Chapter 6
six
. . .
CONNOR
Vivi’s hand clamps around my elbow and she steers me down the corridor like she’s redirecting a threat. A moment later, her office door shuts behind us with a click.
She crosses the room, then tosses a towel at my frosting-smeared chest, followed by a Carolina Current tech shirt.
“No,” she says.
I catch both on instinct. “No…?”
“No.” She folds her arms. “Whatever that was in the hallway. With Rory’s sister.”
I drag the towel over my sternum, wiping up what’s left of the frosting that Whitney’s cake collision had left on me.
It feels like a mark I shouldn’t remove. Like proof something happened that I can’t categorize, can’t file away, can’t pretend was nothing.
But I wipe it anyway.
Then I pull on the tech shirt and take a seat, like if I put my body in “meeting mode” my brain will follow.
Maybe if I focus on what Vivi is saying, I can block out what just transpired in the hallway.
No chance in hell.
The second my back hits the chair the moment comes crashing back, uninvited and crystal clear—because my mind is a traitor and apparently Whitney’s frosting-covered finger is now a core memory.
I’d seen Whitney from the window above the outdoor pool deck.
Sports bra and leggings outlining her toned muscles, blonde ponytail bouncing as she had talked to her teammates.
All restless energy and sharp edges, like she’s always half a second from making a decision that will either save the day or set something on fire.
Then, her eyes had trailed me as I moved through the water. Cool, curious, and impossible to miss. I’d liked it because the distance made it safe.
Distance lets me pretend Rory Shields’ sister is just a name. A complication I can avoid.
But after my shower, I’d been heading to recovery when I turned the corner and ran straight into her and that precious slice of cake.
For one stupid beat, I didn’t think she was real.
Then every detail hit me at once—damp hair at her temples from her workout, freckles across her nose, frosting on her face, a mouthful of cake, and those bright blue eyes wide with shock as she stared at the wreckage on the floor.
She should’ve cursed and walked away like a normal person.
Instead, she’d gone feral.
She dropped to her knees without hesitation, scooping cake off tile like the floor was an inconvenience, not a dealbreaker. Like salvage was a moral obligation.
I couldn’t believe she still intended to eat it.
But then it clicked—because I’d heard that voice before. The stubborn gamer who refused to quit when we were one tricky push from winning. The one who always found an angle, always turned a mess into a plan.
Whitney didn’t lose. She adapted.
So of course she was going to eat the cake.
Then she’d looked up and noticed the frosting on me.
The smear across my chest and abs.
Her gaze dropped there, sharpened, and her whole face shifted like a decision locked into place.
Before I could speak, she reached out.
One swipe of her finger. Slow and precise.
She scraped frosting off my skin with her fingertip like she was collecting something sacred.
And I’d gone perfectly still.
Not because I was afraid of her.
Because I wasn’t used to anyone touching me like it was normal—like I was just a person in a hallway, and she had every right to be in my space.
My brain had supplied its own messy idea before I could kill it.
And the worst part was it wasn’t even about the frosting.
It was her.
The way she held eye contact like she dared me to flinch.
The way she looked at me like I wasn’t a headline, but a real person.
The way the moment had counted, even though it shouldn’t have.
I force myself back into Vivi’s office—into fluorescent light and consequences.
Vivi’s stare is steady, unimpressed. But there’s something underneath it, too—an understanding she doesn’t hand out easily.
“Understood,” I say, voice even.
She exhales through her nose like she’s trying not to sigh. “Connor.”
My name from her isn’t soft, but it isn’t cruel, either. I’m learning it’s the tone she uses when she’s about to tell me the truth and expects me not to flinch.
“I’m not going to pretend you’re made of stone,” she says. “You’re a twenty-something guy with a pulse.”
My jaw tightens. “Vivi—”
She holds up a hand. “No. Let me finish.”
I shut my mouth.
She taps her fingernail once on a folder like it’s punctuation. “I get it. New place. New team. Your whole life is under a microscope and you’re looking for a way to belong.”
Her words land hard. It doesn’t help that I’m not getting enough sleep.
“And I’m not sleeping,” I admit.
Vivi’s brow lifts. “Because of the pressure?”
“Because of Pussy,” I say.
Vivi’s expression turns lethal, and I suddenly realize what she must be thinking.
“Shit, no. It’s a real cat. A stray. Well, her collar says Pussy, but she doesn’t appear to have an owner. She might have gotten lost or abandoned. All I know is she’s very loud and judgy.”
She stares at me for a moment, assessing. “Good. Keep it that kind.” Then she shakes her mouse to wake up her screen. “Here’s where we are. You’re going to be visible the next few weeks. Cameras. Sponsors. Team events. People watching you for any sign you’re about to self-destruct.”
My jaw tightens.
“And I’m not babysitting you through it,” she adds, because of course she does. “So, you’re going to be polite and boring and consistent.”
“Yes, Vivi.”
Her expression softens a fraction—so subtle most people would miss it. Vivi doesn’t do comfort, but she does fairness.
“I put in a good word for you,” she says. “Not because you asked or because you’re charming. But because you’ve been doing the work. You’ve kept your head down and shown up like I asked.”
That should feel good, but it feels like pressure. A different kind of expectation that I’ve never had.
“Which means,” she continues, voice firm again, “you don’t get to hand anyone a reason to question it.”
My throat goes tight. “I didn’t—”
“I know you didn’t plan it,” she cuts in, and there’s that understanding again. “That’s not what scares me.”
She leans forward, palms on the desk. “What scares me is how fast you looked like you forgot you were Connor Fisk.”
My chest tightens.
Because she’s right.
For a second in that hallway, I wasn’t thinking about sponsors or reputations or Rory Shields.
I was thinking about frosting and freckles and the way Whitney’s eyes tracked over me.
Vivi holds my gaze. “Rory is the captain. Whitney is his sister. This place is already a pressure cooker. Do not be the match.”
Heat crawls up my neck, but I keep my face blank.
“I get it.”
Her shoulders ease a fraction, like she believes me. Or like she’s choosing to.
Then she slides a printed schedule across the desk. “Good. Practice times, media windows, sponsor touchpoints. Read it. Memorize it. And if someone sticks a camera in your face, you smile like you’ve never made a mistake in your life.”
I pick up the paper.
My hands are steady, but my mind is not.
Because the truth is, I can follow every rule on that list.
I can be polite. Boring. Controlled.
But I can’t unfeel the shock of Whitney’s fingertip on my skin.
I can’t unsee her standing in the hallway with frosting on her face and defiance in her eyes, looking at me like she wants to know more.
Vivi starts talking through the schedule, pointing out time blocks and obligations.
I nod when I’m supposed to.
I listen when I’m supposed to.
And I don’t think about frosting. Or fingers. Or the way Whitney makes me feel like one collision could ruin everything and still be worth it.