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I don’t even remember the ride over to my condo. I sat on the tram, probably with a dumbass, blissed-out smile on my stupid face. I thought everything was going great. Nothing but smooth water ahead.
Then the storm had hit, full force. I walked into the condo and, surprise surprise, Tori was there. She looked shaken.
“Emma, there’s something you should see.”
She’d turned her laptop to face me. As I read the screen I had to sit down. My knees literally buckled. My hand up over my mouth, I gasped and swore but that didn’t change the fact that an article had been published revealing me as a blogger. And not just any old blogger, one tricking Chase Carter into dating her so she could get the scoop on his backstory.
“Oh shit, shit, shit.” I couldn’t think straight. How had it happened? Had Chase seen it? I had to stop him from seeing it. At least until after we’d talked and I explained everything.
“I’m so sorry, Emma.” Tori looked ashen with guilt.
“What did you do?” I knew instantly she’d had something to do with it. But she couldn’t be responsible for leaking this story. Could she?
“I didn’t mean to, but I was so upset after we talked the other day. I met up with Paulo and told him everything. How we’d been dreaming about this for years, and you pulled the rug out from under us.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Emma, I didn’t mean for this to happen!”
“You told Paulo I was pretending to be a physical therapist to get to Chase’s secrets?”
“No! No, of course not. But when I told him, I think some other people might have heard. And they might have gotten the wrong impression.”
“Where did you tell him?”
“At a bar.”
I swore, picturing the whole scene, Tori storming in there, furious with me, venting and yelling. I was sure lots and lots of people had heard the story. And one of them had made sure The Rio Rapsheet had heard about it, too. I wondered if they’d made money off of it.
“Jesus, you’ve really fucked things up this time, Tori.”
“This whole thing was your idea!” she fired back at me, suddenly not so apologetic. “I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
She gave me a bunch of bullshit about how I was the one who’d hatched the idea in the first place, realizing I had the perfect in with my physical therapy license. That wasn’t how I remembered it at all, but now wasn’t the time to debate the finer points of how the mess had started in the first place. Now was the time for massive, whole-scale clean up in Hazmat suits. I had a nuclear meltdown on my hands. I couldn’t spend time figuring out who was responsible—even though I had a pretty clear idea and she was standing right in front of me in cutoff jean shorts and a tank top. I needed to focus on containment of the disaster.
I called Chase. He’d already seen the article. Panic set in quick, and I could barely talk. But at least he agreed to see me. I flew out the door to go talk to him at the rental house.
The guys there glared at me like I was the enemy when they let me in. Gone was the friendly, “you’re one of the team” vibe. In its place was a frosty, “he’s in his bedroom.” Subtext: “you’re a stone cold bitch.”
Chase was sitting on his bed, laptop by his side, arms across his chest. He looked up and those ice blue eyes I’d swooned over so many times looked cold and hard.
“Chase, can I…?” I approached him, so nervous I barely knew what to say.
“Why don’t you close the door behind you.” He nodded to the doorway and I saw I’d left it open when I rushed in. He was right, we needed privacy for this conversation. I went over and closed the door.
“Are you a blogger, Emma?”
I closed my eyes at the harsh tone in his voice. And at the pain I felt in answering him honestly.
“Seven years ago, back when I was in high school, I started a blog with Tori.”
“You are a blogger.” He said it quiet, damning. Blogging wasn’t a crime. It wasn’t the same as robbing a bank. But I pushed aside my defensiveness. This wasn’t the time or place.
“I was. Until this week. I quit the blog.” I explained it to him, in a torrent of words and emotion and tears. I had taken the job because I was excited to work with him, be a part of his Olympic team as his physical therapist. And I’d hoped to get to know him so I could tell his story. But not in a cruel way, not so I could write an exposé. Because he was fascinating, overcoming such a traumatic event, conquering his fears to become the best swimmer in the world.
“People want to know your story because they think you’re amazing,” I tried to explain. “They’re not all sharks scenting blood, circling the water. I like writing stories that feature the best in people.”
“Like the top ten reasons the Italian soccer team is as good off the field as on?” His sarcastic question made me wince.
“I didn’t write that!” I could feel my cheeks flushing, the blood rushing to the surface as I battled panic, embarrassment, and the overwhelming impulse to just cry and throw myself down on the bed and beg for forgiveness. I had to be an adult, explain, make him understand.
“Tori is the one who writes the gossipy stuff, gets the dirt on people.”
“And this is your best friend? Your business partner?”
“Chase, I’m not saying I’m proud of everything that’s on the blog. That’s part of why I quit working on it.”
“Part?”
“Yes, the main reason was I refused to write anything about you. I’d never do that to you. I would never betray your trust like that.”
He listened, but he didn’t throw his arms around me. He didn’t say everything was OK. Instead, he asked a direct question. “Did you take this job with the goal of scooping the story about the accident?”
I gulped. That was such a boiled-down question. I’d taken the job for many reasons. I’d been a fan of the Olympics all my life. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be a part of the excitement and help make history. He was an amazing athlete and any sports therapist would jump at the chance to be part of his team. All of those reasons had been there when I’d taken the job, and now I realized they were the most important ones, the ones that really mattered to me.
But I had to be honest. I’d pursued the job because I wanted to scoop Chase. I’d wanted to discover and write about his secrets.
“Yes.”
He looked down, not meeting my eyes. I couldn’t stop the tears and I didn’t really even try. I just let them roll down my face. At least there was one part of the article I could completely dispute. “I am a physical therapist, though. I wasn’t lying about that.”
“I know that,” he dismissed my protest. “I’ve worked with physical therapists my whole life. Do you think someone could walk in and pretend to know what they’re doing and I wouldn’t realize it? Do you think I’m stupid?”
He sounded so angry. And I felt like I deserved it. “No, I don’t think you’re stupid.”
He sat there, silent. Then he said in a quieter voice, “I sure feel stupid.”
“No, don’t Chase.” I could take him getting angry at me. I was angry at me. But it hurt more to hear him berate himself, as if he’d been a sucker. Like somehow I’d tricked him.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Emma? There were so many times you could have just told me.”
“I know, I should have. I’m so sorry. It was stupid of me. I was afraid you’d be angry.”
He gave a humorless laugh and sank his head into his hands. “I feel sick.” He wasn’t the only one feeling sick. I honestly thought I might throw up.
And I only felt worse when he looked up at me and spoke. “When I think back on the day we first met, I liked you right off the bat. And you were just sizing me up for a story. All that ‘get to know you’ crap, asking me questions?”
“I did want to get to know you. I fell in love with you.”
Silence. My tears flowed. This was not t
