Chapter 14 Gossip for Sport
GOSSIP FOR SPORT
DYLAN
Stick Up By Grandson
I’m already halfway into the hallway when Rachel steps directly into my path.
“Hmm, a woman running out of your office like it’s on fire. That tracks.”
“Not now,” I grumble.
She holds up a hand. “Just saying—at this rate, we should install a revolving door specifically for women you piss off.”
“I said not now,” I snap, rounding into my office.
Rachel follows, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Her smirk fades enough to make room for curiosity. “So… what did you do?”
“Like you didn’t have your hand cupped to the wall listening the whole time?”
“Please, I have more sophisticated methods,” she scoffs. “And bringing up her father—real smooth. I’m surprised she didn’t kick you in the balls with her Jimmy Choos.”
I ignore her.
She lifts a brow. “Wow. We’ve entered the sullen, silent phase. If you start listening to Bon Iver and ordering blackout curtains, I’m staging an intervention.”
Clearly I’m not getting rid of her so I head into my office and collapse into the chair.
“You’ve got the same look you had after Vanessa dumped you last year,” she continues. “When you polished off a bottle of tequila and kept insisting you were ‘absolutely fine.’”
I almost smile at the memory. “You drove me home.”
“And held your hair back while you puked in your bathroom,” she reminds me. “Thank god you finally cut the man bun. Your ‘rockstar phase’ was a lot of work for me.”
“It was not a man bun,” I counter defensively. “It was… strategic length.”
“It was a cry for help,” she deadpans. “So I’ve earned the right to ask—what’s really going on with Morgan Clemson?”
“I’m not upset with Morgan.”
She raises a brow. “No?”
My jaw tightens. “Gerald Harrison.”
Her smirk fades completely. “What about him?”
I raise a questioning eyebrow.
She shrugs. “I had to step away to take a phone call.”
“He put his hands on her in the middle of a business dinner.”
Rachel’s expression turns serious. “Please tell me she threw a drink in his face.”
I laugh darkly. “She spilled soup all over his lap.”
Rachel whistles low. “Dammit, I missed the best part. Morgan doesn’t mess around.”
I draw a hand across my jaw. “Neither do I.” Morgan’s face—the flash of alarm before she composed herself—wrenches something dark and protective awake inside me.
“What’s the plan, DKG—lure him into a dark alley with your Batman cape and teach him a lesson about respecting women?”
I shoot her a look.
She keeps going. “I mean, you’ve got the height for it, sure. But unless you’re hiding some surprise MMA training under those vintage band t-shirts, I don’t love your odds in a street fight.”
“Please, I’m a gentleman,” I say with indignation. “I’ll hit him where it actually counts—in his pocketbook.”
Rachel looks pleased. “Now that’s something I can get behind.”
I lean forward, fingers steepled. “Harrison’s firm backs Apex Talent. Their entire business model depends on industry trust. Artists sign with them because they promise protection—both financial and personal.”
“And if word got out that one of their senior partners can’t keep his hands to himself…” Rachel trails off, following my train of thought.
“Exactly. A whiff of scandal, and those exclusive contracts start looking a lot less attractive. I need you to tap into your assistant network. Plant a seed.”
She places a hand on her hip. “Are you assuming I gossip for sport?”
I give her a disbelieving look.
“Fine. Strategic information distribution. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“Your little underground network of assistants runs faster than any press leak and has direct lines to the people who actually make decisions.”
She doesn’t argue. “The EA at Harmony Records still owes me for covering when she missed that flight to London. And Trina at Pinnacle Music would sell her grandmother for my contact at the chef’s table downtown.”
“Don’t mention Morgan,” I add. “Just give them enough to make them uneasy. A whisper about inappropriate conduct, ethical concerns, a pattern of behavior. The execs will connect the dots. And when they do, they’ll start pulling their rosters.”
Rachel’s smirk returns. “And Apex tanks.”
I nod once. “Let him watch his empire bleed out. Slowly. One artist at a time.”
Rachel gives me a knowing look. “You’d move mountains for her, wouldn’t you? And here I thought I was special.”
I don’t answer, which is answer enough.
She turns to leave.
“And nothing can be traced back to us.”
She grins. “Please. You wound me. I was built for plausible deniability.”
I’ve unleashed something unholy.
I pick up my phone.
“Maggs,” I say, “Did you get the info I sent on the Ivy duet with Felix?”
“No hello, how are you?” she asks indignantly.
I prop my feet up on my desk and roll my eyes.
“I assumed since I didn’t see you on the news or get a call from jail you were fine,” I tease.
“First of all, I resent that. And second, I know you make Dusty give you all the dirt.”
“Very true, but I like hearing about things from you,” I say. “How’s tour life?”
“Busy, very busy. Did you get all the footage I sent you?”
“I have Jimmy in marketing going through everything. But I need it perfect for the Ivy and Felix duet,” I explain.
“Okay, but collaborations are just so overused,” she says.
“What do you mean? This is a chance to cross-promote both their fanbases.”
“She’s not really Felix’s type,” Maggie protests.
“I already talked to him, and he’s on board.”
“I’m sure he is,” Maggie says in a mocking tone.
All the social media clips Maggie’s posted of Velvet Drift have elevated Felix’s appeal, especially with his female audience.
“I’m not asking him to fuck her,” I joke.
“Of course not.” I hear the slap of Maggie’s laptop being closed. “I meant her music. It’s pop.”
I sit up. “That’s exactly why this will work so well. Can you imagine how awesome it’ll be to mix their genres?”
“She’s just so… outlandish. Did you see her outfit at last year’s music video awards? It was basically see-through.”
“You sound like a jealous girlfriend,” I laugh and the line goes silent. Jesus fucking Christ, no. I pinch my forehead. “Oh my God, are you a jealous girlfriend?”
This would be just like Maggie to fuck up a good opportunity by getting involved with the frontman of the band she’s filming on tour. I can’t handle this right now.
“No!” she shoots back.
“Goddammit, Maggie. I don’t need drama on this tour. It’s important, not only for Felix’s future but for Stonewall.”
“What about Stonewall’s future? What’s going on?” she asks, concerned.
I sigh. “The music industry is changing. We have to expand to compete. We’re not going to make it long term if this doesn’t happen.
” It’s not that dramatic but if I don’t start making big moves like this, Maxwell Kane will continue to get the upper hand, taking a bigger chunk and leaving me the scraps.
“And that’s why you wanted to take over Left Turn Records.”
“My dads did their best, but we don’t have the capital to market our artists like some of the big companies do. The merger would benefit us both,” I explain.
“And Morgan’s still being stubborn?”
“You could say that,” I grumble. “But this collaboration with Felix could be a game changer, and if I can pull Ivy from her current management…” I make a low whistle thinking of the possibility.
“It’ll definitely buy us some time.” I lean back in my chair and scowl at the phone.
“Tell me you’re not hooking up with Felix.
Because so help me God… I gave you this opportunity to gain experience, and this is important. ”
“I’m not fucking Felix.”
I almost believe her. Almost.
“You’re right though, the collaboration with Ivy will be amazing,” she says surprisingly.
“Well, I’m glad you’re on board, because I need clips for social media to tease the fans,” I say. “The more hype we have going into this, the more exposure we’ll have for both Ivy and Felix.”
“I can do that.”
“Great, I’ll send over the details. And Maggs,” I pause, thinking about some of the earlier clips she sent over. “No roller-skates this time. This is the real deal. People will be watching, and I’m too busy to visit you in the hospital if you break a leg,” I laugh.
While I appreciate her ingenuity, Maggie doesn’t have the greatest track record for avoiding chaos.
I end the call and spin in my chair. The showcase folder sits on my desk, almost forgotten. I pull it toward me, flipping it open to the artist lineup.
Scribbled in the margins beside Ivy Nova’s name—sketches.
Clean lines, bold angles. Fabric that looks like it moves, even on the page.
Not just clothes, but stage presence captured in graphite.
A jacket with structured shoulders would frame Ivy’s delicate features.
A flowing dress with strategic cutouts that would transform with every movement during her performances.
It’s like seeing a part of her I wasn’t supposed to. A part she didn’t mean to share—her passion, her talent, the dreams she set aside.
But she did.
And it’s damn good.
Better than good. It’s the missing piece that could make this showcase unforgettable. The kind of collaboration that benefits everyone—Ivy gets custom designs to complement her style, Morgan gets to showcase her talent, and both labels get the prestige of an exclusive partnership.
Morgan would never pursue this for herself—she’s too busy trying to save her father’s legacy to chase her own dreams. But I can do this for her. Give her the opportunity she won’t for herself.
I reach for my phone, an idea forming. This could change everything—for the showcase, for Left Turn’s prospects… for Morgan.