“That sounds marvelous.” A phone ringing stops him from saying more. He looks at his phone and whatever he sees causes him to smile in a way that makes the sick feeling I had before the tour return with a vengeance. “One moment, I need to take this.”
He puts the phone to his ear and walks out of the room with Mr. Carlin on his heels.
I’m sitting alone in the room, trying to focus on the beauty surrounding me and not letting my mind drift off to the place where worst-case scenarios live. I mean, it’s a fundraiser . . . at the Fitz! How bad could it be?
The door opens and Mr. Mahler strides into the room. The look on his face makes my stomach twist and my palms sweat as my nerves go into overdrive. He’s watching me closely, measuring my every move. The sadistic smile pulling on his lips makes me wish Elizabeth never left my side.
“I know you’ve been wondering when you’d get all of the details for this fundraiser and I’ve been a little . . . well, stingy with the details.” This is an understatement. He hasn’t told me anything other than the details I forced out of him. “Truth be told, I had to watch how you’ve handled the Howard boy before I could decide if I could trust you. But I saw the way he hesitated at the game this weekend and I appreciate how you’ve taken the narrative off my organization and onto him.”
Something about the way he calls Quinton a boy rubs me the wrong way, and for once I can see why Donny didn’t trust me. Also, if he saw the way I handled Quinton last night, I’m not sure Mahler would trust me at all.
“I’m glad you can see how hard I’m working to maintain both the organization and its players’ integrity.” I don’t mention that I haven’t ever discussed telling Quinton not to kneel and don’t plan to.
Voices drift into the room from the hallway behind Mr. Mahler. The door opens and Mr. Carlin walks in, his unmistakable chuckle filling the room like my least favorite song. He’s looking behind him at a man who looks so familiar. Someone I’ve been watching a lot of YouTube videos of lately.
Glenn Chandler.
The trash politician who has been dragging Quinton and just about every ethnic group through the mud.
And I’m planning a fundraiser for him.
“You must be the proud American working to get me elected.” He extends his hand to shake mine.
Mr. Mahler is still watching me and I’m beginning to think this wasn’t a job opportunity but a test of my loyalty. Everything in me wants to turn and run, but this is my job. It’s what I’ve worked years to master. My personal feelings don’t count. I just can’t believe Mr. Mahler would support the man who has taken every chance he’s gotten to disparage his starting quarterback.
I shake his hand and disgust makes it hard for me not to recoil at his touch. How am I going to do this? And what is Quinton going to think when he finds out?
Fuck.
I’m going to be sick.
Twenty-nine
After my meeting with Mr. Mahler, all I wanted to do was hide from the world. And also go back in time and say no to doing this event for him.
But as luck would have it, I couldn’t do either.
Surprise, surprise.
Quinton and I already had plans to meet with Patricia and Bill Masterson from Pro Players for Equal Treatment to discuss what they’re doing to fight for pension parity for retired players, and since the kissing happened, I can’t even avoid him.
If it weren’t for this stupid Glenn Chandler cloud hanging over my head, I would be really excited. Even though I’ve seen how passionate Quinton is about equality in the League for current and retired players, I’m still not exactly sure what all it entails. I’ve been looking forward to this meeting for a while. Working with Quinton has opened my eyes to issues I didn’t know existed, and I’ve loved learning about them.
Because of the uptick in negative attention thanks to Chandler—who by the way, is just as greasy in person as he seems on TV—we moved the meeting from a restaurant to Quinton’s house. He was worried we’d be interrupted and Patricia and Bill wouldn’t feel comfortable enough to talk openly about the issues they’re facing.
My hands are filled with groceries and I just manage to grab the doorknob without having to put down a bag. Yes, sure I parked in his driveway and could’ve just taken two easy trips, but I’d rather lose all feeling in my hands from bags on my wrists and arms than take multiple trips.
“You know, you really need to start locking your door!” I yell as I walk in.
“But then you wouldn’t be able to just come and go when you want.” His voice bounces off his empty walls, but he’s nowhere to be found.
I start unloading all of the bags that I brought. I wasn’t exactly sure what to bring, but I make killer charcuterie boards and they always look fancy as fuck. I figured it was a safe bet that there’d be at least one thing for everyone and the Mastersons would see that we put effort into the meeting.
“Damn, that’s a lot of stuff.”
Quinton comes up behind me and rests his hands on my hips before dropping a quick kiss on my cheek. His touch feels so right, but now, underneath it is this thread of guilt because of the fundraiser. All I want is to fully enjoy something . . . someone without feeling like impending doom isn’t unavoidable. Is that too much to ask?
Ugh. My hate for Mahler and Chandler skyrockets by the minute.
“It looks like it, but it’s just for a charcuterie board. I wanted to have
