9. Graham #3
The man turned beneath his own weak spray. “Management knows damn well we don’t carry the cash to upgrade to the Marriott. That’s why this boiler has been dead since July.”
Graham glanced up at the sputtering showerhead. Six months ago, somebody from the team would have been on the phone with hotel management before he even reached the bathroom. Another room would have appeared. Another inconvenience would have vanished before it became his problem.
The water kept running cold.
He worked soap across the black streaks on his hands. “Clears the rubber dust out, anyway. Wakes you up.”
The dock worker laughed once. “That’s one way to sell it.”
Graham rinsed the last of the soap from his arms and reached for the towel.
“Wait,” the man said. “You were down at Copper Shank today, weren’t you?”
Graham turned his head.
“Saw you keeping step with Wade on the loading dock. I was hauling freight past there around lunch.”
“Mac put me on the pallets.”
“Yeah, I figured nobody volunteers for Wade’s freight line unless somebody’s trying to settle a debt.”
Graham pulled the towel around his waist. “Something like that.”
The man shut off his shower and grabbed his own towel. “Stretch those shoulders before you sleep. You carried those bundles too high for the first hour. If you climb straight into bed like that, your upper back will lock up by morning.”
For years, Graham had lived inside training rooms filled with specialists who tracked every bruise and strained tendon. He could have listed recovery protocols until sunrise.
None of that mattered here.
This man had watched him work badly, noticed what he was doing wrong, and offered advice because tomorrow’s shift would punish the mistake.
Graham nodded. “I’ll do that. Thanks for the heads-up.”
Graham let himself into the motel room and dropped the key onto the nightstand.
The AC rattled beneath the window without doing much to cut the heat, and traffic rolled along the highway beyond the thin curtains.
He changed into a clean T-shirt and shorts, then sat on the edge of the mattress to stretch the way the dock worker had told him.
The first attempt convinced him the man knew what he was talking about.
His shoulders flared when he reached forward, and the muscles across his lower back had tightened during the walk from the washroom.
Graham eased upright and lowered himself onto the bed instead.
The mattress springs groaned beneath him as he stared at the brown water stain spread across the ceiling.
Nothing about the room needed him.
No trainer waited with ice packs. No assistant hovered with tomorrow’s itinerary. Nobody cared whether he slept eight hours, ate the right meal, or arrived somewhere camera-ready before sunrise.
He had work in the morning. That was enough.
The phone on the nightstand buzzed.
Miller’s name filled the screen.
Graham considered letting it ring out, then reached across the mattress and answered.
“Graham, talk to me—where are you? Walking out of that Atlanta studio just triggered a complete meltdown at the apparel brand. The sponsors are already circling, threatening a massive breach of contract!”
Graham settled back against the pillow. “Let them threaten it, Miller. I’m not coming back to the set. The commercial is dead.”
Static crackled through the pause on the line.
“Dead? You walked away in the middle of production. They lost the location, the crew, the launch footage, everything. The board wants you back in front of them before legal starts firing off letters.”
“They can want whatever they want.”
“That isn’t how this works, Graham.”
A semi rolled past outside, its engine rumbling through the glass. Graham watched the ceiling while Miller kept talking about lawyers, penalties, sponsor relationships, and emergency meetings.
A week ago, those words would have put him on a plane.
Now they sounded like somebody discussing repairs on a house he no longer lived in.
“Miller, I’m staying here.”
“Where is here?”
“Georgia.”
The silence on the line lasted long enough for another truck to pass.
“You drove down there after her?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus Christ. Fine. You found Riley. You said whatever you needed to say. Now come back and deal with the damage before this costs you more than you understand.”
Graham looked toward the motel key.
Riley had looked at him as if he were a stranger. Mac had treated his Aston like clutter. Wade had spent the day teaching him how to lift leather without wasting strength. None of them cared what an apparel company planned to charge him for walking away.
For the first time in years, neither did he.
“The damage I need to deal with is here.”
Miller’s voice hardened through the speaker.
“Securing this Ice Royalty campaign has to be the singular priority right now! You can’t just pull a disappearing act in the middle of the off-season. What the hell is going on?”
Graham closed his eyes for a moment.
Miller still thought the crisis was a commercial.
“Miller, Riley is pregnant, and she filed for divorce.”
Nothing came through the speaker.
Graham let the silence stretch.
When Miller started to speak again, Graham cut him off.
“I don’t give a damn about the campaign.”