What's Next
Just for the Cameras
PROLOGUE
GRAYDON
“There is a reason you’re all here today, and it’s because you’ve single-handedly made every major sporting team in San Francisco unbearable to watch, unlikable, and frankly, a mockery.”
“Um, I was actually just traded here,” the guy on the end says while raising his hand.
“Which says a lot about the trade, doesn’t it?”
Fuck, good burn.
Gretchen Michaels, San Francisco’s most sought-after crisis PR manager, picks up one of the three files on the desk in front of her and pushes her chestnut-brown hair over her shoulder. Wearing a bright-red pencil skirt and matching button-up shirt, she gives off the impression that if you fuck with her, she has no problem ripping your testicles straight from your body. “Graydon St. John. Defensive end for the San Francisco Foghorns. In nine years of starting, you’ve secured a losing record for your team, appeared in zero playoff games, and disappointed the fans to the point of having to promote half-price games throughout the year just to get fans to come and support you.”
“Ouch,” the guy on the end says while rubbing the tops of his thighs.
I flash a death-inducing glare his way, and he winces, shrinking back into his chair.
Gretchen sets my file down and picks up the one next to it. Flipping it open with precision, she says, “Bennett Brinkman. Third baseman for the San Francisco Bombers. Currently playing your second full year with the team, and because you were not with them during their infamous cheating scandal, you’re one of the few faces on the team who could save the franchise at this point.” She glances up at him and purses her lips. “But given your lack of personality, I think the chances of saving the team’s catastrophic twenty-seven percent drop in merchandise sales are disappointingly low.”
Jesus.
She picks up the last file, and from the corner of my eye, I catch the guy on the end fidgeting in his seat. Clearing her throat, she keeps her head down, but her eyes lift to look at him. “Oden ‘OC’ O’Connor.”
“Present,” he says, raising his hand like a dweeb.
“Put your hand down.” He snatches his hand out of the air and rests it on his lap as she continues. “Left wing for the new hockey expansion team, the San Francisco Rogue. Created by a group of the most ruthless investors with the need to win, the team has brought together all the bad blood of the hockey scene. With a take-no-prisoners model and a number one goal of fighting with fists out on the ice, they haven’t really been welcomed into the Bay Area, which is why you’re here. Apparently, your connection to the Vancouver Agitators is supposed to help transition some good faith over to the team.”
“Aw, I love being used.”
Gretchen’s brow rises. “Are you always this mouthy?”
“Are you always this…schoolmarmy?”
“Excuse me?” She sets the file down, and he straightens in his seat, then gestures to the room.
“Sorry, but don’t you think this is a little much? Intense? I thought we came here to get assigned some after-work activities and be done, but I don’t know, you’re bringing down the hammer on things that are not our fault.” He glances over at me. “Well, besides you. Given your team record, it seems like your defense might not be up to snuff.”
I nearly growl as I hold back the tongue-lashing I want to give him.
The Foghorns suck, but not because of our defense. We can’t develop a franchise quarterback because our offensive line is so goddamn terrible that the fucking guy spends most games running around trying to save his own damn life from people like me rather than throwing the ball.
“Actually, the reason Graydon is here is because he’s the one player on the team who knows what he’s doing,” Gretchen says before I can tear this new guy a fresh asshole.
He winces. “Whoops, wrong call on the jab, then.” He offers me a thumbs-up. “Proud of you, big guy.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Can we get to the point, please?”
She moves toward the front of the desk, leans against it, and crosses her arms. “For the next few months, you’ll be spending every hour off the field and ice attempting to change the public opinion about your team.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, irritation flooding me because this is the last fucking thing I need right now.
“It means that your face will be plastered all over every form of social media available. There will be news outlets and media picking up your stories. Your daily life will be put under a microscope, just so your teams can make a few more bucks and salvage what shitty perception they’re barely hanging on to.”
The room falls silent as her words slice through all three of us.
When I was drafted to play football professionally, I knew there’d be a side of the sport that wouldn’t mesh with my lifestyle, and that’s being in the public eye. I grew up with a father who was a professional football player, and I saw what the public’s opinion could do to someone.
I know the damage.
Lived the damage.
The nimrod on the end is the one to break the silence as he says, “Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine.”
Gretchen’s head snaps in his direction, causing him to shift in his seat. She pushes off the desk and opens another folder, only to hand us each a piece of paper. “Your first assignment is with the San Francisco Zoo.”
She has to be fucking kidding me.
“A zoo?” I deadpan. “How the fuck is volunteering at a zoo going to help with public image?”
“People like animals, my man,” the hockey player says as he examines the leaflet.
“I’m not your man,” I snap back.
Gretchen slams the folder on the desk, bringing all of our attention back to her. “It’s best that you three get along, because if there’s one thing I know for sure, none of you have a clause in your contract that prevents you from mandatory public service, which means all three of you will be spending a lot of time with each other over the next couple of months.” She smirks and then moves around her desk. “Any questions?”
“What if we say no?” I ask, because this is the last thing I want.
Letting the public into my life brings questions.
Questions breach privacy.
And privacy is everything to me.
Gretchen smirks at me as she sits on the desk and crosses one leg over the other. “You don’t have the option to say no.”
Fuck.
