“Yes, I… yes.” She nodded and clenched her fists in her lap. “I love him. So what if the best thing for him is to distance him from this?”
“He’s going to get pulled in regardless. No way people aren’t already trying to figure out whose head they’re seeing the back of. Add that in to the fact that you’ve been spending time with Lambert thanks to the auction stunt last week… they’ll know before dinner,” was his final prediction.
“Great.”
“So stand with him. It’s a video of two adults, in a private office, your office. Clothes still on… right?” he added hopefully.
“Yes.” At least at that point. The video suspiciously cut out before anything further happened. Thank God for small favors.
“Then this will blow over. It’s not a thing. You give me the date, I’ll check the security footage, we’ll figure out who was in the building and could have done this. That’ll at least clear the part where people assume you released it for attention.”
Kat didn’t know what to say. Her coach—the only coach that mattered—believed her. Her… boyfriend? Whatever Michael was, he believed her. They were the only ones who mattered.
Fighting through the emotions clogging her throat, she managed to say, “Thank you.”
“Until then, I’ve got a daybed in the guest room. I can’t promise it’s comfortable, but you’re welcome to it.”
She nodded, unable to speak as a tear rolled down her cheek.
Gary stood, and she stood with him. “I’d hug you, but… I don’t do that crap.” The gruff statement made her laugh, which only allowed a few more tears to spill out. “Go get your suitcase and take it to the back bedroom on the right. And don’t argue about dinner. It’s chicken and broccoli. Good for you.”
“Yes, sir,” she managed with a smile and had a brief moment of hope invade the darkness.
“It’s like a goddamn Greek tragedy. Every season. Every freaking season, I get to deal with this.” Simon Poehler, head of PR for the Bobcats, slid down onto a chair in the small conference room they’d snagged in the Los Angeles hotel. “Could we maybe get through one season without having someone do something insane for a change? That would be nice.”
Michael sat silently, knowing Simon would finish when he finished. He was a blowhard, and a bit too full of himself… but he was also damn good at his job. A shark, Cassie had called him before. A shark in a bespoke suit. Fitting description.
“Poehler, let’s get this over with,” Coach Jordan growled. “I’ve got a game to prep my players for, including this player right here.”
“This player needs a lesson in how doors lock,” Simon shot back, then sighed. “Yes, right. So I’ve studied the video several times. Definitely a cell phone shot and raw. No editing that I can see. It was uploaded to what appears to be a teen’s Instagram page, and though I haven’t had the time to investigate as deeply as I’d like, I would say the account is real. It dates back over two years. That’s a long time to set up for a punch if it were fake.”
“A teenager?” That took Michael by surprise. When Sawyer had mentioned that, he’d thought it was a fake profile. “What the hell would a teen be doing uploading that kind of crap?”
“If what is on her—definitely a female—profile is accurate, she was likely at the tennis center for lessons. Seems she’s homeschooled, plays tennis and swims, and has an inexplicable love for One Direction.” Simon shuddered. “Taste is subjective, I suppose.”
“Where does this leave us?”
“Well, as the video—less than fifteen seconds, thank God—shows you fully clothed, in what is clearly a private area given the video also shows the door opening and closing, we could be worse.”
Could be worse could also mean a million things. “Plain speak, please.”
“You’re in the clear.” Simon sat back, nodding his own agreement to his statement. Smug bastard. “Your face isn’t shown, though it won’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who you are. But you’re simply kissing a pretty girl behind what should have been a locked door. While a little embarrassing—I’ll use the word ‘chagrined’ in print communication, it’s more likeable—it’s not a big deal for you. We’ll treat it as such, and move on.”
He breathed a sigh of relief, and Coach Jordan nodded before slapping his shoulder. “I’m heading to my meeting with special teams. Finish up and get back to where you’re supposed to be. We’ve got a game to win tomorrow.”
“Yes, Coach.” He waited for the older man to leave, then turned back to Simon. “You said for you.”
“Hmm?” Simon was busy scribbling on a pad of paper, apparently ready to tune him out.
“You said, ‘It’s not a big deal for you.’ Meaning me. Does this mean it’s a big deal for Kat?”