan sits in the one facing me. His hair is halfway dry, and he wears tracksuit pants and a team shirt. In this light, his eyes look gray. I don't think much about how good he looks. Nope, not at all. In fact, the only reason I'm staring at his eyes so much is because of how strange it is to notice the way they seem to change each time.

On the way to the media room, I picked up the two coffees that sit between us.

"Thanks so much for making the time, Mister King." I offer him one of the drinks. "I tried to look up online how you drink your coffee, but couldn't find anything. At all. You've been quite private to date, it seems."

"Call me Logan."

He takes the cup but stares at me. Without breaking eye contact, he brings the drink close and sniffs it.

I scoff, and the words escape me before I can edit them for professionalism. "It's not poisoned, Your Highness."

"This has sugar. I can smell it." He takes a sip. "I usually prefer my caffeine from sugar-free energy drinks."

"You don't have to drink it. I made it the way I like it, with cream and sugar. I've been known to have two cups in a row. I'll have it."

I still don't have pods at home. Getting my caffeine fix from the team offices is one of my favorite employee benefits.

Logan takes another sip and closes his eyes. "Mhh. I think I'll keep it."

"Noted," I say, and drink some of my own mix. "Can we have the meeting now?"

A man of a few words, he doesn't say anything and waits for my directions. This time, his sip is long. He finishes about a third of the cup at once.

Ugh. He's challenging me, but I'll handle it. Selena dangled my escape in front of my face, when she suggested I might get a promotion as a result of this project. I did the math. As long as the bank accepts our offer to restructure my parents’ mortgage again, a raise will solve all my problems.

"Right." I staple my hands on the table. "Did you read the emails I sent you previously?"

"I've been busy. I filmed a few intro cards and other material for the team."

"I heard. All in-house media stuff. I've been keeping an eye on things, to make sure everything has a coherent narrative. I've been using it to establish a few arrangements with the Sports Media Network crew."

"I have done their interviews. Isn't that enough? Can the network use that at all?"

I purse my lips and open my laptop. After a few clicks, the ceiling lights in the media room dim, and Logan's face appears in all its glory, projected on the white screen hanging a few feet from us.

"Mhh." The single syllable comes out grouchy.

I press play. The recording shows Logan in a close up, lights shining on him from all angles so we can see every little detail.

I bite the inside of my lip. Even if he doesn't like the camera, the camera definitely likes him. Just like his fans do. In my usual social media morning check, I caught a bunch of them arguing about his eye color in the comments of a fan-made video. Maybe that will help with his TV charisma somewhat, but that won't help me. I know what my job is, and it isn't to provide an answer to the long-held questions about his eyes.

"Can you tell us about getting used to playing with the team?" the producer asks from behind the cameras.

"It's good. I'm getting to know everyone." His face looks stern and his tone sounds deadpan.

"Can you repeat the question in your words?" the producer adds. "Something like, 'Playing with the team is…', then fill in with your thoughts."

"Playing with the team is good. I'm getting to know everyone. "

A long silence fills the video. Interview Logan runs his fingers through his longish hair and looks up to the crew. With the lighting in the studio, his eyes take a hint of green.

"Fans are coming to watch the team train." The producer's voice barely contains her frustration. "People are excited for the new quarterback and your first season. What's your message for the fans?"

"I hope they enjoy the season," he says on the screen.

Someone from the TV crew we can't see clears their throat.

The producer sighs. "Repeat the question as part of your answer, please."

"I hope the fans enjoy the season." Logan's tone continues to be monotonous.

I pause the video and stare at the quarterback.

He crosses his arms. "Fine. I get it."

"Selena said they're pissed, Logan. The way they talked to me when I called them, they will need some coaxing. Since I couldn't reach you, I've started the conversation on my own. Tried to sell them on the narrative again."

"The redemption story."

"Yep. With a hint of the chosen one for spice." I've been no-nonsense up to this point, but I add a small smile to the space between us.

The man in front of me is way too serious, and I fully expect my smile to be the only one making an appearance. It doesn't intimidate me. I'll amuse myself in any way I can and, through the years, I've learned I get much more done with sugar than with salt.

He snorts. "I'm the team's savior now?"

"Rather, you're going to be the glue."

"Thanks to my charming personality?"

"That seems like a stretch." I arch my eyebrows. "But we can say you brought everyone together with your dogged determination and passion for football. No pressure."

"As long as I get to focus on that. Playing a good game, being a good teammate. "

"Exactly. They will probably ask for mini-interviews from you and others on the team. Do you think we can get your father involved, too?"

This meeting is the third time I get to see Logan up close, if we don't consider the past. Every time, no matter what, there has been a frown on his brow. It has ranged from a simple, mild notch above his nose, to the deep furrow and intense look he's best known for.

Right now, the frown is so fierce there's something sinister to it. Perhaps even evil— perhaps not. Perhaps that's all in my head, but it's definitely killer . With those grayish eyes of his, it makes him look like a shark swimming figure eights, ready to catch its prey.

A shiver runs down my spine.

"My father will not be a topic," he says in a tone that leaves no room for question. "I will not talk about him. He cannot be invited."

"But— Logan—"

"Non-negotiable, Miss Moreno."

"Please, call me Evie."

"Evie, my father is out of bounds."

We stare at each other in a standoff.

For a second, I'm back in the bar where we met. The way he openly inspects me as if to predict what I'll do next. Those eyes of a color no one can define, steady and scrutinizing. It rattles me, and I break. I cast my eyes down to my coffee.

Getting into football was circumstantial, when I got an internship with the Strike at the end of my last year of college. I consumed everything I could about the game, to the surprise of no one who understands the despair of an only child daughter of immigrant parents. Overpreparation is part of the strategy.

I had not forgotten my one night stand, but I hadn't thought about it in the context of my career either. When I snuck into the screening room where the team reviewed tape and saw Logan's face, handsome and large and frowning as usual, glaring at the Strike from his team's bench… I had to remind myself to breathe .

Since then, I've done my research. I've noticed that neither Logan nor his father talk about each other much. His old man is a commentator for the Pirates, the team with whom he got two rings and where he broke several records. He would only say a few things when the Pirates played Logan's previous team but still, everyone compares them. Kenneth King is a legend, and from a PR perspective, a big angle in our new quarterback's story.

"I may have to push, Logan."

Regardless of everything else, I can't risk the promotion. Or the potential for getting fired after all, if I fail Selena. She didn't hesitate to kick Charlie out. I better keep that in mind. This is my chance to turn my life around.

"I have made my decision," he says.

I purse my lips. The King Senior could be an asset, but having Logan on my side for this season is even more important. On the other hand, getting our new quarterback's father on board for bonus material could be the cherry on top to please Selena with my work.

I may have to get creative with this one, but I don't have to solve it today.

"Fine," I concede. "But you have to do your part."

"Which is?"

"We need to do something about the interviews." I take a deep breath. "You've been great with letting them film you without being antagonistic but, as an interview subject? That's a different story."

He purses his lips and stares down to his lap. "I'm saying everything I have to say."

"Then you might have to dig deeper for a few extra words. Honestly, Logan. You must have had PR support before."

"Yes, and see how that went?" There's no humor to his quip.

I chuckle anyway. "Okay. Let's try again. What do you hate about this? Maybe I can fix it."

"I thought your job was to handle this project with the filming crew. Set up a few extra opportunities. Not monitoring me."

"Of course it's with you, too. You know this. I'm the bridge between the players and everyone else. I help you guys get what you need, and make the fans love you at the same time."

The frown grows deeper. "I hate this stuff. With a passion. Asking me to suddenly be personable makes my teeth ache. All the media has ever done for me is make my life harder and ruin good things."

"You've been playing ball for years. You have to know how important the relationship to fans is."

"Can't they keep it to the comment section? I'll shake a few hands and sign a few shirts if that helps."

"Go right ahead and do that, too. But you'll have to do the media stuff as well. We need the world to love you."

His restless energy escapes through a shaking leg, and he runs his fingers through his luscious hair again. "When they see me play— when we start winning, they'll call me eccentric and move on."

He crosses his arms, his eyes hard on me. Thoughts cloud his eyes. He may be remembering his history with his previous team, or he might be imagining the upcoming season and feeling the pressure of it all.

"If we can sell this redemption story to the masses," I add, "you'll shine. For yourself and the rest of the team. So let's control the narrative, okay?"

"Control the narrative."

He doesn't ask it as a question, but I respond to it anyway.

"Think of the media as the place where you tell people what you want them to think about you. Sure, a bunch of them will disagree, but a whole lot more are going to take you at your word— especially with how serious you are."

He squints at me and I take it as a win. It's the opening to get him doing what we need him to do.

I smile to add confidence to my pitch. "Media is the megaphone through which you steer people's opinion. If you learn to speak their language, you can steer things your way. What do you want them to think about you? "

He rubs his lips together and doesn't respond, but I know I have his attention.

"Let me help you," I insist. I keep my grin, because smiling at people is what I do. It puts them at ease.

He thinks about it for a moment. "I still hate it."

"That's okay. Hate it but do it anyway. And manage it."

When he studies me this time, there's less resistance in his… blue-ish eyes.

"So you'll help me," he says. "How?"

"I'll come up with a plan. Trust me."

"Why? For a promotion? You're going above and beyond your role. Most PR folk have let me get in trouble before."

I hesitate for a second. I'm usually the one offering help and getting things done for people. I'm the one bringing cupcakes to the office and collecting signatures for someone's 'Happy Retirement' card. I don't open up to others in the process. Especially someone I've had sex with and now work with. Talk about fuzzy boundaries.

But if it may bring down a few of his walls, and he lets me make this project a success, I'll share a tiny piece.

I shrug like it's not a big deal. "Yes. I want my old boss's position."

He doesn't get to know why I need that raise so badly.

Logan stares to the ground and doesn't say anything else.

"This time things will be different with the media," I say. "I promise. All you need to do is play nice and talk to reporters. Go to the community and charity events we set up for you. I'll be there every step of the way, to make sure they don't do anything shady or cross any lines. I'll make this work for you and the organization. You win, I win."

"Fine." He stands up, arms still crossed over his wide torso. "But whatever you come up with to help me, I refuse to engage in role playing."

I laugh, to distract from the way my cheeks burn. The night we had years ago hides in plain sight, if I hear the words role playing and think of him asking me to bend over because I've been a bad girl .

I shake my head to dislodge the thought.

"I'll find a way." I stand and offer him a handshake. "Good luck to us."

He stares at it, then at me. It takes him a moment, but he finally takes my hand.

His large palm and long, thick fingers engulf mine again. Warmth seeps into my skin, but I push all of it out of my consciousness.

"I never count on luck." His voice is rough, and his words are clipped.

The way he looks at me— it sends a wave of awareness down my back.

I believe him, too. It's a thrill cascading down my spine.

"Good." I release his hand. "Because I don't give up."

The work has just begun.