Chapter 34
SEBASTIAN
Election night was finally here, and the suite was filled with people whose futures were riding on a number they no longer had any control over.
Kendra stood with her back against the wall, her hands shoved into her pockets to keep her from picking at her manicure, as a talking head on the television screen provided a live update on vote counts as they came in.
“It’s too close,” Maya murmured at my elbow.
“It’s still early,” I said, checking my watch.
“Is it just me, or does she look like she’s about to throw up?” David asked from my other side.
I stole another glance across the room. Kendra’s chest rose and fell in the slow, deliberate rhythm of someone counting their breaths, her nostrils flaring slightly with each inhale. It didn’t look like nausea to me so much as a woman holding herself together by sheer force of will.
“She’s not going to throw up.”
“She threw up in the car on the way over here,” Maya pointed out. “Well, not in the car. We had to pull over. Obviously.”
I pulled a ginger chew out of my pocket and gave it to her. “Go see if she wants this.”
“Come with me, please?” She looked at David, her expression pleading. “She’s less likely to bite my head off if you’re there.”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine, but only if we can stop by the cheese platter on our way.”
“Deal.”
They drifted away in time for me to spy Taylor sneaking in the side door, an all-access VIP badge hanging around his neck. While the team knew I had a boyfriend, they didn't know who that boyfriend was.
I’d thought about telling them a few times, if only to shift the conversation away from Wyatt’s bombshell, but had held off, not wanting the final days of the campaign to be overshadowed by my personal life any more than it already was.
Tonight was our official debut, though only within the small circle of people I trusted.
“How are you doing?” he asked, taking up his post beside me.
“Fine. Good. Worried.”
The truth was much more complicated than that.
If Kendra lost, every time my name was mentioned now, the implication would be that I’d only ever been as good as Wyatt Hastings had made me. And that was purely the professional assessment. It didn't even factor in the assumption that I’d fucked my way into the role.
“If it's any consolation, you don’t look worried. You look focused and driven. It’s very hot.” He winked at me, his expression falling when all I could offer in return was a small tilt of my lips.
Across the room, David caught my eye and held up four fingers to indicate that four percent of precincts were reporting. Then he added his thumb, letting me know Kendra was ahead by five points, which, unfortunately, meant nothing yet.
An hour later, I spotted Maya cutting through the room, making her way toward us, her hands fisted at her sides and a scowl on her face that would have been alarming if I didn’t know her well enough to recognize it for what it really was.
She stopped in front of us, looked Taylor up and down for a beat, then turned on me.
“Is there a reason you failed to mention your boyfriend is Taylor Fucking Morrison?” She smacked my arm. “How did you pull such a baddie?”
Taylor rocked back on his heels. “Wait. You know who I am?” His tone was so fucking earnest.
“Is he fucking with me?”
Taylor had spent so long playing for teams that existed mainly to lose that he’d stopped registering what people actually saw when they looked at him.
He was playing so well lately that Marauders fans had started chanting his name.
He just couldn’t hear any of that over the voices in his head telling him he’d never lived up to his potential. Modest to a fucking fault.
“Not in the least.”
A waiter passed by carrying a full tray of drinks. She plucked two of them off it and handed him one. “Cheers to being the first professional athlete who doesn’t think he’s god’s gift to the universe.”
Taylor lifted his glass while I fought back a laugh.
“Uh, cheers,” he said dubiously, throwing back his drink in one swallow. He winced. “Oh god. What is that?”
“Amaretto sour,” Maya informed him, taking his empty glass and depositing it on the tray of a different passing waiter. “Kendra’s favorite.”
“It’s very … thick,” he replied, making a face that belied his attempt at neutrality.
"It is," she agreed. "And your boyfriend is quite the enigma. I thought I had him all figured out, and then he went and dropped the whole, by the way, I’m gay bit. Then, it turns out he’s Wyatt Hastings’s—” Maya immediately stopped speaking, her hand lifting to cover her mouth. “Oh shit. I’m sorry. That was—”
“It’s fine, Maya.” I felt Taylor’s hand press against the small of my back over my jacket, just above my belt.
“It’s not.” She shook her head, her curls bouncing. “I shouldn’t have … it wasn’t my place to … fuck.” She blew out a long breath, her eyes filling with tears.
“It’s fine,” I stressed. “You’re not wrong. I was. I’m not anymore.”
The hardest part was that I wasn’t ashamed of my relationship with Wyatt or the years I’d spent with him. The only upsetting part was how I’d let that relationship define me. How I’d stayed in a toxic situation that I knew was bad for me. That I'd chosen his ambition over my happiness.
But all of that had happened, and I’d been a willing participant.
“Anyway,” she said, not quite meeting my eyes. “I just wanted to say how cool it is that you two are together.” She turned to address Taylor. “And I wanted you to know I love the Marauders. I try to go to your games as often as I can.”
“Ah. So you’re one of our fifty fans,” Taylor joked, flashing her a self-deprecating grin while he rubbed slow circles over my back, a silent gesture of support in what was otherwise a terribly awkward situation.
“Guilty,” Maya muttered, gesturing somewhere over her shoulder. “Anyway, I’m just going to …” She walked away without finishing her sentence, shaking her head.
“That was …”
“It was.” I agreed with a beleaguered sigh. “Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long for someone to call out the elephant in the room. I’ve been expecting it.”
“You okay?” He asked, searching my face.
I nodded, stepping aside to let two junior staffers pass by. “I would have preferred for Wyatt to keep me out of it, but what’s done is done. All I can do now is move forward.”
By eleven o’clock, Kendra’s five-point lead had compressed to just one point, and the suite had dropped into near silence. Taylor was settled into a chair beside mine, his knee pressing lightly against my leg.
David was on his third call of the hour when the chyron updated.
Everything happened fast after that—the percentage ticking up, the margin holding, the anchor on screen turning to her co-host with a posture that meant they were about to project the winner.
The room erupted before she’d gotten out the full statement.
We’d done it.
We’d fucking done it.
I shot up from my chair and, without taking even a second to question what I was doing, pulled Taylor into my arms and kissed him deeply.
He went stiff for a half second, and then his hands speared into my hair, and he kissed me back with everything he had.
Eventually, I pulled back and stared down at his shining hazel eyes.
The room was pure chaos, everyone shouting at once, champagne corks hitting the ceiling.
I couldn’t hear a word Taylor was saying, but I could read every one of them on his lips.
How proud he was. What an amazing job I’d done.
That he was so glad I’d taken this job. That he was so happy I’d stayed.
I knew I should go to Kendra, congratulate her, and confirm the details of her victory speech, but I’d read through it so many times I could recite it by heart myself.
Besides, David was already there, pressing a stack of three-by-five cards into her hand as Gerald guided her toward the door, her face nuzzled into his shoulder, Maya trailing after them with tears streaming down her face.
Taylor and I were among the last to leave.
His tie was gone, the top button of his dress shirt undone as we crossed the lobby toward the exit and out the revolving door. I was in the middle of recounting something one of the volunteers had told me concerning gossip she’d heard out of Merrick’s campaign when a man stepped out of the shadows.
“Sebastian Carruthers?”
“Sorry," I said, not paying him much attention. "I’m heading home. Call my office if you want an interview.”
I turned in the direction of the parking garage, Taylor at my side.
“Brent Cochran, The Boston Enquirer," he said, undeterred by the brush off, an oily smile slipping into place as he walked briskly at my side, his phone shoved in my face. “Congratulations on Senator-elect Bancroft’s win, but I want to ask you about Senator Hastings.”
“No comment,” I stated, picking up my pace.
“You must have some thoughts about his announcement earlier this week.”
“I wish Senator Hastings well in his campaign.” I dodged an icy patch on the brick sidewalk.
“There’s been quite a lot of speculation about the nature of your relationship with Senator Hastings, particularly given that you left D.C. right around the time that he and Celine Whitcomb married.”
Taylor growled and stepped between Cochran and me.
“No, it’s okay,” I murmured, gripping his arm.
“It’s not,” he gritted out.
I held his gaze for a few protracted beats, saying without words that I needed him to let me handle this.
Taylor’s shoulders dropped in acceptance, though his jaw stayed tight, his expression alert.
“Do you have any comment on the years-long relationship Hasting’s referenced in his announcement?”
“No.”
His attention shifted to Taylor then, taking in his protective stance, his fists curled at his side, before moving back to me.
Choosing the more direct approach, he barked out, “Were you Senator Hastings’s lover?”
“No comment.”
“Does his wife know you were with her husband while they were engaged?”
“No comment.”
“Before Celine came along, did you have designs on the White House? Were you hoping to become the First Gentleman?”
“No comment.”
“Are you gay?”
“No comment.”
His gaze swung back to Taylor, and I knew—abso-fucking-lutely knew—that this scumbag was coming for him.
I’d dealt with men like Cochran my entire career. They got off on the flinch, the stumble, the moment a person said or did something that gave them away.
And Taylor’s reactions to this barrage of questions had clued him into the fact that there was another story here.
“Mr. Morrison," he shouted, rushing to keep up with us. "Do the owners of the Marauders know you’re gay?”
Taylor took a step forward, and my hand shot out, landing with a thud on his chest. I could feel him vibrating with rage.
"No. Don't."
If Taylor laid a hand on this asshole, his career was as good as over. The Marauders were surprisingly supportive of their queer players, but one who beat up a journalist, even a garbage one like this guy? That was a bridge too far.
As for me, Cochran would spin my repeated non-answers to fit whatever narrative he’d already decided on.
Still, I could spare Taylor the indignity.
I turned to face him. “I am a private citizen. Who I'm in a relationship with has no bearing on your readers. But go ahead; print whatever you want about me. It doesn’t matter because I am not running for office.”
I stepped around him, Taylor quickly falling into silent step beside me. Fifty or so feet away, I glanced back over my shoulder. Cochran hadn’t moved, but his thumbs were flying over his phone. I watched him for a few more seconds, then faced forward again, slowing my pace.
We reached the parking garage a few minutes later, taking the steps instead of waiting for the elevator to the fourth floor, where Taylor’s SUV was waiting.
He rummaged in his pocket, pulling out his keys and dangling them between us, his hands unsteady. “Can you drive?”
Taylor had dealt with the media before—postgame scrums, the occasional trade rumor, his endorsement deals—but that was different. Nobody had ever pointed a recorder at him and tried to use him as a weapon against someone he loved.
I plucked the keys from his fingers and stepped into his space, walking him back one slow step at a time until his shoulders met steel. He tilted his chin up, his eyes finding mine. I leaned in, my lips hovering over his, brushing our noses lightly together.
Only once he pushed up onto his toes did I kiss him. It wasn’t passionate or needy, though I did need him. This was a kiss meant to comfort. To calm. To ground him.
When we finally came up for air, he thunked his head back against the door frame. “Shit. Someone might see.”
“Then let them.”
Taylor’s brows knotted together.
After everything he’d just heard me say—or rather, not say—I understood his confusion.
“I didn’t confirm anything to Cochran because I’m not giving that man my story,” I explained. “That’s not the same as hiding.” I held his gaze. “And I’m done hiding.”