Chapter 3
Iris
I show up to the meeting on time, sober, and freshly showered. If Hades doesn't give me an award for this, the woman has no heart.
Alex Drummond is already seated at the table, though with her, you can never tell if she's pleased or the exact opposite. My coach stands by the whiteboard, arms crossed. She looks at me like I'm a puppy that just learned not to pee on the rug, but she still doesn't fully trust.
I pick the seat farthest from Alexandra. That woman gives me the creeps. I cross my legs. Check my nails. I need a manicure bad, but that's a problem for future Iris.
“Where's my girlfriend?” I ask, starting to get impatient.
“On her way,” the club director replies.
“You still haven't told me if she's cute,” I say.
Nobody laughs. Figures. These two are a tough crowd, and it wasn't that funny.
I try to picture the woman they're about to shove into my life. Someone big, for sure. Six-three, dark suit, square jaw, zero sense of humor. Probably at least twenty years older than me. I'll give her a nickname. Call her something ridiculous until she gives up and leaves me alone.
And I'll ditch her. She better be ready for that.
The door opens.
And she's almost nothing like what I was picturing.
She's got to be around my age. Dark hair pulled back in a bun that looks engineered so nothing moves without permission. Warm brown skin. Dark eyes.
Taller than me, but not the six-three I'd imagined. Athletic build. Comfortable clothes.
But what gets me is that she doesn't even look at me. First thing she does is scan the room, then lock eyes with Alexandra Drummond. Like I don't exist. And I'm not used to that.
“Iris, this is Paula Delgado,” the club director announces. “She's the specialist assigned to your case.”
She sits across from me, back straight, and gives a quick nod. If we have to pass for a couple, this is going to be rough, because she's colder than an iceberg. Impossible to tell what she's thinking. Most neutral face I've ever seen, and Jade Herrera plays some serious poker faces.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, flashing my best Instagram smile.
“Likewise,” she says. One word. That's it.
Right. There's no way anyone buys this woman as my girlfriend. Mine are always way more expressive.
“I've read your file,” Paula goes on, opening a folder identical to Alex's. “I have some questions.”
“Go ahead. I'm all yours. After all, I'm your girlfriend now,” I joke. Nothing. Not even a twitch.
“Have you changed any of your routines in the last six months?”
“My routines?”
“Any kind of routine. Have you changed anything since the messages started?”
“No.”
“Why not?” she presses.
“Because I didn't know the messages were a problem until yesterday.”
“The messages have been going on for six months,” she reminds me.
“The messages have been weird for six months.
Not dangerous for six months. There's a difference.
Look, I get that your job is to take this stuff seriously.
But I get hundreds of messages a day. People saying they love me, they hate me, I'm their inspiration, I'm a fucking embarrassment, and a party girl.
Other times they call me a drunk and way worse.
If I stop to evaluate every single one, I don't have a life,” I tell her.
“That's precisely the problem,” she says, calm enough that I want to throw my chair at her head. “Someone with your level of exposure needs a professional filter. Deleting messages and moving on isn't enough.”
“Great, so that's what you're here for, right? To be my filter.”
“Among other things.”
“And what are the other things? Because so far the only thing I know is I have to pretend we're dating, and that's going to be hard as hell.”
Paula doesn't react. No raised eyebrow. No tension in her jaw. Nothing. It's like talking to a wall, except walls don't hold your stare without blinking.
Hades steps in, thank God.
“Paula will explain the security protocol. Listen. No interruptions. No jokes. Can you do that?” she asks, eyebrows up.
“I can try.”
“Then try really hard.”
The bodyguard talks and talks. Her voice isn't loud or quiet, fast or slow.
Exactly the right volume and speed to deliver information without wasting a single syllable.
She tells me she'll be with me outside of practices and games.
That she'll review my routes, my schedule, my contacts.
That she'll have access to my social media to monitor the stalker.
That in public, we're a couple. That in private, we keep professional distance.
While she talks, I watch her hands. I don't mean to. There's a scar across the back of one of them, and I wonder how she got it. I should be listening to what she's saying instead of staring at her hands. This is objectively weird.
“Any questions?” she says when she's done.
“Yeah. How long is this going to last?”
“Until the threat is neutralized.”
“And how long is that?”
“I don't know. Depends on the investigation. Could be tomorrow, could be months,” she says, shrugging.
“Great. Sounds like a blast,” I mutter.
“I'm not here to entertain you. I'm here to protect you,” she says, and it's the first time I catch something in her voice.
I look at Hades. She gives me a look that says: don't you dare. She knows me well.
“Fine,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Anything else?”
“Tonight we'll meet privately to establish the cover details. Our story, the limits of physical contact in public, the rules of communication. I need you available at nine. For now, you can tell your teammates that your girlfriend is very pissed about the photos of you throwing up, and she flew to Florida.”
I'd rather not hear that last part.
“Nine? I have plans,” I complain.
“Cancel them.”
It's not a suggestion. It's not a request. It's a fucking order. I'm going to have a girlfriend who gives me orders. Just what I needed.
I'm not used to people giving me orders. Well, yes, I am. Hades gives me orders all the time. But she's my coach, and I don't always listen. This woman has been in my life for twelve minutes.
“Nine,” I repeat. “My room. Don't be late, babe.”
Paula picks up her folder. Doesn't react to my comment. Stands. Says goodbye and walks out, closing the door behind her without a sound.
I stare at the closed door.
“Could be worse,” Hades says.
“In what universe could this be worse?”
“Could be someone you could manipulate. That woman is not going to let you get away with anything. That's a good thing,” my coach adds.
“Not good for me,” I grumble, and leave the room myself.
I half-run out and catch up to her at the end of the hall.
“Hey. Wait.”
She stops. Turns. Looks at me with that same face from before: total blank. She isn't even surprised I followed her.
“I'm not going to make this easy for you. It's nothing personal, I swear, it's just how I am. I'm not the obedient client who does what she's told. That's not my thing. But I get that this is your job, so we're cool. I just wanted you to know.”
“Iris,” she says, voice flat. “I'm not here for you to like me.
I'm here to keep you alive. If you want to hate me, do it when nobody's watching.
In public, pretend we get along great. If I tell you something, it's for your safety, even if you don't like it.
What I won't allow is your ego putting your life at risk.
So I'll see you at nine. In your room. See you later… babe,” she adds with a wink.
I watch her walk away until the hallway is empty. My mouth open. Not a single word available.
This doesn't happen to me. It never happens. I always have something. A joke, a smart comment, some kind of exit. Always. It's my thing. It's what I do. I'm Iris Vance, for God's sake. I have a comeback for everything. It's basically my brand.
And this woman just left me speechless.
***
She arrives at nine sharp, because obviously Paula Delgado would never be late.
I even cleaned the room. Well, I shoved the dirty clothes and the empty bottles under the bed, but it looks cleaned. Which, honestly, is ridiculous behavior because this woman is not a date. She's a bodyguard disguised as a girlfriend who's only here because someone is following me around.
“We need to agree on four things,” she says without even saying hello. “How we met. The limits of physical contact in public. Communication rules. And a safe word.”
“Safe word sounds like we're doing BDSM. I don't know if I'm ready, we just met,” I murmur, but once again, she doesn't laugh. This woman is a bore.
“Let's start with how we met.”
“Okay, how did we meet?” I ask.
“Through a mutual friend, not connected to soccer. Simple, hard to verify, doesn't require specific details. If anyone asks, it's a friend who lives in Texas now.”
“How long are we supposed to have been together?”
“Three weeks. Recent enough that nobody's seen us before. Serious enough that I'd be pissed about the photos and fly to Florida to sort things out. You didn't want the press involved, so we kept it quiet,” she explains.
“Okay. Where did we first meet? Was it like… love at first sight? I fell for your smile, and you took me home that same night? Because you do smile sometimes, right?”
“I don't like 'love at first sight.' I don't give off the vibe of someone who loses control.”
“Oh, come on, but that would make it even better. Ice queen melts for the blonde soccer player. People eat that stuff up. We're going to crush it on social media,” I add, giving her a light nudge with my elbow.
I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I think I caught something close to an attempted smile.
“First coffee in Capitol Hill,” she writes in a notebook. “Three weeks ago. It was your idea to ask me out.”
“Okay. Let's get to the serious part,” I say. “What are the limits in public?”
“Only what's necessary to maintain the cover,” she says. “Some affection. Touching, holding hands, that kind of thing.”
“Kissing? I'm a big kisser. All my teammates know that. It'd look weird if we didn't kiss.”
“Only if the situation calls for it,” she says, shifting slightly.
“With tongue?”
“If there were absolutely no other option.”
“So, never.”
“So, almost never.”
I lean toward her. Slow. I want to see if she gets nervous. She doesn't move. She doesn't pull back.
“Define 'if there were absolutely no other option,'” I whisper, just inches from her mouth. “I want to know where the line is.”
“If there were no other way to avoid raising suspicion that could compromise the operation,” she says without flinching.
“That's not a definition. That's a line from the bodyguard manual,” I complain.
“Then give me an example.”
“I just want it to look real,” I say, pulling back.
“It'll look real. Don't worry.”
“How do you know? Have you done this before? Pretended to be some famous woman's girlfriend? Oh man, tell me, please!”
“I've done harder things.”
“You didn't answer me,” I press.
“No. I didn't,” she admits. “Communication rules,” she continues, going back to her notebook. “Never post your location in real time. Never. If you're going to post photos of us, check with me first.”
“Of the two of us together?”
Paula looks up.
“Yes, of the two of us together. Like you said, it has to look real. Outside of club facilities and stadiums, I'm your shadow. You don't go off on your own and you notify me of any changes to your schedule.”
“And if I want to hook up with someone? I mean, you know, if this drags on… a girl has needs.”
“Buy a toy,” she says, flat.
“Jesus, that is the most depressing thing anyone has ever said to me. And I had a seriously toxic ex who said some messed up stuff,” I groan, dropping back onto the mattress.
“I'm not trying to depress you. I'm trying to keep you from getting hurt.”
She says it with nothing behind it. No weight. No drama. Like telling me water is wet.
“Safe word,” she goes on. “If at any point you feel something is wrong, we need a code word. Something you wouldn't use in normal conversation. Think of one and tell me tomorrow. Iris, this works if you trust me. I'm not asking you to like the situation. Nobody likes it. Just trust me.”
“Man, this sounds almost like a marriage proposal, and we haven't even had a real first date.”
“Our first date is tomorrow,” she says, dropping her voice, and winks.