Chapter 1 #2
I don’t dare voice what might have replaced them.
I stand, pull on a hoodie, then grab my keys off the counter.
“Don’t burn the house down,” I tell her as I head for the door.
She flicks her tail once, unimpressed before the door clicks shut behind me.
I’m halfway inside my Range Rover when I remember that the coffee shop is only a few blocks away, so driving isn’t necessary. The small beach town of Coral Cove is idyllic and highly walkable, neither of which I’m used to.
The town also looks like it was designed by a tourism board on mood stabilizers.
Pastel buildings, string lights over the boardwalk, and perfectly placed bike racks at every corner that make you feel guilty for owning a car at all.
The Coastal Bean sits on a corner just off the boardwalk—white brick, yellow awnings, outdoor seating with tiny plants that look watered by people who genuinely care about things. A chalkboard out front advertises a lavender cold foam latte like it’s a spiritual experience.
For a minute, I let myself believe the fantasy. New town, clean slate, fresh start. Maybe even anonymity.
Then, I step up to the counter to order, and the barista, a guy in tortoiseshell glasses with an undercut and what seems to be a degree in judging strangers, blinks at me.
His eyes narrow.
“Oh my god,” he says, voice hitting a pitch that suggests gossip is imminent. “You’re that swimmer.”
There are thousands of swimmers. This could go anywhere.
“What swimmer?” I ask, optimistic that he’s going to recognize me for something positive. Like the tasteful but provocative underwear campaign I did last year.
“The one who punched that Australian guy on TV.”
Christ.
“It wasn’t—” I stop, inhale, try again. “There was no punching. It was more of a shove.”
“Looked like a punch,” he singsongs.
“There was wet tile involved,” I clarify. “Physics did most of the work.”
Someone behind me laughs. We’ve got a full audience now.
I open my mouth to refute the story when a hand lands lightly on my elbow.
“Hi, Sam!” a bright, polished voice cuts in. “Connor’s actually on a media break right now.”
We both turn.
Next to me, a petite woman appears. Her tailored blouse is accentuated by her perfect posture and the expensive tote draping over her shoulder. She looks like the kind of woman who can negotiate a crisis and a brand deal before breakfast and not smudge her mascara.
And for one disorienting second, my brain glitches—because I know that face.
Vivienne Lopez.
Except the last time I saw her, she was in a UCLA hoodie, yelling at our student paper guy for publishing an article titled “Swim Team Heartthrob Refuses To Confirm If He’s Single.”
Same energy. Better accessories.
The barista’s eyes widen when he sees her.
“Vivienne! Hi.” His voice drops half an octave and gains instant reverence. “I didn’t know you were coming in today.”
She smiles—the kind that makes grown adults hand over information and iced lattes willingly.
“There was no punching,” she tells the barista smoothly. “No suspension. Just a dramatic camera angle and a very slippery pool deck. Can we grab a large drip and a matcha latte?”
Sam nods rapidly and rushes off to make our drinks.
I stare at her.
She doesn’t look at me. Just angles her head slightly, like she can feel my eyes on her and enjoys it.
“Vivi,” I say.
“Connor,” she replies, still watching the espresso machine like she’s never met me in her life.
Sam sets our drinks down like he’s placing an offering on an altar. Vivi thanks him with that same congenial smile, then gestures toward a two-top near the window.
Up close, she looks exactly the same, and also completely different. The same quick intelligence. The same I’m-two-steps-ahead-of-you gaze. Just swapped college chaos for professional threat level.
“I didn’t realize I needed a handler to buy coffee,” I say.
“You don’t,” she replies, taking a sip of matcha like it’s an audition. “You need a handler to buy coffee without giving the internet two new memes.”
I lean back in my chair. “How are you PR for a pro swim team now? Last I checked, you were terrorizing the communications department because they spelled your name wrong in the program.”
“That was a matter of principle,” she says calmly.
I laugh. “It was a matter of you enjoying conflict.”
She lifts a brow. “It’s my specialty.”
I watch her for a second, because she’s good at this. At walking in and owning a room without making it a scene. At making Sam forget his own name. At cutting the air between me and a headline like she’s done it a thousand times.
“Thanks,” I say, before I can overthink it. “For stepping in back there.”
Vivi’s expression doesn’t soften, exactly. But something in it shifts.
“Don’t get sentimental, Fisk.”
“I’m serious,” I say. “I don’t have a lot of people who—”
“I’m not doing this for you.” She takes a sip of her matcha. “I’m doing it for my cousin, Leo. As a favor.”
Right. Leo emphasized that I’d need managing from a closer proximity. Clearly, Vivi, the Carolina Current’s PR manager, is who he had in mind.
She taps the lid of her cup with one finger. “So, I’m not technically in your corner.”
My stomach sinks.
“I’m cautiously sitting on your side of the bench until you prove you won’t bite me,” she adds dryly.
A laugh escapes me. It’s sharp and relieved and not entirely sane.
“That’s fair,” I say.
“Good,” she replies, like she’s pleased I didn’t argue.
She pulls her tablet out and slides it to the middle of the table.
No warm-up. No pleasantries. Classic Vivi.
“I’m going to be direct,” she says. “You’re a fantastic swimmer.”
I wait for the but. It arrives at the speed of sound.
“…but your reputation is shit.”
I choke on my coffee very gracefully. “Wow. Okay. Good to see you haven’t changed.”
“I have changed,” she says, deadpan. “I’m nicer now.”
“Terrifying.”
She taps her tablet’s screen and suddenly I’m facing a wall of headlines like they’re warrants.
“SWIMMING’S BAD BOY STRIKES AGAIN”
“HOT, TATTOOED, AND TOXIC?”
“THE SHOVE SEEN ROUND THE WORLD”
I stare. “Okay, that one was exaggerated.”
Vivienne holds up a finger without looking up. “We’re not litigating. We’re assessing.”
More swipes. More carnage.
“brILLIANT IN THE WATER, A LIABILITY OUT OF IT”
“SPONSORS PULL BACK — FISK TOO UNPREDICTABLE?”
“THE TALENT THAT CAN’T PLAY NICE”
The last one punches lower than I expect.
Talent is fine. Liability isn’t great.
I rub a hand over my jaw. “Is this really how bad it is?”
Vivi finally looks at me.
“Connor, you’re not a cautionary tale. Yet.” She tilts her head. “But you are a PR headache.”
Externally, I shrug like I’m above it.
Internally, it hits like cold water.
She continues.
“FISK ARRIVES WITH MYSTERIOUS BLONDE — NEW FLING OR PUBLICITY STUNT?”
She tilts her head at me. I wave a hand.
“Not a fling. Just...people assume things.”
She gives me PR eyebrows. “Because you let them. Because you refuse to correct anything. Because you think silence makes you untouchable.”
It stings because it’s true.
It also stings because the “mysterious blonde” in those photos wasn’t a fling.
She was my mother’s nurse on her day off. We were at the pharmacy because my mom’s chemo had tanked her blood pressure again and I didn’t want her going alone.
But no one asks the questions that might ruin a good story.
The version of me they like best didn’t have a mom with cancer. He didn’t spend sleepless nights reading insurance documents or take sponsorship deals he hated because experimental treatments don’t pay for themselves.
She scrolls once more, then taps the screen and looks at me instead of reading.
“And then there’s this one.”
She turns the tablet so I can see.
"FISK: brILLIANT OR UNCOACHABLE?”
It’s not cruel or even sensational, but simply accurate in a way that feels like a punch to the diaphragm.
“Connor, you are immensely talented. No one argues that. People want to root for you. They do. But right now, you don’t give them anything to latch onto.
“And that’s annoying,” she says, like the idea irritates her. “Because there’s something there. Under all the…whatever this is.”
I lift a brow. “Whatever this is?”
She gestures vaguely at me—tattoos, reputation, mess. “You have so much potential it’s embarrassing.”
The compliment lands like a punch I wasn’t braced for.
Vivi’s eyes narrow, like she can tell. “Don’t make it weird.”
“That’s not intentional,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck.
“I know,” she says. “But perception doesn’t wait for context.”
She lowers the tablet and fixes me with a determined look.
It sparks something almost like relief.
And that’s the scary part—because I’m not used to people looking at me like I’m worth the trouble.
“So, what’s the move?” I ask.
She smiles like this is her favorite part.
“Image rehabilitation with purpose. Not just charity because it looks good or interviews because sponsors want sob stories. Something authentic.”
She clicks open a tab and turns the screen again.
“Rising Tides Swim Foundation — Ambassador Applications Open”
My pulse jumps.
“They’re expanding programming this year,” she explains. “Water safety. Access to swim lessons. Grants for underserved communities.”
My throat tightens. “That’s real stuff.”
“Yes,” she says simply. “And you’d be good at it.”
I swallow. Hard. “You think they’d take me?”
She doesn’t sugarcoat it. “They’ll hesitate.”
I nod, because that’s deserved.
“But,” she adds, “if you commit, if you show up, if you let people see you instead of the headlines? Then yes. I think they would.”
I let out a breath. “So, I apply.”
“Eventually,” Vivi says. “First you do something radical.”
I squint. “Please don’t say interpretive dance.”
She smiles without warmth. “Practice.”
My pulse jumps.
“Show up,” she says, like it’s a personal philosophy. “Be a teammate. Be on deck. Be boring.”
“Boring,” I repeat.
“Yes,” she says. “Boring is how we rebuild trust.”
She stands, slides her tablet back into her tote, and gives me one last look—half warning, half challenge.
“And Connor?”
“Yeah?”
Her eyes sharpen. “Don’t make me regret sitting on your side of the bench.”
Then she’s gone, leaving me with a matcha ring on the table and the sinking realization that the hardest part of image rehab isn’t the internet.
It’s going to be facing Rory.