“Oliver, that you?” Sandy calls from the kitchen.
“Yeah. Just got in.” I hesitate at my door. Should I ask? Maybe once he sees my face, he’ll know what happened and let me lose myself in the warmth of his family for a little bit. Just long enough to recharge before facing the lonely climb again.
“Good. Dinner’s almost ready.”
I blink toward the light at the end of the hall, my hand still resting on the handle to my door. Was that an invitation? Had to be. Emotion burns in my throat. The torrent I’ve been fighting all day rushes in at once to assault my barriers. I can take a lot. Almost anything, I always thought. Today confirmed the mental game will always be harder than the physical one.
“Coming,” I return, clearing my throat of the rare tears invading my voice. I clench my fist with alarm, forcing them back down. After everything I’ve been through these past months, I’m not going to cry now. With a tentative step forward, I move toward the light.
“Hey, babe. Welcome home,” Genevieve tosses back casually from the stove when I reach the kitchen. I stare at her in disbelief, my gaze sliding from her confusing stir of a pot to Sandy and Kelsie working on a salad at the island. The kids are parked in front of the TV watching one of their shows in the neighboring living room. Everyone holds a straight face, as if this is just another day. Just another meal at the Sanderson household with Genevieve Fox.
“What are… I mean…” I shake my head.
“You’re probably starving,” Genevieve says, scooping a spoon in the pot and blowing on what looks like marinara sauce. “Here, taste this. Do you think it needs anything else?”
I still can’t move as she lifts the spoon to my lips. That’s when I see my hosts exchanging a look and suppressing smiles. “What’s going on here?” I ask. Genevieve shoves the spoon in my mouth before I can add another protest, and my gaze shoots to hers in shock. “Oh my god. Did you make this?”
She beams back. “I mean, I had a little help. What do think?”
“It’s delicious. Wait… salad and pasta? Are you re-making your meal from the other night?”
“An edible version, anyway,” Sandy interjects. “She told us about the egg-shit. Not on my watch.”
Genevieve giggles as she drops the spoon in the island sink. Wrapping her arms around me, she leans into my chest and pulls tight. “We figured you had a hard day and could use a nice homecooked meal.”
I blink back the sudden rush of tears. “Thank you,” I rasp out.
She glances up, her eyes softening as she studies me. “I think I’m in love with you, Oliver. I’m ready for the ugly if you are.”
A thousand kilograms lift from my shoulders in one breath. One squeeze of delicate arms and sigh from beautiful pink lips is all it takes for the walls to break. Tears spring to my eyes as I bury my face in her hair and hold on. “I think I’m in love with you too,” I whisper. “Let’s make the ugly worth the pain.”
“So then, this one looks Vanecek right in the face and says, ‘if you’re gonna keep poking your stick in my crease, at least buy me dinner first.’” Sandy cracks up like he does every time he tells that stupid story.
“Did you really say that to him? During play?” Genevieve asks me, half-laughing, half-horrified.
I shrug. “Technically, play was stopped. He was getting on my nerves. I mean, the dude was ridiculous, and when he slashed my pad for no reason, I may have lost it a little. Refs didn’t see it of course.”
“Viv! Watch me!” Sandy’s son Jaden calls out. A long noodle slurps awkwardly into his mouth, casting saucy debris all over the table and his face. He laughs as Kelsie grunts and grabs a napkin.
Viv. I love it.
“Wow!” she says with a laugh. Her phone beeps, and she glances down at the display. Making a face, she pushes back from the table. “Dinner was amazing. Thanks for helping me and letting me do this,” she says to Sandy and Kelsie. “Do you mind if I take this call in your apartment?” she directs to me.
“Take what?” I ask.
“Damage control,” she sighs out. “Scheduled in five minutes.”
“Can I join you? This involves me, right?” I add when she looks surprised.
“Yeah, but… you’re sure?”
“Am I your boyfriend now?” I ignore the sneer from Sandy and future ribbing I’ll get for asking that like a needy teenager at a school dance.
Genevieve smiles like she’s the needy teenager receiving the question. “This will be way more complicated if you’re not.”
I laugh and push back from the table as well. “Then I’m sure. Let’s figure this out. Thanks for dinner, guys, really.” Sandy shrugs as Kelsie shoots over a smile amidst her own attempts at damage control with two young children and spaghetti.
“We love you, Ollie. We just want you to know you’re not alone in this,” she says.
“What she said,” Sandy grunts, and I give him a smile.
“We’ll be back later to help with the dishes,” I say on our way out of the kitchen.
I follow Genevieve down the hall and stairs to my room. I’ve dealt with publicists and the press plenty of times in my career as an athlete, but rarely for something as ominous-sounding as damage control. Strangely, Genevieve doesn’t seem as anxious as I would have expected. If anything, she’s relaxed and in control when she reaches back to grab my hand like I’m the one who might need to be comforted. Maybe she’s right about that. This will probably be good practice for whatever the Trojans’ Communications department has planned for me.
Seated on the couch, we join the video call, where two other women already wait. Even on the small screen I can tell they’re surprised to see me.
“Your parents won’t be joining us?” one of the women asks. She’s
