“Thank you,” he says to her. Then his attention switches to the woman striding toward us from behind her desk, and his smile widens. “Ms. Dumont.”
“Mr. Devereux,” she answers.
They shake hands.
She’s probably a few years younger than my mother. Her hair is white-blonde and pulled back in an elaborate braid. Her makeup is flawless, and her eggplant-purple dress is form-fitting. She has the sort of energy that translates into no bullshit. I imagine she’s had to become a shark to survive in a male-dominated sport.
How did she end up a publicist for CPU? With a corner office at the stadium, no less.
“Good game last week,” she says to him. “The final few minutes were exciting.”
“It was the one time I broke out in a sweat,” he responds. “But we managed to put them away.”
“That you did.” She gestures for us to take a seat. “This year has been great for donors. They particularly like seeing the self-assured nature of the team this year. There’s been minimal stress—and minimal sweat, as you said.”
“Well, that comes down to our coach.” Greyson takes my hand and pulls me with him to the couch against one of the walls. There’s a glass coffee table in front of it, and two single chairs beside themselves on the other side. When he sits, he drags me down so I’m almost on top of him. “This is Violet Reece.”
The publicist’s gaze flips to me. “Ah, yes, I recognize your face from the pictures.”
I swallow and slowly extricate my hand from Greyson’s grip. “Right. That—”
“Is what we’re meeting with you about,” Greyson finishes. “Coach’s orders to straighten this out and all.”
“Of course. Your reputation is our reputation.”
He nods along with her words, then leans back. He splays himself out, his arm over the back of the couch behind me, his legs spreading. Taking up space comes easily to him, I think. It’s natural. Whereas girls are taught to shrink.
For an insane second, I contemplate mimicking him. Spreading out like him, my legs thrown wide.
Might not endear me to the publicist, who’s sitting in the chair like it’s stinging her ass. She’s perched on the edge, her ankles crossed. She opens her phone and types something, then springs back up and grabs her laptop off her desk.
Once she’s reseated, the laptop open on her knees, she looks up and meets his gaze. “So, Greyson. There are some very harmful allegations against you.”
He nods once. The movement is jerky, brittle. I wish I had reread the article before I got in his car, just to better familiarize myself with it. It feels like a blur. It’s been too long.
“And Violet. The author of the piece seems to insinuate that you’re involved.”
I glance from her to Greyson, then back again.
Sink or swim time?
“It’s a fabrication,” I lie. “There’s nothing between us. Never has been.”
Anger doesn’t count. Shame doesn’t count. Twisted hate. His brutal obsession. It’s all meaningless, because it won’t protect either of us.
“Violet Reece was a ballerina,” Greyson says suddenly. “She had supporters, and after she injured her leg and ended her career, I think some people were upset.”
I grit my teeth. Was. Had. Ended her career. I desperately want to refute it, but I can’t. That hope in my chest, that burns so brightly sometimes I can’t sleep at night, is just for me.
“Oh, Violet, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Her features soften.
I don’t remember her name. Isn’t that bad? Greyson knows it. I’m sure he probably already said it. Maybe he’ll use it again at some point, as part of his charming, schmoozing act.
“What happened? Do you mind if I ask?”
Greyson’s hand lands on my thigh, hot over my skirt, and I blink. It’s a warning.
“A car accident,” I say. “I don’t remember much about it. I was rushed into surgery…”
Greyson’s fingers skim my head, pushing back my sideswept bangs to reveal the ugly scar across my temple. I avoid looking at that stupid thing as much as possible. I keep my bangs long to hide it. And now he’s touching me, and the publicist is staring in horror, and I can’t breathe.
I rise. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else you expect from me… I just need some air.”
I rush out the door. They let me go. I don’t think they move as I navigate the halls back to the elevator and slam my palm against the button. The doors slide open, and I step inside.
As soon as I start to move downward, I lean back against the wall. I let out a breath.
Everyone thinks ballet has evaporated for me.
I have two days to prove otherwise.
When the doors open on the first floor, I step out and almost crash into Steele.
He grabs my arms, steadying me, and then looks me up and down. I find myself doing the same to him. He’s dressed in sweats and sneakers. His dark hair is damp and combed back, and there’s a little scruff on his cheeks. It gives him a more rugged appeal.
His lips quirk. “You okay, Violet?”
I shake myself out of it. “Yep, perfectly fine.”
His gaze lifts to the elevator doors, now closed. “You meeting with Rebecca?”
I raise my brow. “Who?”
“The school’s publicist. Coach said Greyson had to meet with her to clear up that article, and since you’re in it…” He shrugs. “Either that, or you’re coming to watch our practice… and you’re early. Very early.”
“Don’t you practice in the evenings? Why are you here?”
“The gym.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “It’s the best one in Crown Point. Of course, most of the athletes at CPU use it, so it has to be the top of the standard.”
A gym. I’m getting tired of hiking to the public one—not to mention, there’s been a creepy guy there the last few nights. Creepy enough to deter me from going back at that time. He leers at my ass when I run and turns into my shadow when I circulate around the weights area.
“Is it open to anyone?”
Steele smiles. “Anyone? No. But if you want in, I could help you out. Be an escort, you know?”
I smirk at the double meaning. “Didn’t take you for an escort, Steele.” I shrug. “But either way, our schedules wouldn’t align. I work out at night.”
“Okay, Violet. I like to work up a sweat at night, too. Here.” He pulls out his phone and opens it up to a new contact. “Put your number in, we’ll see if we can figure something out.”
This is a bad idea, but the thought of getting on Greyson’s nerves does give me a certain level of satisfaction. I take Steele’s phone and give him my number, then hand it back.
“I’ll text you.”
“Okay.” I sidestep him. “I’ve got to get to class.”
He chuckles. “Okay. Well, don’t be a stranger.”
I eye him. “Pretty sure that’s out of the question. After…”
His chuckle turns into a full-blown laugh. “Yeah. Right. If you ever want a repeat… You know, a different kind of workout? I’d be open to it.”