12. Graham #3
The gala put the franchise, the apparel executives, the league, the cameras, and every reporter who mattered in one place. If he wanted them to stop using his marriage as campaign material, disappearing into Georgia would never be enough. They had already proved they could find him.
He had to make his name useless to them.
Not here. Not in a motel room where Nicolle could publish the photograph before he reached the door.
He needed their stage.
“Graham,” Miller said. “Don’t agree to anything yet.”
Nicolle raised the phone a little higher. Her thumb hovered over “Post”.
Graham met her eyes.
“Keep your thumb off ‘Post’. I’m walking to the car.”
Miller stared at him. Nicolle’s mouth curved as if she had finally won.
Graham let her believe it.
New York would give him the stage he needed.
Graham dragged the canvas duffel from beneath the cot and set it open on the mattress, then crossed to the dresser.
The top drawer scraped against its track when he pulled it open.
Three clean shirts, two pairs of jeans, underwear, and socks made up most of what he had bothered unpacking since taking the room.
Miller watched him shove the first shirt inside. “You don’t have to throw everything in like that.”
“I’m not moving out.” Graham added the jeans. “I’m taking what I need.”
Nicolle glanced at the clothes. “You need a suit, not dockworker clothes.”
“The brand can survive seeing me dressed like myself.”
Her mouth tightened, but the phone stayed in her hand. That was the only detail Graham cared about. Riley’s photograph remained trapped behind that screen instead of spilling across every sports account in the country.
He packed the rest without giving Nicolle another reason to move her thumb.
Miller stood near the foot of the cot, his posture slumped beneath his suit jacket.
Graham had known that man since his rookie season.
Miller had taught him how to survive road schedules, brutal losses, coaching changes, contract years.
He had also spent years convincing Graham that one more sponsor dinner, one more interview, one more concession was simply the cost of protecting the career.
Graham pushed the last pair of socks into the bag and looked at him.
“Take a long look at the exact monster you spent your entire career protecting, Miller.”
Miller lost some of his color. He glanced toward Nicolle, then back at Graham. “I never authorized a blackmail play, Graham. I swear to God, she went rogue.”
“You helped create the environment where she could.”
“I know what I covered for.” Miller rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “But this? Threatening Riley because you won’t smile for a sponsor? I never signed up for this.”
Nicolle stepped away from the cot. “We are done running this pathetic soap opera. The driver is already outside, so move.”
Graham zipped the duffel. He ignored a snagged sleeve, yanking the bag closed before he looked at her again.
“I said I’m going to New York. I didn’t say I was leaving with you now.”
Nicolle crossed her arms. “The jet isn’t waiting around while you play husband.”
“It will wait.”
“You are in no position to start issuing conditions.”
Graham lifted the bag by its handles rather than dragging the strap across the bandage Riley had applied. The cut already burned from a night of movement, and he had no interest in tearing it open before he reached her. He set the duffel beside the dresser.
“Get out,” he said. “I’m going to the loft at dawn to look my wife in the eye before this flight.”
Nicolle’s eyebrows rose. “No. We leave now.”
“Then post the picture and explain to every reporter who asks why you used my pregnant wife as leverage.”
Miller looked toward the phone. “He’s right. The second that draft goes live, you lose control of the story.”
Nicolle turned on him. “Stop helping him.”
“I’m trying to stop you from making this worse.”
The bodyguard shifted at the doorway, one hand resting near the front of his jacket. Graham looked at him once, then returned his attention to Nicolle. Fighting the man would accomplish nothing. Neither would wrestling for the phone.
What mattered was keeping that post unpublished until he reached New York.
He had agreed to the flight. He had not agreed to surrender.
Riley deserved more than another disappearance followed by a headline. After the storm, after her hands had cleaned the blood from his skin, he could not let her wake to an empty loft and discover through a television screen that he had gone back north with Nicolle.
She might hate the explanation. She might tell him to leave before he even finished.
He was still going to offer her the truth he could safely give.
Nicolle pointed toward the door. “My security is staying with you until you get in the car.”
Graham stepped toward her, stopping well outside arm’s reach. “Send your muscle to rush me, or let anyone step near my wife, and I’ll personally hand this entire story to the press. Wait for me at the jet.”
Nobody answered immediately. The air conditioner rattled beside the window while traffic passed on the highway.
Graham hoisted the duffel off the floor.
He was going to Riley first.