Chapter 2
Paula
“Sit down, Delgado,” my boss orders.
Jason Skelton, director of operations. Sixty-two years old, ex-FBI, busted left knee that makes him limp when the barometric pressure drops. Today he limps.
Behind his desk there's a photo of his wife and two daughters, a framed diploma, and a bonsai that's been dead for at least three months, though nobody dares throw it out.
He slides a brown folder across the desk. Thick. Stamped confidential.
“You ever heard of the Seattle Emeralds?” he asks, no preamble.
“The women's soccer team? Yeah, they won the playoffs last season.”
“You know who Iris Vance is?” he goes on.
“Hard not to. What about her?”
“The club hired you to protect her,” he says, pulling off his glasses slow enough to clean them with a cloth before putting them back on.
“The terms are all in the envelope?”
He nods and gestures for me to open it.
Inside are several photos, including one I recognize because it was shared to death on social media.
Iris Vance celebrating a goal. She'd ripped off her jersey and swung it over her head.
The crowd lost it, the internet caught fire.
The photo is gorgeous, full of motion, sharp, her abs on full display.
I turn to the next page. Club report. Threats received: surveillance by an unidentified individual, obsessive messages on her profiles, unsolicited gifts, photographs taken without consent at private locations.
Subject profile: unknown, likely male, access to information regarding the player's routines.
Escalation: confirmed.
“What's the exact assignment?” I ask without looking up from the report.
“Personal protection. Twenty-four hours, especially anything outside of practices and games.”
“Twenty-four hours? Who else is on my support team?”
“Just you,” he says like it's the most natural thing in the world. “The player has a massive media profile, and the club has requested absolute discretion,” he explains, reading the confusion on my face.
“How absolute?”
“You'll be introduced as her partner.”
Now I look up from the folder.
“Sorry? I don't think I heard you right.”
“You'll be her romantic partner. That's the cover the club has chosen. A bodyguard raises questions, the press would push. A girlfriend doesn't,” he says.
“Oh, come on, Jason. That's not protection, that's theater,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Welcome to professional sports. A lot of it is theater. The club is paying you to protect that player. The method is the client's call. And the client wants you to look like her girlfriend. Can you do it or not?” he asks, dead serious now.
“I suppose I can protect her,” I mutter.
“Good. Then it shouldn't be a problem. The fee is triple the usual rate. For the theater, as you put it,” he says.
“Triple?”
“Triple,” he confirms.
“Has the player agreed?”
“Reluctantly. More like they forced her hand.
That's another part of the problem. This girl has a reputation for being difficult.
You know the type, erratic behavior, parties, showing up late, casual flings.
The club loves her because she scores goals, but they've been worried about her off-field conduct for months. There are recent compromising photos. Some from yesterday, throwing up outside a club while two girls fought over who got to hold her ponytail.”
“Sounds like a real piece of work,” I say.
“That photo is actually our perfect cover story.
You're going to show up at her preseason camp in Florida tomorrow because you saw the photo and you're pissed.
You'll pretend you've been seeing each other for a few weeks.
Kept it quiet because you didn't want the press finding out, and now you're hurt by the photos.
You'll stay in the same hotel, different rooms. The idea is for you to get to know her and the rest of the team.”
“Think she'll cooperate?”
“No. She'll make your life hell,” he assures me, shrugging.
“I've had worse clients.”
“Not like her, and that's where you need to be careful,” he warns. “She's charismatic. The kind of person who's much harder to protect because she makes you forget it's just a job. And you're going to spend a lot of time with her.”
I don't answer. I don't need anyone reminding me what my job is. But my eyes drift, just for a second, toward the photo where she's shirtless, celebrating that goal.
“Flight leaves tonight. First meeting tomorrow at nine with the player and the club staff at her hotel. The contacts for the head coach and the general manager are in the file. They're the only ones who know the truth.”
“Got it.”
“Paula.”
“Yeah?”
“This is an excellent contract. Don't screw it up,” he adds as a parting shot, pointing a finger at me.
***
At this hour, Seattle-Tacoma Airport is emptier than usual. Except for my gate. Two hundred people waiting for a flight that's already over an hour late. Gate B47, Orlando.
I pass the time watching planes land and take off through the rain-streaked window. Around me, families everywhere, small kids losing it, a group of college students who started drinking a while ago, a few businessmen, an older woman who fell asleep.
I take a deep breath before I call.
Two rings.
“Mija. How are you?”
My grandmother's voice makes me smile. It always does. Consuelo Delgado. Seventy-four years of pure character wrapped in a floral housecoat.
“Hi, abuela. How are you?”
“Here, waiting for my granddaughter to call. Have you eaten?”
“It's six in the evening.”
“And what does that have to do with anything? Have you eaten or not?”
“I had a salad with—”
“That's not eating, Paula. That's what rabbits eat. You need frijoles de olla, tamales, a girlfriend who'll cook you a proper meal.”
“Abuela, listen, I'm not calling to talk about food. I'm about to get on a plane. I'm starting a job that might go longer than usual and it could be a while before I visit. I just wanted you to know.”
She doesn't protest. She never does.
“Will you at least call me?”
“You know I will,” I remind her, and I can't stop a small smile from slipping through.
Over the speakers, they announce Group 1 boarding. A businessman shuts his laptop and stands. The older woman is still asleep. The families shuffle toward the gate. The college kids finish whatever they've been drinking.
“I have to board, abuela,” I say, while she reminds me one more time to eat real food.
***
Once we're in the air, I take advantage of the empty seat next to me to read some of the messages from the file.
“I know you can't answer. I understand. But I want you to know I'm here. Always. Not like the others.”
“Today I saw you at the coffee shop on Third and Pike. Your hair was down. You looked beautiful. You didn't see me because it's not time yet.”
It's not time yet.
I repeat the phrase under my breath and underline it in red pen.
This isn't some random troll. This isn't an obsessed fan who registers as low-level threat. This is someone who has already moved to active physical surveillance. That phrase means there will come a moment when they plan to show up in front of Iris Vance in person.
I close my eyes, try to sleep, and the same goddamn image comes flooding back.
Valentina.
It's never a full memory. It never is. Just fragments from that day. Her black hair on the pillow of a hotel in Ciudad Juárez. The notebook she always carried in her bag. How she bit her thumb when she was thinking.
The bad part is what comes after.
The dirt road. The overturned car. Broken glass catching the midday sun. Valentina on the ground, her shirt soaked through with blood, eyes open but not seeing me. My voice screaming her name while my hands tried to stop bullet wounds that were already fatal.
Three years.
My body still reacts. My pulse spikes. My muscles lock. The scar on the back of my left hand aches like the glass is still lodged in there.
I shut the door. It's a technique I taught myself, because the ones they gave me in therapy didn't work fast enough. I picture a steel door. I push it. I close it. I throw the bolt. The image stays on the other side. Valentina stays on the other side. The guilt stays on the other side.
What stays on this side is me, sitting on a plane to Florida to protect a woman who doesn't want to be protected.
To pretend I'm her partner and keep the professional distance I swore I'd never break again.
Should be easy.
I open the folder again. My hand finds the photo on instinct. Iris Vance celebrating that goal. The jersey in her hand. The ponytail flying. Her mouth open in a scream of celebration.
I look at it three seconds longer than I need to before I close the folder.