13. Nutmeg & Knockouts
Chapter thirteen
Nutmeg & Knockouts
Marlow
“We’re at Biddy Mason Charter School today where the whole team is out in full force to help pass out backpacks and school supplies to the kids ahead of school starting. I’m here with one of the new team owners, Marlow Mills, who I’m told helped organize this event?”
I force my most polished smile. God, I hate these interviews. I knew public speaking would be part of this role, but dealing with the press is an entirely different beast—and let’s just say I haven’t exactly been the most graceful with the media lately.
“Yes, Rachel,” I say, keeping my tone steady, pleasant. “Biddy Mason and the leadership team here have always had a special place in my heart. What they do for the community and the impact they have on these kids’ lives...it was important to me that we helped shine a light on their work.”
“That’s beautiful. And I hear the Strikers have adopted Biddy Mason for the school year?”
“Yes!” I say, my voice perking up, proud of the program I’ve poured myself into.
“I’m pleased to announce that every year, the Strikers will partner with a deserving school and offer activities like you see today—camps, mentorship programs, and motivational seminars from select players throughout the year.
“In order to qualify, schools must demonstrate a commitment to community service, fair treatment of all people, and academic excellence that includes the arts.”
“That is wonderful,” Rachel nods, smile tight. And then...here it comes. “Sounds like things are headed in the right direction. Especially after some of your recent embarrassments in the headlines.”
I freeze for only half a second, but my face stays fixed in that perfectly polite smile.
Bitch.
“Yes, Rachel. Like anyone taking on a new role in any field, I’ve had a learning curve. But as you’ve noted, things are headed in the right direction.”
Corinne Rutherford, the principal of the school, thankfully steps in at that moment, taking over to talk about the school’s mission, and I take that as my cue to politely excuse myself before my professional mask cracks wide open.
Because if that woman had asked me one more passive-aggressive question about my so-called mishaps, I was fully prepared to shove that microphone up her nose.
I step away from the cameras just as my dad’s car pulls up, and the second I see him step out, my grin grows, wide and pure, involuntary.
This is my first big event since officially stepping into my role with the team. My event. My idea. My project. And despite all the cameras, the reporters, and the unavoidable media attention that follows him everywhere, my dad insisted on being here. Just to support me.
That’s the thing about us.
Growing up, just the two of us, I always understood why he couldn’t be there for every little thing.
I never resented him for working so much, for traveling, for grinding as hard as he did.
I knew even then—if I made his life harder, if I added pressure—he might break.
I accepted the times he couldn’t show up and made sure he felt appreciated when he did.
And now that he’s older and finally slowing down, he shows up. He’s here more often than not.
The fact that he’s giving up his old habits, trading in his playboy ways just to make sure I have every chance to succeed in this new chapter, that he chose me, it tells me everything I need to know. That his heart has always been right where it belongs…With me. For me.
I’m headed toward my dad, already picturing the way his face will light up when I finally make it over, when I’m intercepted.
“Ms. Mills. Shaun Kennedy from the Cinnamon Grove Sun. A moment, please?”
I pull my smile back into place. “Sure, Shaun. What can I do for you?”
He grins, a cocky, self-assured grin, and steps just a little too close—invading that polite bubble of space like he’s testing the waters.
“I was hoping to ask you about the event today,” he says smoothly, voice like he’s rehearsed it in the mirror, “and then maybe ask you out for coffee.”
I arch a brow, trying not to let the blush creeping up my cheeks betray me. “I see.”
Shaun Kennedy. I know exactly who he is.
The up-and-coming reporter who just made the jump from covering college sports to national leagues.
I’ve seen him floating around events, always flashing that frat-boy charm—dark brown hair, sharp blue eyes, like someone who’s been skating by on looks and charisma his whole life.
He’s cute, though. I’ll give him that.
But this is the first time he’s approached me. For an interview or anything else.
“Well,” I say, slipping into my most professional tone, keeping my composure tight. “Let’s start with the first and see where we land, shall we?”
He clears his throat, presses a button on his recorder, and raises the mic. “Ms. Mills, looking lovely as ever today in your jeans and team jersey.”
I shake my head, giving him a polite but controlled smile. “Thank you, Shaun.”
“So, word has it Justice Trager is retiring sooner than later. Any insight on who Coach Jones is looking at for the next team captain? Sources say Chidubem is poised to take the lead.”
“Well, you and your sources would need to check the facts with Coach Jones,” I say, keeping my tone smooth and diplomatic. “I’m not here to influence decisions where I don’t have expertise. Coach Jones will make the right choice and announce it when the time comes.”
Media training for the win.
“I see.” He lowers the mic slightly, eyes twinkling. “And about that dinner?”
“Are you still recording?”
“I am. I need your response on record so you can’t weasel your way out of it later.”
I gasp, hand over my chest. “I beg your pardon? I don’t weasel!”
“Fine. So—dinner. You were saying?”
“I thought you said coffee?”
“The price just went up.”
“The price?” I laugh.
He shrugs. “It’s something my niece keeps saying to me whenever she wants something. I thought it might work here.”
I shake my head, laughing. “It does not.”
“Damn it. Coffee, then?”
As soon as I get my quickie divorce, Shaun.
But I keep that thought to myself. Instead, I turn and walk away, throwing a playful, “We’ll see!” over my shoulder.
Eslin
The day is a glowing success, honestly.
I’m here to observe, to keep tabs on how the guys interact with the kids, the press, and—more importantly—each other.
We’ve got a few players we anticipate might struggle with the media attention, or with the intensity of the crowds, but so far they’re all handling it well. Not just well—they’re thriving.
I scan the field and can’t help but smile.
The Bridget “Biddy” Mason STEM Charter School—named after the formerly enslaved woman who became one of the most prominent businesswomen and philanthropists of her time—sits tucked in a small suburb of Atlanta called Cinnamon Grove.
Atlanta itself has become practically synonymous with wealth and luxury now—glittering high-rises, sprawling outdoor shopping centers, vegan cafés on every corner.
But just beyond that polished veneer, just outside of Cinnamon Grove—places where developers haven’t rushed in with their bulldozers and their big plans, is the other part of the city, neighborhoods overlooked.
Places where thousands of children still grow up surrounded by poverty and limited opportunity.
That’s why this school exists.
It was founded by a husband-and-wife team with a clear vision: to give these kids the tools they need to thrive, no matter their zip code.
A STEM-focused curriculum, leadership programs, partnerships with businesses and community leaders—it’s hope in brick and mortar.
And today the Strikers are here to support that mission.
Out on the field, players are kicking around the ball with kids of all ages, laughter ringing through the air. On one side, a couple of the guys have set up chairs and—believe it or not—a small pop-up barber station. A few of the players are lining kids up for fresh fades and braids.
Near the entrance, more players are signing jerseys, autographing photos, taking selfies with wide-eyed little fans.
I have to hand it to Marlow, she nailed this partnership.
Everything about today feels intentional, warm, connected. No one’s phoning it in. The team looks genuinely happy to be here, and the kids look like they’re floating.
It’s a good day.
In moments like this, it’s easy to forget just how complicated things really are under the surface.
And wouldn’t you know it—complicated just walked onto the field.
Grant Mills. One of Atlanta’s most eligible bachelors, or so I’ve learned from some light internet stalking.
In the flesh.
He’s barely made it five steps before he’s surrounded by reporters, their cameras flashing, microphones shoved in his face—probably peppering him with questions about his “golden child” and her rapid rise within the club.
Marlow started this position with more than a few haters stacked against her. But I’ve watched her take the hits in stride. When she fumbles, she owns it. When she’s doubted, she keeps moving. She’s earned every bit of the respect she’s starting to command.
But Lord...this damn daddy of hers?
He’s out here dressed in black slacks and a sharp black and red Strikers polo. Not as casual as the rest of us—definitely not slumming it with the players in jerseys and shorts. But casual enough for a man who probably clears twenty million a day.
Yes. I Googled that, too. Don’t judge me.
Without thinking, I slip my phone out of my back pocket, flipping the camera to check my makeup. Pure instinct.
I’ve always been one of those women who can make a “dressed down” look...look good. And today I’m rocking the hell out of it.
Even though I told Grant to stay hidden—hell, even though I told myself not to let my imagination wander where it shouldn’t when it comes to him—here I am…wondering…Does he like this look? On me?