Chapter Four
1152 Words
“You should have seen your face.”
I jumped away from him as he chuckled, the rich, velvety sound washing over the street.
“What?” I stammered, my cheeks burning.
He shook his head, a wry smirk on his face. “I was just messing with you. You were so flustered. Your car or mine? I was trying to know if you drove here.”
It took a moment for his words to register, and when they did, my face burned hotter in embarrassment. He had made it sound like a hookup. Hockey guys were such playboys. I allowed myself a scoff, but the truth was, I may have considered it for a split second.
I was seated quietly on the passenger seat of his expensive, low-slung car when he suddenly snapped his fingers. “Now I remember.”
“Remember what?”
“You went to Bustin college, right? Dated this scrawny kid whose name rhymed with ‘alien’ or something,” he replied, looking at me for a brief moment before returning his eyes to the road.
I guffawed despite the raw nerve he’d just hit. “That was the most bizarre description of Julian I’ve ever heard. No, I didn’t attend Bustin, but my boyfriend did, and I was there quite often. Well, ex-boyfriend.”
“He’s an ex, obviously,” he snorted.
I felt a flash of offense at his words. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He raised his hands briefly in mock surrender. “That came out wrong. What I meant is, it’s been so long since we were in college. If you both were still together, you’d be married by now. We men aren’t that indecisive.” He finished with a shrug.
The statement, intended as a casual observation, struck a chord. Julian had been indecisive. Not just that, he had put off the wedding, put off our life.
I immediately sobered up at the realization that Connor's thoughtless comment contained more truth than Julian's eight years of promises. I remained silent for the rest of the drive.
A few days later, the ease and quiet rhythm that had been established at the agency was shattered.
I was at my desk, pouring over projections, when Dera scrambled into my office, barely knocking. Her face was a mask of panic. “Miss Hale, the Anderson team just called. They’re pulling out of the training project.”
My spine straightened. James Anderson was the top-tier player the agency managed and our biggest name. He signed a lucrative contract that contributed majorly to the financial stability of our entire junior scouting and training division.
“Why?” I demanded, already on my feet.
“According to him, there hasn’t been enough commitment to the training programs, that the agency is spread too thin. If he leaves, the CFO says the entire Bantam training facility budget for the next quarter would be cut. That means Mr. Adams’ contract is immediately jeopardized.”
My mind reeled. “Get Connor Adams and the CFO in my office. Now,” I instructed, my voice cutting through Dera's panic.
The next few hours were an intense blur of whiteboards and frantic phone calls. Connor was sharp, ruthless in his assessment of the player's management history, and surprisingly respectful of my authority. He seemed very knowledgeable in business strategies. We worked side-by-side, the tension of the other night replaced by the fierce energy of collaboration.
“Anderson wants to see proof of investment, right? He doesn't trust the long-term vision,” Connor deduced, running a large hand through his already messy hair. “We need to show him the future is solid, not just the past. The Bantam program is the future.”
He didn't need to state the obvious: if the budget was cut, his highly paid contract to coach the young players would be void. But still, he focused on the agency's best outcome, not his own.
The three of us; Connor, Dera, and I, brainstormed till the city outside turned to a dark glow pronounced by streetlights. We eventually crafted a proposal: restructure the Bantam and mini mites program into a high-visibility mentorship scheme, centered around a newly drafted, rising star, proving the agency's forward vision.
I was exhausted by the time we finished but also very proud. We were almost 100% sure Anderson would approve of it. We had saved the contract.
“I’m completely spent,” Dera yawned, gathering her things. She took the words right out of my mouth, I was ready to sleep into the weekend.
“I can drop you both,” Connor offered, pulling his coat on.
I waved him off. “No, it's fine, I'll just drop Dera off since she's on my way. It’s late.”
“Nonsense. It's too late for you to drive. You can have your car brought to you in the morning. I'm taking you both home. Consider it a mandatory ride-along,” he insisted, his voice gave no room for argument.
I agreed. We dropped Dera off first, and she thanked us profusely. As we pulled up to my own driveway, my house was dark, still and quiet.
“Thank you, Connor. I truly couldn’t have fixed that mess without you today,” I said, turning to him.
He shrugged. “You would have handled it, Brianna. You’re good at this.” The genuine praise warmed me, a clear contrast to the casual belittling I’d lived with for nearly eight years.
I unbuckled my seatbelt, the emotional residue of the day making me vulnerable. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Miss Hale.”
I opened my car door and closed it quietly, walking toward the porch. I was halfway to the front door when a shadow detached itself from the shrubs beside the steps.
“Who was that?”
I froze. Julian.
He was blocking the door, his eyes bloodshot, his movements stiff and angry. The nauseating smell of liquor hit me.
“Excuse me? Are you stalking me now?” I asked, gathering my nerve, wishing I hadn't let Connor drive away.
He grabbed my arm, digging his fingers into my flesh. “Who was that man that dropped you off so late?” he repeated, his voice dangerously low.
Vivid flashbacks flooded my head, the moments he held my arm too tightly, the times I harbored a subtle fear for him that almost suffocated me.
Mustering all the strength I had left, I pushed his hand away from me. “You have no right to ask me that. Go home, Julian.”
He didn't move. His face was livid. “You can’t just move on, Brianna. Not after what I did for you! You owe me everything!” He reached out and grabbed my wrist, his grip painfully tight.
“Take your hands off her, Hawthorne,” A cold voice cut through the air.
- Writer
