Fuck.
Marcos must be laughing his ass off.Over the years, I’d seen his petty, vindictive side, but I’d never imagined I’d find myself on the receiving end of his malevolence.
Her hands drop to her sides, gaze narrowing as she deciphers my confused expression.“You should know all this.At a minimum, Ginny should’ve briefed you.”
I lean back, pulse hammering behind my ribs.I did read Ginny’s email, but not the way I should have.I assumed—like an idiot—it was more of the standard post-retirement hoopla.The easy kind, over in an hour.But I should’ve known better given the players involved.
Before I can get a foothold on the panic clawing through my chest, she drops the bomb.“I’m here for six weeks.”
“What?”The word flies from me, loud enough to snap nearby conversations in half.People turn to stare, but I’m too stunned to give a damn.
“Yes.So, as I’m sure you can appreciate, I’m eager to get started.”She pulls her phone from her blazer pocket, her thumb hovering over the button.“I’ll be recording our sessions.Why don’t we start now?”
She shifts her weight, hip angled against the edge of the booth, eyes locked on mine.She doesn’t wait for a yes.“You could’ve raced another five years, maybe more.Why retire at the top of your career?”
The question slams into me, blunt and merciless.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
My throat constricts.She wields her question like a weapon—sharp, efficient, and aimed with unsettling precision.
If this is her warm-up, I’m in real trouble.I’ve buried the truth deep, but I get the sinking impression that if anyone can dig it up, it’s her.
Shit.Was this Marcos’s plan all along?
He’d love nothing better than for the truth to finally come out.He made that clear enough before I walked away.
Is this his parting gift?A reporter with a scalpel, sent to bleed me dry while I play nice for the cameras.
I rise from the booth, towering over her, and plaster on a practiced smile.I reach to steady her shoulders, my voice dropping into my casual, media-trained lilt.“Easy there, Inkslinger.”
It’s a reflex, an attempt to disarm her with a touch and a nickname, but she slides out of reach before I can make contact.The air where she stood chills.
“My name is Grace Buchanan.”Her voice is clean steel.“You can call me Grace.Or Buchanan.Or Miss Buchanan.”
“Okay… Miss Buchanan.”My sheepishness stumbles out on a breath I can’t quite regulate as I rub the back of my neck, grappling for my footing.“You just had me thinking of that phrase—what is it?The pen is mightier than the sword.”
The laugh I add is supposed to break the tension, but it’s thin and shaky.Useless.
I clear my throat and regroup, gesturing toward Oliver and Wren, who are both frozen as if they’re afraid to draw her fire next.“Look, I’m here with friends.And I’m guessing you came in for dinner.So, enjoy your meal.Let us enjoy ours.And we’ll start fresh on Monday.”
The space between us crackles—unspoken things, unasked questions, and unwelcome truths pressing hard at the edges.And this is only day one.
Percy hustles toward the table, her eyes darting between my defensive stance and the reporter’s stony glare.
“Everything okay?”She glances at Buchanan, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.“Do you still need your table, or are you joining them?A fan of the Mad One?”
Buchanan’s expression makes it clear she’d rather swan dive into a vat of acid.“No.I’ll order to go.”
“Sure.”Percy gestures toward the counter.“Right over there.”
Grace waits until Percy walks away, then levels one last, searing look at me.“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr.Hartley.”
“Wait.”I step toward her and she stops, but only to throw a glance over her shoulder.Her foot taps once—sharp, impatient.A countdown.“I’ve got an away game tomorrow.Monday wou?—”
Now she faces me head-on, gaze narrowing into something cool and fixed.
“Then I guess I’ll be at the away game.Good night.”She spins away.