Chapter Eight
so which oomfs want to teach me about football because this game makes no sense ??????
so you’re telling me that not only is cash curran the goat, he’s also the master of turning delulu into trululu? hats off
my king ??
The @portlandpathfinders and @nfl official accounts are now following @lyricadair.
Lyric Adair Updates @lyricadairupdatesunofficial · 3h
Lyric Adair’s publicist @rosalinesinclair is now following @cashcurran.
Portland Pathfinders @portlandpathfinders · 2h
Another day, another win for the Pathfinders!! ?? #ATLvsPDX #PathfindersNation
Maya Ana @mayaana · 2h
This has got to be the most obvious example of a PR relationship I’ve seen in my life.
Ava @avababy · 1h
My friend is working at xport tonight and Lyric Adair is there with Cash Curran and a bunch of other Pathfinders players.
They’re all over each other, apparently
They didn’t talk about it.
Not in the suite and not after the game when they slipped out with Lyric to wait for Cash outside the locker room. Poppy would’ve
thought the whole thing was a fever dream, a delusion cooked up by all the cortisol floating around inside her brain, except
she still had Rosaline’s shacket and Rosaline’s words were imprinted in her memory.
Because I said so. Because I told you so. And you’re not going to make me wrong, are you, Poppy?
Today might’ve been a shit show, and she might’ve spent a decent portion of it doubting herself and driving herself batty
by reading into every word and glance of Rosaline’s, but like Rosaline had said, Poppy cared too much to fuck this up. It
didn’t matter that she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been that gentle with her or touched her with half as much
care as Rosaline had inside that bathroom stall.
Enough was enough. The moment had been charged, no doubt, Poppy had a job to do, and she wasn’t about to ruin the progress
she’d made with Rosaline by mistaking kindness for interest or seeing signs of a connection where there had been . . . civility.
It was getting late. She had spent the better part of the last two hours on X, trying to keep her finger on the pulse of what people were saying about today’s full-throttle, real-life hard launch of Cash and Lyric’s relationship.
Not easy to do considering everyone and their brother was talking about it.
Cash and Lyric were trending on every platform, news site, and search engine, Lyric’s appearance at the game having generated maximum exposure, captivating her followers, Cash’s fans, and sports enthusiasts alike.
Poppy was struggling to keep up with it all, her eyes crossing.
It was time to call it a night.
The doorbell rang and she started, laptop sliding off her bent knees and into her lap. She set it on the coffee table and
stood, stretching her arms above her head with a yawn that made her jaw pop. The doorbell rang again, making her sigh. “Coming!”
She swore, if Cash forgot his house key again, she was going to suggest he start tying a spare to his shoelaces because, honestly,
this would make it the third time in as many weeks, which was a little—
Ridiculous.
Rosaline, not Cash, stood on the front porch holding a Sizzle Pie pizza box in one hand, the other poised to ring the bell
for a third time.
She rubbed her tired eyes and—nope, she wasn’t seeing things. Rosaline was actually standing there, still wearing that curve-hugging
bodysuit tucked into her black leather pants, an amused smile creeping across her face.
“What are you doing here?”
Rosaline held up the pizza as if that answered Poppy’s question. “Can I come in?”
She stepped aside, letting Rosaline pass. Rosaline paused to step out of her shoes and as she did, her eyes swept the room,
surveying her surroundings.
“Nice place Curran has.” She studied the giant abstract fresco on the wall with a curious tilt of her chin.
“A little modern for my taste, and it could use some color, but it’s hardly the bachelor pad I was expecting.
” Rosaline glanced at Poppy over her shoulder and arched a brow. “Or did you decorate?”
She shook her head. “He told me I could change whatever I wanted when I moved in, but it’s not like I plan on living here
forever, so I didn’t see the point.”
Rosaline hummed. “I imagine you’d stay in Portland?”
Aside from the four years she’d spent living in Eugene, she’d never lived anywhere else. And that was less than a two-hour
drive outside the city. It barely counted. “I mean, Cash is here. My job is here. Unless he decides to go somewhere else,
which wouldn’t happen until his contract’s up in another four years, Portland’s home.” She locked the front door. “Lyric isn’t
here, by the way. They’re still out celebrating with the team, I think.”
With its twin rooftop patios, outdoor bar, and amazing view of the Willamette, xport rooftop lounge was the Pathfinders’ go-to
postgame celebration spot.
“I know.” Rosaline made herself at home in the middle of Cash’s couch. “I was just there. You weren’t.”
“Bars aren’t really my scene,” she said, perching on the arm of the couch.
“I figured,” Rosaline said, voice free of judgment, but also absent of condescension. Like she was just stating a fact. The
grass was green, and Poppy didn’t frequent bars.
Poppy chewed on her lip. “So, you decided to come here? Doesn’t your family still live in Portland?”
If she hadn’t been staring so intensely at Rosaline, she might’ve missed the minute pursing of her lips. “My parents do.”
“We could’ve comped them tickets to the game. If you’d wanted.”
Rosaline flipped open the pizza box. “Football isn’t really their thing.” She held out the box. “You want?”
Poppy stole a slice of what looked like Sizzle Pie’s Don Caballero pizza—pepperoni, sausage, green peppers, and onion—and
settled in on the cushion next to Rosaline. “If football isn’t their thing, what is?”
It was hard for her to wrap her brain around anyone in this city not having at least a passing interest in the sport, but
that probably had more to do with the circles Poppy ran in than reality.
Rosaline stared up at the ceiling, her tongue pressed against the side of her cheek. “I don’t know. Exceptionality?” Her head
lolled to the side and whatever she saw on Poppy’s face made her snort out a laugh. “My father founded a green architectural
design firm here in the city and was recently recognized with the Progressive Architecture Award for outstanding strides made
in the field. My mother is a glass sculptor with permanent collections in the Smithsonian and the Musée des Arts Décoratifs
in Paris. My sister Helen is principal cello in the New York Philharmonic, and Bianca’s doing a stint in Berlin as a guest
tattoo artist, but before that she attended RISD, got her BFA in painting, and was awarded the Guggenheim Fellowship.” Rosaline
paused, frowning slightly. “I think she got the Carnegie Prize too, but I honestly can’t remember.”
“Damn.” Poppy whistled. “And then there’s you.” Renowned publicist to one of the bestselling artists in the world. Talk about
an impressive family.
“And then there’s me.” Rosaline lowered her eyes, lashes casting a faint shadow on her high cheekbones, her expression shuttering.
“I saw my parents last Christmas, and I’ll see them again in a few months at Thanksgiving.”
She knew an end of discussion when she heard one, and she knew better than to press. Families were complicated. No need to tell her that. “So, you came here. How’d you even know where Cash lives?”
“If Curran doesn’t want his address on the internet, tell him to buy his next house under an LLC.”
Not many things rendered her speechless but learning that Rosaline had scoured the county records for Cash’s home address
came close. “You realize you could’ve texted me, right?”
“I could’ve. But then I’d have probably missed out on seeing you in those delightful sushi pajamas.”
“If that’s sarcasm, I’m choosing to ignore it.”
“As is your right.” A flush spread down Poppy’s throat as Rosaline’s gaze raked over Poppy from top to bottom in another of
those dizzying full-body perusals, the second of the day. “They’re cute.” She grinned. “Very . . . Delia’s circa 2008.”
Ugh, cute was even worse than pretty.
Poppy screwed up her face, feigning confusion. “Very what?”
Rosaline arched a brow. “Don’t be a brat, Poppy.”
Poppy shivered at the soft censure in Rosaline’s voice and plucked a pepperoni off her pizza. “You still haven’t said what
you’re doing here.”
“I’m sorry, did I interrupt your big Sunday night plans to,” Rosaline said, squinting at Poppy’s computer screen, “comb through
Curran’s mentions?”
Poppy stretched forward and closed her computer, hiding her search history from Rosaline’s prying eyes. She still hadn’t answered
Poppy’s question. “You mean you haven’t looked at what people are saying online?”
“Who do you think I am? Of course I have.” She set the pizza box down on the coffee table beside Poppy’s laptop. “But eventually
you’ve got to know when to call it a day and get some rest. Even I know that.”
“Wow.” Rosaline Sinclair lecturing her on having a work-life balance? “And here I thought you never slept.”
“I suppose that’s better than the rumor that I sleep in a coffin. You know, with being out for blood. Poaching Lyric and vilifying
her exes.” She snorted. “Like they don’t do a perfectly good job of that themselves.”
“I just thought that if you slept, you probably did it with one eye open,” she teased.
Rosaline leveled her with a flat glare. “Funny.”
Poppy saw straight through her faux consternation and smiled. “I try.”
“If you want to know the truth,” Rosaline said, tucking her right leg under her, resting her arm along the back of the couch,
and facing Poppy, “I came over because I wanted to see how you were doing. I know today was . . . not easy.”
“Oh.” She blew out her breath. Not easy. That was one way to put it. “Yeah. It was . . . a day.” She set her slice of pizza