Em makes a gagging noise. “Gross, you two are disgustingly cute. But…tell her thanks, I guess.”
Coach manages to take a breath from his burger and glare at me.
I’m thankful Em is here so I don’t get another scolding.
Though I’m in a perfect fucking bubble on set, the press hasn’t been doing me any favors recently. Old photos resurfacing. Painting Reese and me in a bad light. I thought I had it under control, but things are getting out of hand.
I can’t deny it any longer.
I have more wins in me, and I want to get my sponsors back. Em’s counting on me. The kids at the youth program too.
But now the media’s fucking it up.
I agreed to help Reese because it was important to her—and fuck if that mess with Susan isn’t still nagging at me, the mess with all of the reporters who are hounding us—but our appearances have evolved into something that could destroy everything I’ve built.
We claimed it would benefit us both. Now I’m not so sure.
I shake the thought away and look at Em.
“One win down. You ready for more?”
Her smile falters. “Yeah, I wish—”
She doesn’t say it, but I know she wants her parents to be there for her. However complicated things are between them.
“That’s not on you, Em.”
“Yeah, whatever.” She tries to play it off, but I see it—the way her eyes flicker, her shoulders tensing like a drawn bow.
I make a silent promise to be at every match, the way my parents were for me. The thought lands somewhere between gratitude and grief.
Is this what it means to inherit someone else’s wounds and carry them like they’re your own? Or maybe this is simply the fact that all the shit I thought was important—the image, the notoriety, the recognition—doesn’t feel nearly as right as being there for the people who are counting on me?
Chapter 36
Dante
“Come have lunch,”Mari calls from outside the director’s tent, ashing her cigarette. We used to share spliffs at Princeton, and now we’re here together.
Life is funny.
“Can’t, just got in!” I shout, not slowing down. The bag in my hand holds a carefully curated selection for Reese—a chilled Berg sparkling water, a prosciutto and burrata panini on freshly baked ciabatta, truffle-dusted Marcona almonds, and an apricot tart. “She’s got five minutes. And I told her I’d bring her lunch.”
“This is a good look on you,” she says. It must be weird for Mari, seeing me do things for someone else. But I’ve always been generous. I’ve just never been generous in the way I am with Reese.
I find myself doing things for her without expecting anything in return, just wanting to make her world a fraction easier. It’s terrifying how much I like it.
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave her off.
I continue through the forest until the clearing in front of the makeshift press tent unfolds.
There she is.
I’m proud of her, taking control of her story.
My older brother, Cameron, had a similar situation last year after someone leaked photos of him. Cam, always so quiet with his football, retreated into himself when the media descended. But then he spoke out about his old team’s misconduct and started an anti-bullying foundation. The first in the Premier League.
Funny how silence works—you carry it until you don’t.
