Chapter Two
Every day, I wonder why we had to hire such an attractive publicist.
Sydney Lake is the biggest distraction known to man. Even in this room filled with people running back and forth and shouting directions, she stands out like a golden star.
Her cherry-red lips purse as her delicate fingers flick deftly over the tablet teetering on her knee. She’s a fraction too short for the stool, her heels dangling in the air.
The benefit to wearing my mask during this shoot is that no one can tell that I’ve spent the last ten minutes watching her screw her nose up at her phone before huffing so heavily that her curtain bangs lift off her forehead.
“That’s it. Like that. Perfect, English, you’re perfect, a natural.”
I can imagine Sydney rolling her eyes at the photographer’s words. She’s barely even spared me a glance since the shoot started.
I should be a little more insulted that she isn’t paying attention to me, but it’s nothing different. Ever since That Night, Sydney has been the picture of professionalism. She treats the lads and me equally and keeps our friendship at arm’s length.
“Yes, the camera loves you!”
This time, I see Sydney roll her eyes at the photographer, and a small laugh rumbles in my chest.
While the camera might love me, these lights do not.
I’m unbearably hot right now, and sweat is beading around the edges of the mask. One of the advantages of revealing our identities was to prevent situations like this, and yet other than the first hour of the shoot, I’ve been stuck in the mask breathing in hot air. But they wanted EnglishCoffee, not Parker Covington, so who am I to complain?
“All right, English. Just a few more and we’re done.”
Thank God.
While I’m stoked for the Wyreless collaboration—they’re one of the top gaming software companies, and they are creating a limited edition The System line, complete with headphones, gaming chairs, and even laptops—it’s been hard to get my head in the game with all the rumors floating in the background.
It’s a load of bullshit. My Covington inheritance isn’t going anywhere. Martin and his son are just trying to stir up more drama around me. Even if they smeared my name in the mud, it’s not like either of them would be next in line for CEO anyway.
It’s so stupid. This is a far reach, even for them.
So why are they?
My head aches as I try to put together the puzzle pieces without even knowing the final picture.
“Can I have you hold onto the mic for the next couple of shots, like you’re speaking into the headphones?”
I position the mic down and do as the photographer instructs.
I have to give Wyreless credit for creating headphones that actually fit comfortably with our masks on, but I guess that’s the point of a collab.
The lights flash a few more times before he calls out, “That’s a wrap. Great job, English.”
I give a small bow and thank everyone before stepping off set and ripping my mask off.
Fresh air enters my lungs, and my shoulders relax. One of the makeup artists holds out a damp towel, and I accept it with a wink, pressing it into my hot skin.
The relief is instant.
There’s no way Aleks is going to be able to sit through this. He’ll throw a fit and walk out. I’d bet my Ferrari on it.
“Come on, hotshot. I need to get you home.” Sydney holds out my phone and a bottle of water.
I unscrew the cap and chug the cold liquid. My phone screen lights up with a million notifications, and the rock in my gut begins to harden, but I ignore it, stashing my phone in my front pocket.
“I had Francis park around back. It seems there are a few reporters out front.”
“Always looking out for me.” I grin, slinging my arm around her shoulders as she weaves us around the set.
She pushes out of my grip with a grunt. “Stop, you’re covering me in your sweat.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Seriously, Parker.” She gives me a blank stare from beneath her bangs.
Sydney acts as unaffected by me as ever, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. Every once in a while, I catch her off guard and I see that glint in her eye—the one she denies.
“Seriously. People on the internet would pay good money to be covered in my sweat. You could even bottle it up, sell it on eBay. Eau de Parker.”
She just huffs and picks up her pace, her heels clacking on the ground as she makes a beeline for the backstage door.
“I bet it would even go to auction. The bids would go into the thousands. All for something I’m giving you for free,” I call out to her, admiring the way her pert ass sways in her short pencil skirt.
She’s adorable when she’s frustrated with me, which is her default emotion.
Once upon a time, I broke through her walls. But since then, she’s reinforced her castle with steel, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to break through.
At least, not yet.
It only takes a few strides for me to catch up to her as she pushes the door open. The early fall air breezes past us instantly, and I have to squint my eyes against the afternoon light after so many hours indoors.
The white BMW is parked just a few feet away, but a reporter pops out from seemingly nowhere to intercept us. His cameraman begins firing off bursts of photos. The shuttering clicks echo in the back of my mind as the reporter starts peppering me with variations of the same question.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter under my breath, allowing myself a second of annoyance before slipping an easy smile on my face for the camera.
Sydney wraps her small hand around my wrist and begins marching us to the car, but the reporter just follows.
“Is it true that your family is disinheriting you because of your gaming career? How does that make you feel?”
“I’m still very much a Covington, and my family is supportive of my career,” I promise the stoutly man.
“Parker,” Sydney hisses, pushing me toward the door Francis is holding open. “Get in the car.”
“Don’t believe the rumors, mate,” I call back with a dazzling smile before hopping onto my seat.
The door slams a hairsbreadth away from my nose and, not a minute later, a very disgruntled publicist slips onto the seat beside me.
“You know what I’m going to tell you.”
“I didn’t say anything bad.” I shrug.
“You weren’t supposed to say anything at all.” Sydney rubs the spot between her brows with an audible sigh.
“It’ll be fine, Syd.” I reach over and give her knee a squeeze. Her skin is warm beneath the thin tights, and I let my hand linger for a second longer than necessary before pulling away.
She doesn’t even bat a lash.
I fish my phone out of my pocket and reluctantly scan the notifications. There are hundreds crowding my screen, all a result of the stories that are circulating, but it’s the one from my dad that hardens the rock in my gut.
DAD:Call me.
I didn’t want to worry Sydney earlier, but there is no way my family didn’t know that this story was dropping. Syd thinks she has enough contacts to get ahead of any breaking news involving us, but she has nothing on the team the Covingtons employ. Nothing against her, it’s merely the simple math of British aristocracy.
But what this means is that someone in my family didn’t see an issue with it…which is not a good sign.
I’m trying to wrack my brain for what the reasoning could be, but nothing makes sense.
I bypass my dad’s message and settle for texting my older sisters instead.
PARKER: What am I walking into?
PAIGEY: Give dad a call :)
PARKER: Not helpful
PHOEBE: Call dad
PHOEBE: Now
I stifle a groan. All right, that just made things worse.
The cards are slowly stacking up against me, one by one, but I don’t even know what game I’m playing.
Fuck.
My finger hovers over the dial button before tapping down. It barely rings once before my dad’s deep baritone filters through the speaker.
“Took you long enough. You are aware it is almost one in the morning.”
Shit. I forgot they went back to Kensington this week.
“In my defense, I was in a photo shoot the last few hours.”
“I hope it went well. You’ll have to send us the pictures when you can. You know your mother will find some way to frame them.”
“It did, and I will.”
There’s a long pause of silence, and it does nothing to calm the growing worry in my gut. My dad is never silent. No one in our family ever is. We are always in constant communication, updating each other on our lives. Family always comes first for us, and there is no one we trust more than each other. Which is why this entire situation has my insides shriveling.
“Your grandfather is in town,” he finally says.
“He’s in London?”
“No, California.”
I don’t even know the last time my grandfather left the estate in Buckinghamshire, let alone England.
“And what’s he doing in California?” My tone does nothing to hide the impending dread swirling through my blood.
“Getting dinner with you tonight; his assistant should have emailed you the details.”
“He flew all the way to California just to have dinner with me.” I see Sydney’s attention perk up out the corner of my eye. I give her a wink before subtly turning the volume down on my phone. “Any chance you can give me a hint of what to expect?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t. Your grandfather has only afforded me the barest of details, but I know the board isn’t too happy.”
“Wonderful.” The sarcasm drips from my tongue.
“Be smart, Parker, and keep your head about you. That’s the best advice I can give you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
The line goes dead, and so does my hope.
***
I’m beginning to think that coming to dinner was a very bad idea.
The restaurant is empty. Other than the employees, there’s not a single other patron inside this establishment. It’s a Saturday night downtown at one of the most renowned seafood restaurants, The Bay. It shouldn’t be empty. Which can only mean that my grandfather has taken it upon himself to rent out the entire place.
This is so not going to be a good conversation.
I should have faked sick…pretended I caught food poisoning or something.
I reach up and absently spin my hoop piercings while tapping my foot against the hardwood floors.
I spent the entire ride over here trying to figure out how tonight was going to go down. My bike couldn’t go fast enough to combat the barrage of ideas pounding through my head, each one worse than the next. Something tells me this dinner has everything to do with that damn rumor.
Reaching forward, I grasp the delicate stem of the flute in front of me and down the remaining champagne inside. The crisp bubbles travel through my system and mingle with the butterflies in my gut, popping around them.
A gust of wind signals the arrival of my grandfather, and I promptly stand up as he walks through the door.
Philip Covington is a formidable man. The eighty-year-old looks not a day over sixty with a full head of silver hair and deeply corded muscles.
He shucks off his coat, and one of the hostesses snaps it up instantly before another one steps in to take his hat. My grandfather’s eyes scan the restaurant briefly before landing on me. He gives me a dip of his head before strolling over.
A thin, wiry man reveals himself from behind my grandfather’s figure. Frank, his right hand, is carrying a worrisome briefcase in his hand.
A wrinkly smile breaks out across my grandfather’s face, and the storm brewing within me calms a touch.
“Come here, boy.” He encases me in a giant hug, patting my back, and I grip him tightly in return. “It’s been far too long. You never come home.”
“I’ll be back in a few months for the holidays,” I remind him as he releases me. My grandfather gestures for me to take a seat while Frank pulls out a chair for him to sit on.
“Christmas is the only time of the year I know I’ll see you. You need to make an effort to come back more often. Your nana misses you.”
“And here I thought it was you missing me.” I give him a wry grin, and he scoffs.
“I love you, boy, but you’re a troublemaker. Having you home promises something uncouth on the horizon. Your nana might be forgiving, but I still remember that time your bum was on display in the Venus Fountain.”
“I was seventeen.”
“You were seventeen,” he deadpans.
One drunken night with the lads in Chelsea, and I’m still paying for it eight years later.
A waitress comes out to deposit an assortment of fresh oysters and caviar on the table before refilling my champagne glass and pouring one for my grandfather. Grandfather takes a small spoon of the deep black caviar before depositing it onto the back of his hand, letting it warm briefly, and then tipping it to his lips. He hums in approval before taking a sip of champagne.
I repeat the same motions, picking up one of the mother-of-pearl spoons. The slight saltiness of the caviar pearls melts onto my tongue with a mild undercurrent of richness.
We make small talk, exchanging stories about what we’ve been up to lately while polishing off the appetizers. All the while, the true purpose of our dinner looms in the background like an ex-girlfriend at a bar.
It’s not until the waitress removes our empty plates that Frank clears his throat and my grandfather sighs. His expression turns weary for a minute before steeling. He turns from jovial grandfather into the hardball founder of the Covington Hotel conglomerate in mere seconds.
“We have to talk about your future, Parker.”
His words are like a vice to my lungs, squeezing them tight.
Fuck.
This is the exact conversation I didn’t want to have.
Grandfather laces his hands and places them on the table in front of himself. “I’m sure you saw some of the tabloid stories today.”
“I did.”
“And your thoughts?”
“That they were just that, stories.” I make sure to keep my tone neutral and light.
He hums, taking a sip of champagne.
“I’m afraid they’re not. Alas, I’m not pleased with how the information was leaked, and that is another issue I’m dealing with. Nonetheless, we must have a conversation regarding your inheritance.”
I feel like throwing up.
“I don’t understand. Why?”
“Because the circumstances have changed.”
“Changed, how?”
“Your career is no longer anonymous.”
“There are no rules to my inheritance. There’s no stipulation that my career must stay anonymous. That choice is and was entirely up to me.”
“True. However, you did not consult me before you decided to make your career so…public.” He frowns, and I can’t help but avert my gaze briefly.
Guilt prickles my neck. It always does when I think back to three months ago.
I was so excited to come clean, to tell the world that EnglishCoffee was Parker Covington. That the rich party boy who everyone thought was neglecting his familial duties is actually one of the most successful video game streamers of this generation. That I am one of the top speedrunners and have people who look up to me as the goal of what to achieve.
I was the one who came up with the idea to reveal our identities to the world, and I was the one who convinced Aleks and Jackson that it was the best course of action. Even though, deep down, it was for my own benefit.
I know I can be the best, but I couldn’t do that if I kept to the shadows as a faceless gamer. There were so many opportunities slipping by because of the masks we wore.
“There were circumstances that made it necessary,” I tell my grandfather, fully knowing he was aware of the blackmail situation. “Plus, it has created additional opportunities that will lead to higher success. Our income has almost doubled in the past twelve weeks, and we don’t expect a plateau anytime soon based on the trajectory.” I try speaking to his business eye, focusing on the profitability over anything else.
“That is true. However, your decision caused some wrinkles within the company. Stakeholders are worried that you are forfeiting your place as heir, and there is a power play stirring that I am not entirely happy with. Martin Jones is barking at my heels again like a damn yippy dog.”
A part of me wants to ask why they even care. What difference does it make whether I step into the family business or not?
But that’s just me being childish because I know the answer. I was raised in this family, and I’ve been part of the business since I was a child. I know that, despite the iron fist my father and grandfather rule Covington Hotels with, there are some people under them who wish to rise to a greater role. A role that will always be barred from them because of me.
“So, what do you need from me?”
“Ideally, I would need you to confirm your place as heir and start work at the company within the year.”
The nausea increases, and the champagne turns sour.
“But I don’t want that.”
“I know,” he sighs.
“If you need a Covington heir, why not just make it Phoebe? She’s already been with the company for six years, and she’s done wonders. I’ve heard the rumors about her taking on the CFO position before the next fiscal year ends. It wouldn’t be hard to transition her to CEO one day.”
“I’ve considered it. Your sister, for as whip smart as she may be, is a bit, how should I put this,” he rolls his wrist, “brisk.”
I snort in response.
My two sisters are night and day in personality. Paige is the middle child and sweet as flowers. Unless you get her in the court room; then she’ll pull out the trusted Covington iron fist to win for her clients. Phoebe, however, is an acquired taste. She’s blunt and crass to a fault, but her loyalty is like no other. If you need something to get done, Phoebe will find a way, no matter the cost. Even I don’t question her methods, lest it be the day I get questioned by MI6. People are scared of her more than they like her.
“A CEO doesn’t need to be likeable.”
“True, but you are preferred among the stakeholders. You are a natural charmer and negotiator.”
“The stakeholders are a bunch of old dudes who just don’t want a woman as CEO.”
“Parker,” he warns.
“I’m just speaking facts.” I shrug. “You know she would be the better fit; you just don’t want to stir the water with those stakeholders.”
“Well, those very stakeholders are holding a vote soon.”
My grandfather gestures to Frank, who opens his briefcase on a nearby table before passing a stack of papers over. Grandfather leafs through them briefly before laying them in piles before me. My eyes snag on the numbers before me, adding them up and connecting the various documents together to form a story.
“While your profession is profitable, Covington Hotels is a multi-billion-dollar company. You would make more with us than your projected trajectory as a streamer.” He taps on one of the papers before me.
“It’s not about the money. I already have that.”
“Parker, it’s always about the money. And that’s exactly what the stakeholders want to take away from you.”
Realization dawns on me.
“They want me to forfeit my shares.”
“Correct.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“To them, what’s ridiculous is a man with majority ownership over the business running around playing video games instead of having involvement in said business.”
“But I’m a Covington.”
“You are, which is why I agree with them.”
Betrayal slides along my skin like a deadly kiss.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Parker, your career is not exactly one of prestige.”
“I’m one of the top video game streamers in the world.”
“It’s still just playing games. It’s not as though you’re not the head chef at a five-star Michelin restaurant or an Emmy award-winning actor. What do you have to show for it other than followers on the internet?”
The dismissal stings and burns.
“But Dad—”
“Your father coddled you. He let you pursue this career too far, allowing you to come all the way to America.” He shakes his head. “You have the mind for this business, Parker. I don’t want to see you waste it.”
“But I don’t want it.”
“Then you have to be prepared to sacrifice something in return. You either join the company or you forfeit your shares, and with them, a portion of your inheritance.”
A portion? My shares were worth billions.
Billions.
I’d be a Covington but in name only. I’d lose my power, my safety.
I’ve been able to pursue my gaming career because I have the Covington name to fall back on. I have my inheritance, my family, the hotels, all as a net to catch me in case I slip up.
They are trying to take away my contingency plan.
I struggle to swallow. My throat is dry as a bone at the impending doom. With a steady hand, I grasp my champagne flute and take a large gulp. Grandfather polishes off his seabass and turns to whisper something to Frank.
My phone vibrates, and I discreetly slip it off the edge of the table and into the palm of my hand before swiping it open.
Hope pounds in my chest as I zero in on the small words.
SYDNEY: Just got confirmation. You’re in the bracket for the speedruns at DCS. I’ll work with Mathias on your training schedule and qualifying events. You have twelve weeks.
SYDNEY: You’re welcome. I worked my magic.
And work her magic she did.
Bloody hell.
This could be it.
DCS, the Divizion Championship Series, is an annual gaming tournament run by Divizion, one of the top video game companies worldwide. It’s not as big as the annual Gods League World Championship, but it is the largest game-diverse championship. The prize pool is three million, and last year they had twenty-five million unique viewers watching it online. It occurs every December, and on top of the esports tournaments they run, they have the largest speedrun tournament in the world.
Across three separate speedruns, you need to have the lowest collective time to win—but to even qualify for the series, I’d need to win three out of five mini tournaments held across the country beforehand. I’ve never been able to participate before because I can’t speedrun while wearing the mask.
The aim of a speedrun is to complete a game as quickly as possible, and you need to be at your sharpest in order to make sure your reflexes are quick enough to not mess up. Even a second’s worth of hesitation can cause you to lose drastically, and the visibility is pretty shit through the blue LED of my mask.
Ever since we revealed our identities, I have been begging Sydney to get me on the roster. She told me she would try, but that I shouldn’t get my hopes up because we were late in the season. Clearly, whatever strings she pulled worked.
If I win the speedrun tournament, I’ll be recognized as the best speedrunner in the States, and potentially the world.
I’ll be able to prove to my grandfather and the board that my career is successful, that I’m not just playing games.
PARKER: Ur an angel. Thank u
SYDNEY: I know.
My grandfather clears his throat, and I snap my head up to meet his quizzical stare. In my distraction, the waitress has cleared our plates, and a lone pot of tea has been left to brew on the center of the table.
“So, what shall it be, Parker?”
I grin at my grandfather as I pull up the event page for DCS and slide my phone across the table to him. He adjusts the frames of his glasses while squinting down at the screen.
“What am I looking at?”
“My counter offer.”
He raises a brow before settling back in his seat. “All right, let’s hear it,” he says, gesturing for me to go on.
I puff out my chest and lean forward. “It’s the annual gaming championship held by Divizion—who are arguably the top gaming company in the last decade. Part of their event is a speedrun tournament. The winner is recognized as one of the best speedrun players in the world, on top of a major cash prize. It’s like getting a Michelin.”
“Interesting. And you believe you can win?”
Do I?
It won’t be easy. As confident as I am in myself, I know there are gaps in my gameplay.
But I have to try.
I give a sharp nod. “Without a doubt.”
Grandfather taps his fingers rhythmically against the table while I wring mine nervously under the tablecloth.
Frank produces a tablet from God-knows-where and begins swiping across the screen, showing something to grandfather. Grandfather nods his head at the slides in front of him, rapping his knuckles on the smooth glass every minute or so, muttering words under his breath.
“All right, Parker, I’ll entertain your idea. If you win this championship, if you prove that there is worth to your career, I’ll veto the board. But if you fail, I will do nothing to help you. You will forfeit your shares and ties to the Covington conglomerate by year end.”
Nerves spin and swirl in my gut, but I nod like a damn bobblehead.
“Understood.”
“Wonderful. Frank, can you organize that and get the car from valet?”
“Yes, sir.” Frank flips the tablet case closed, gathers the documents scattered across our table, and places them all in the briefcase before swiveling on his wingtips and power walking away.
Grandfather sits up and pours us both a cup of peppermint tea. The minty liquid cools my tongue while warming the center of my chest. A sense of peaceful determination settles over me.
For the first time since I sat down, it doesn’t feel like the world is hanging by a thread.
For a second, I let the mask slip and entertain the devilish smirk that tugs at the corner of my lips.
Three months might not be enough time for the average person, but I’m not average.
I’m Parker Covington, and I don’t lose.