“Oh my God,” I say in absolute shock, even as my brain starts spinning with what needs to be done on our end. “Is he okay? Was the other driver hurt?”
“Maverick is the only one who crashed. As for how he is, he’ll be fine after surgery and rehab, apparently,” Uncle Mike says grimly. “He’s got a fractured collarbone and bruised ribs according to his agent, who’s at the hospital right now. Our priority is figuring out our narrative for a response and trying to keep the press from finding out where he is. I’ll be honest, I don’t know how this is going to play out for Maverick. What he did was incredibly reckless, not to mention potentially illegal if it’s confirmed to be a street race. He’s looking at fines, if not worse. Also, who knows what his injuries will mean for his career.”
Uncle Mike’s face is sorrowful as we’re both silent for a moment. A broken collarbone could be devastating for a baseball player depending on the severity of the fracture. I pick up my own phone and start scrolling through the headlines that are already popping up all over. The video of Maverick and the other guy right before they get into the cars is everywhere, but I can’t find any other videos with different angles that show the crash, or details of why he was out there. And so far, there’s nothing indicating where he was hospitalized. Nonetheless, managing this is going to be a circus.
“It’s not looking good for Maverick or for the team the longer we go without issuing a statement. How do we do that — condemning Mav’s actions without selling him out completely? That’s what I need you to answer, Willow.”
My head shoots up. “Wh-what?”
He nods. “I’m very aware that you’ve been carrying Lydia’s weight for months. I would have stepped in sooner, but I know how you feel about things looking like nepotism.” He shakes his head. “But after the other week, hearing her try to blame you for that man’s actions? Well, I’m sorry, my girl, but nepotism be damned. This morning, I suggested to Lydia that she should take her remaining vacation time as early retirement. And she agreed. You’re the woman who should be leading our media team, and everyone knows it. So step up and lead.”
It’s late before I manage to leave the office, and when I do, Uncle Mike is still in his office on the phone. The rest of the office is empty, but I know he won’t leave until he feels like he’s done all he can do.
He thinks of each and every player as one of his family, just like I do. But for him, it’s different. I know he feels responsible for them all, and I know Maverick’s antics get to him more than he lets on. Just as I know he’s not going to throw Maverick under the bus, despite the challenges he presents.
But none of that helps right now. With Lydia apparently leaving the Tridents sooner than expected, I’ve been thrust into the official leadership position, just in time to manage a potential publicity shitstorm. Together we crafted a press release, which has been sent out already. I’ve put up a statement on our socials and our website, but there’s nothing more to be done until we talk to Maverick and his agent.
Which is tomorrow’s problem, not today’s.
I stagger into my apartment, dropping my bag at the door as I kick off my heels. I move straight toward my bathroom, piling my hair on top of my head. Once I’ve got my tub filling with hot water, I go back to my kitchen, pour a large glass of wine, then return to my bedroom to strip and climb into a steaming hot bath.
Sinking into the water with a sigh, I close my eyes. The next few days are going to be absolutely insane. The team is scheduled to be in town for a set of games starting tomorrow, and Maverick’s absence will be felt. I’ve already had several messages from staff asking about the videos circulating online, despite the memo Uncle Mike sent out to all players and staff giving a brief summary of the situation.
Everyone’s worried about Mav, including myself. But I can’t do anything more for him tonight.
What I really want is to see Ronan. I won’t lie, I’m disappointed I haven’t heard from him since our text exchange this morning. Just then, as if he’s reading my mind, my phone rings with an incoming video call. Keeping my current nudity in mind, I angle the phone so all he can see is my head and press answer.
“Hey, beautiful, I just saw the email from Mike. What can I do to help?”
Maybe it’s the fact that his first reaction is to offer me support; maybe it’s just my exhaustion and how much I miss him. Whatever it is, my eyes instantly fill with tears.
“Cherry, are you crying? Shit, don’t cry,” he says, looking distressed, even through the phone. “Fuck, I knew I should have come over. But I was with Peyton all day, and then tonight, Mom had plans to go out. God, I’m sorry, baby.”
I swipe away the tears and try to muster a weak smile. “I’m okay. I’m tired and worried about Mav. But I’m okay, I swear.”
I hear a door open in the background, and Ronan’s head turns to the side. Peyton’s voice is sleepy and muffled. Ronan says something to her, then looks back at the phone.
“Willow, I have to go, Peyton needs me. I’ll call you right back.”
“No, it’s fine. We can talk tomorrow.”
He stares at me as if he wants to fight me on that, but then I hear Peyton’s voice again.
“Go. She needs you. Goodnight.” I give him a watery smile and hang up the call.
Setting my phone down, I pick up my wine, only for the damn thing to start ringing again. I debate ignoring it, but then I see it’s Tori calling, so I answer, putting her on speaker.
“Don’t tell me you saw the video as well?” I say by way of greeting.
“I did, and yikes. Is he okay? In jail? Want me to come over for a few days and keep you company so you don’t go insane and forget to feed yourself?”
It’s the second time in just a few minutes that I’ve been offered help by people who genuinely care about me, and something about that indisputable fact breaks through the walls around my heart completely. Tori might not live in the same city as me anymore, but she’s still there for me. She’s still my best friend, my family.
And Ronan’s first concern wasn’t his injured teammate's situation being splashed all over the media, but rather how I — the person handling the media outfall — was managing.
“Tori, I think I’m in love with Ronan Sinclair.”
Silence meets my abrupt declaration. I stand up, let the water out of the tub, and climb out to wrap myself in a towel, clarity and peace settling over me. Then, finally, my best friend answers me.
