Chapter 11
brOOKLYN
London’s unusually warm weather lasted through Halloween weekend. After that, a flip switched, and November dawned crisp and cold enough to make my teeth chatter when I stepped outside.
Luckily, today’s schedule kicked off with an indoor presentation to the whole team on nutrition. Jones, the club’s head of nutrition and my boss, ran the meeting with his assistant Rory. The other intern, Henry, and I were on hand to assist.
Even though I was the one who’d put the presentation together, I still listened intently while Jones discussed the importance of carbohydrates as fuel, different carb options, and ideal portion sizes.
The players should already know this stuff, but it was smart to refresh their memories every once in a while.
“Is it just me, or are the lights in here way too bright?” Henry muttered. “I have the worst hangover.”
I gave him a tight smile but didn’t respond.
“What did you do this weekend? I went to Neon and—”
“Shhh.” I kept my voice as low as possible. “Not now.”
I tolerated Henry on a good day, but moments like these made me want to bang my head against a wall.
People freaked out when they discovered I was Frank Armstrong’s daughter, but no one batted an eye at the fact that Henry was Jones’s godson.
Armstrong was a relatively common last name, so I was able to hide my parentage until I basically got the job.
My dad was completely hands-off when it came to my internship.
Henry couldn’t say the same. Plus, he had the work ethic of a stoned frat boy, but I was the one who constantly had to prove myself while he skated by on the bare minimum.
Welcome to Blackcastle, home of the Nepotism Double Standard Olympics.
“We have a few more slides. Then I promise I’ll let Coach torture you on the pitch,” Jones said to scattered laughter. “Brooklyn, why don’t you take over this last part?”
I straightened, my stomach fluttering as all eyes turned toward me. Jones hadn’t given me any heads-up that I would be speaking today.
Thankfully, I knew the presentation like the back of my hand. My initial surprise quickly dissolved as I launched into an overview of how to make healthy versions of different foods and how to substitute empty calories with whole foods.
That was my favorite part of this job. I didn’t believe in restrictive diets, and while pro athletes were much more disciplined than the average person, they would be better served if they enjoyed what they ate. Sustainability was an important part of performance optimization.
“We created some guides and games to help you remember this info later,” I said. “I can—”
“Thank you, Brooklyn.” Jones cut me off. “We’re out of time, but this is only the first week of our monthly cycle. Next week, we’ll focus on practical applications of the concepts we learned today…”
I snapped my mouth shut. My teeth ground together before I forced myself to relax.
I thought games were a fun way to engage the team, but Jones thought they were “infantilizing.” I mean, yes, Sports Nutrition Bingo wasn’t a peer-reviewed journal article, but we were dealing with footballers. If anyone liked a good game, it was them.
Jones kept talking. So much for running out of time.
I held back a sigh. I ignored Henry when he tried to engage me in conversation again about his night out at Neon and scanned the room instead.
The players all sat in front of their respective lockers. Most were paying attention, but a few were definitely zoning out. Stevens kept sneaking peeks at his phone, and every minute or so, Adil would whisper something to an exasperated-looking Noah.
My gaze skimmed over Asher and landed on Vincent.
Like the others, he was dressed in a black-and-purple training kit.
His long-sleeved shirt hugged his muscles, and the purple contrasted perfectly with his dark coloring.
He lounged against his locker, his expression intent as Jones finally ceded the floor to Greely, the assistant coach.
My dad wasn’t here. He rarely attended presentations, so Greely often stepped in for him until the actual training started.
Vincent must’ve felt my eyes on him because he turned his head, ever so slightly, toward me.
Our gazes met, and my pulse slowed to a breathless crawl.
We hadn’t talked much since our texts on Friday night. I’d spent all weekend in my room, working on the ISNA application, but every so often, images of our messages would float through my head.
We don’t love each other.
We don’t hate each other either.
Two sentences that encapsulated our long-standing dynamic. For over a year, we’d held fast on the middle ground between love and hate. Neutral, convenient, safe.
But our new living situation had upended that entire dynamic. I couldn’t escape him anymore. He was always there, taking up space and filling up my thoughts, and the more time we spent together, the further I inched away from the middle ground.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t headed in the direction I wanted, but I couldn’t find a way to reverse course.
Vincent’s gaze flickered at the edges, his expression inscrutable. We were across the room from each other, yet I could practically smell the subtle spice of his aftershave and feel the warmth of his skin against mine.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears. He leaned forward, and—
Loud chatter broke out. The tension fractured, and blood rushed to my face as I realized the team had been dismissed.
Players swarmed toward the exit. Vincent remained in his seat, his gaze holding mine for an extra beat before he stood and followed them out to the pitch.
It wasn’t until he was out of sight that I released a shaky breath.
Our moment had lasted less than a minute, but like our texts, it lingered on my mind far longer than it should’ve.
While the team trained outside, Henry and I returned to our joint office.
Thankfully, he’d stopped regaling me with tales of his tequila-fueled birthday party—for a nutritionist, he drank quite a lot—and I was able to focus on my work.
Hours passed, and I was about to head out when Jones called me to his office.
“Good luck,” Henry said without taking his eyes off his screen. He was reading a fitness article that conveniently featured a half-naked photo of a Victoria’s Secret model.
Good luck? What was that supposed to mean?
My stomach pinched with nerves as I entered Jones’s office and took the seat opposite his.
It’s fine. He’s not going to fire you. I only had a month or so left in my internship, and I’d been a model employee. Well, except for that time Henry asked me to “please fetch some tea” for him, and I dumped a heap of salt in there instead of sugar. He never asked me to get him a drink again.
“You did a good job on the presentation today,” Jones said. “Minus the part about the games at the end.”
“Thank you,” I said politely, fighting the urge to sigh.
Jones had worked at Blackcastle for fifteen years. I respected him, but I secretly thought he was a bit too rigid. It was either his way or the highway. There was no room for argument.
“I wanted to talk to you because I received your recommendation request for the ISNA Innovator Award,” he said. “That’s an extremely prestigious prize.”
“It is.” I wasn’t sure what else to say, and I worried my reply came off a bit condescending because it was so obvious.
“I would really appreciate a recommendation if that’s possible.
You’re so well-respected in our field, and a letter from you would go a long way in helping me with my application. ”
I discreetly wiped my palm against my thigh. If Jones refused to recommend me, I was toast. He was my direct manager; there was no way I’d advance to the final round without his support.
I had to make it to the final round. Maybe I’d win, maybe not, but becoming a finalist was about more than the money. It was about proving to myself that I had what it took to succeed and that I hadn’t wasted the past ten years of my life on something I was only okay at.
“I’m happy to write you a recommendation,” he said. I breathed a silent sigh of relief. Thank God. “You’re a great intern. Some of your suggestions are unorthodox, but you work hard and you know your stuff. I’ve told you this before in your performance reviews, so I won’t repeat myself. However…”
I tensed again, my relief fading as quickly as it’d popped up.
“I’m curious why you didn’t email me about it until last week. Henry asked me for a letter months ago.”
My stomach sank. Of course Henry was applying too, even though he didn’t need the money.
“I didn’t know about the Innovator Award until then,” I admitted. “It’s my fault for not being on top of it. I emailed you as soon as I found out, but I truly apologize if the timing is too tight.”
I’d stopped paying attention to fellowships and awards once I got my master’s degree since I wasn’t eligible for most of them anyway. The oversight was on me.
“I see,” Jones said slowly. “It’s important to stay up to date on industry news. Just a tip for the future. But like I said, of course I’ll write you a recommendation. You’re an Armstrong. It’s a given.” He chuckled, but I didn’t join him.
My skin prickled. I heard his implication loud and clear: my relation to the head coach outweighed my actual job performance. Perhaps his Armstrong quip was a joke. If it was, it wasn’t funny.
Between me and your godson, there are a lot of Blackcastle legacies in the mix. I bit back my sarcastic reply and remained silent instead. It wouldn’t be smart to antagonize my supervisor right after he agreed to write me a letter of recommendation, no matter how hypocritical he was being.