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She’s not wrong, but I still roll my eyes as I swipe to accept the call.
“Varg,” I say into the phone. I press it tight to my ear, but my mother inches closer, clearly interested in what Harv has to say and not willing to miss a single syllable.
“Married. You got fucking married. At a dive in Vegas. And you didn’t give me or Mindy the heads up to put out a press release. Fuck a damn waffle, Victor. We didn’t even know you were dating. And then I see on the fucking news that you got married. To some random nobody. Because what, you couldn’t think with your head—the big one, dumbfuck—for even a single night? Who even is this girl? What reason could you have for rushing this and being sloppy enough to get nailed by the paps? And giving the best head of your life isn’t a rea—”
“Enough.” My mother’s eyes go wide at the harsh tone of my voice. I’m not the one who yells at people. I’m not the one who gets mad. But I’m also fucking tired of the idea that people may think there’s something wrong with me and Tristan. Beyond the fact that we work together and it’s against organization policy. There is no universe where she is undeserving of me. None. No universe where she isn’t enough. “Tristan is not random. And watch what you call her.”
My mother is fucking grinning and doing some weird shimmy dance in the damn hallway.
“Tristan. As in Grant? The angry little thing that FUCKING WORKS FOR YOU?”
First, I do not know how Harvey Gunther got any information about what happened in Vegas. Did he say the news? Fuck. Second, Tristan doesnotwork for me. She works for the same organization I do. We technically have the same boss. If anything, I work for her.
“We go almost thirteen seasons together without so much as a blip on TMZ’s radar and then you turn around and pull this shit? There are clauses in your contract about not fucking the goddamn help! They could trade you for this. Did you know that?”
I hadn’t really thought about it, mostly because I know they won’t. I’ve been way more concerned about what will happen to Tristan.
“Bob wants the cup and we both know I’m the guy who’s going to deliver it. I’m not going anywhere.”
“And what about when they fire your little wife? Did you at least sign a fucking prenup? Do they do those in Vegas? Have you taken too many hits to the head? You live in a no-fault state. You’ll owe that woman half of everything, Victor. HALF! Two rules. TWO! Wear a fucking condom. Sign a fucking prenup. I didn’t think I had to spell out: Don’t be a goddamn bastard fucker toaster strudel and marry your one-night-stand in Vegas.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, a headache already brewing. I’ve wasted too many precious minutes on this damn call, and if Harv doesn’t stop insinuating I’ve made a colossal mistake I’m going to break things. Starting with the glass awards. The ones he keeps lined up in neat little rows on the shelf behind his massive desk. I bet they’d shatter into a million beautiful sharp pieces.
“I’m hanging up now, Harv. I have a meeting with Bob and the GM this morning. Kindly fuck right off. I’ll call you if I need you, but right now, I don’t. Neither does my wife.”
I can’t stop the little shiver that rocks through me at the last two words. I end the call and slide the still buzzing phone—Harvey looking a little desperate trying to call me back—into the pocket of my pajama pants.
“So it’s true then?” My mom asks, hands over her mouth to hide her smile. “She’s the one who came by that day. The one you’ve been filming with?”
The one you have it bad for? Goes unsaid, but we both know it’s there.
“No,” I tell her, tipping my head back to stare at the weird texture on my ceiling. I should hire someone to remove that.
“Victor,” my mom glares at me. “I heard Harvey. I also heard Erik when he called and I’ve seen the photos on the social medias.”
“Social media, mom, just social media.”
Then her words really hit me.
I thought Tristan would be wrong. Stupid, I know. One thing I love about her is how good she is at her job and her job is to know how these things work. It seems so random sometimes, but she’s perfected the hooks, the bait, and she knows exactly how to reel in the followers she’s looking for. Even so, I really thought I’d gotten the team under wraps. I’d talked to every single player. I’d asked them to keep the news to themselves. To let Tristan and I lead the discussion with the public the way we saw fit. They’d all agreed, and I thought that meant I’d have time to let her know we didn’t have to say anything to anyone. That she can take her ring off and no one will be any wiser about what happened that night in that little white chapel.
Then mom’s words hit again on the rebound.
Photos.
I don’t even pull my phone back out, just hold out my hand for my mother’s. She’s already loaded up the article—although how this can be newsworthy with no comment from me or Tristan is a mystery—and I scroll past the text to find the photos. There’s one of me carrying Tristan on my back down the Vegas strip, my hands high on her thighs to help hold down the short, silky skirt. Her eyes are closed, her face pressed into my neck, and I can still feel the warm, wet press of her lips to my bare skin. My head is turned to the side, like I’m watching her out of the corner of my eye.
There’s a photo of the two of us walking into the chapel, her shoes back on her feet and my hand low on her back. She’s smiling as I pull the door open. Again, my face dips down toward her. I’m smiling too. The last photo is…. Well, I like it the best, but it’s also the most damning. I’m towering over her, her back pressed to the wall of the chapel. She’s looking up at me, a dreamy smile painting her beautiful mouth. Her hands are resting on my chest, and the glint of gold on her ring finger practically shines out of the phone. The only thing even more noticeable is an identical glimmer on my left hand. The one pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. I look moments away from devouring her.
All my plans for the morning go up in a poof of smoke. The news has already broken. We’re already a juicy piece of gossip. And if I don’t get a move on, I’m going to leave her standing alone in front of the man who has already told her he’d fire her.
“I have to go.” I shove the phone back at my mother and throw myself into my team warm-ups, dialing Tristan’s number as I do.
She doesn’t answer. Not the first time. Or the fifth. Or the twelfth. Not as I punch the call button on my steering wheel as I break multiple traffic laws to get to the head office on time. Not as I dial again while the elevator doors snick shut. Instead, I find her exactly at nine, looking whiter than fresh ice, as Bob Seever’s heavy office door opens and we’re ushered inside.
“Cutting it close?” She whispers under her breath and I let my hand come up to rest on her back. She’s wearing a fitted blue dress and I can feel the rise of the zipper under my palm. It zips literally all the way up, from the small slit at the back of her thighs to the high neck tucked under a perfect twist of hair. How did she get into this thing by herself? Will she need help unzipping it later? I’ll volunteer.
I lean down and let the words, “You have no idea, kitty cat,” ghost over the shell of her ear. I feel her shiver under my hand and I grin. Stay married, she said. Make it look real, she said. I can give her that. Judging by the look on the team owner’s face, it might be working.
