“You remember agreeing to it,” Ginny murmurs.
“Yeah, and it was supposed to be within three months of my retirement.”
“I know, and we tried.”She sounds as defeated as I feel.“You have to do this.”
This interview has been rescheduled three times within the past year.After the first cancellation, I tried to get out of it, hoping for a loophole that would let me walk.Marcos was smart enough to word the contract just so.
It’s almost as if every delay was planned—one more way for him to drag things out and keep me under his thumb.
“Fine.”I rake a hand over my jaw, the stubble scratching my palm.
“There’s one more thing.”More paper rustles on her end.“Grace Buchanan asked for your number.Or email.”
“No.”
“I figured you’d say that.”Another beat of hesitation.“She just… insisted.Said things would be more ‘efficient’ if she could go directly to you.”
Efficient.Perfect.She’s that kind of reporter.
“You did the right thing calling me.”I lean back in my chair, the elephant stretching across my chest.“I might be out of the sport, but I’m not opening that door.You handle the communication.That’s your job.”My next breath sharpens at my slip.“At least for a little while longer.”
She lets out a small sniff—the sound of her professional pride clicking back into place.“Exactly what I told her.If she wants you, she goes through me.”
“Thanks, Ginny.”I shift the phone against my ear, the heat from the device lingering along my jaw.“Really.Everything you’ve done… I appreciate it.”
The line goes quiet for a breath, long enough for my words to land.I’ve said it before, but tonight it feels more final.
“Have a good night.”Then I end the call and set the phone down on the table.
I reach for my water glass, but before I can take a sip, the phone vibrates again.I don’t even have to look to know who it is.Ginny’s on top of things and would’ve closed the loop with Marcos’s office the second she hung up with me.The screen glows with a notification.
Marcos: Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself, champ.I’d hate for the fans to think you’re being held hostage.
The glass clicks against my teeth as I take a hard swallow.He’s not even hiding the taunt, the overt reminder that every minute I spend answering questions is a minute I’m pinned.
“Everything okay, Mads?”Mom’s voice cuts through the static in my head.
“Fine.”I slide the phone into my pocket, the weight a cold reminder I’m still on a leash.“Just some loose ends on work stuff.”
I pick up my fork though my appetite has vanished.Marcos is enjoying this, and I’d love nothing more than to blow off the interview, show him he no longer controls me, but I don’t run from obligations.Not anymore.
Dad lived his life by a code, and so do I.Be responsible.Show up.
I steady my hand on the table, my breath pushing hard against my ribs.I won’t let anything slip with this reporter.My family and life as I know it depend on it.
Chapter3
Grace
Ipull the rental onto the gravel shoulder, hazards clicking a steady, mocking rhythm, and dig through my bag for my phone.
At the Helena airport, I’d typedWinslow Groveinto the GPS, but somewhere between playlists and mental spirals, I blew right past the turnoff.
Toby’s email sits at the top of my inbox, a massive wall of text that reads like a technical manual.It’s thorough—bordering on obsessive—covering every logistic detail from the travel itinerary to Hartley’s career stats.
Yet apart from the flight details, this isn’t Toby’s handiwork.The email is from Chantal, and every time I look at it, a stone sinks to the bottom of my stomach.
This is amajorfeature.With the paper’s budget cuts, I’m a one-woman production crew—research, writing, photography, video.The whole package.