Chapter Six
Remy
The rest of the Venom is on the road for the second and final away game of Owen’s suspension. Owen, however, is here with me, completing a checklist of tasks that I’ve lined up for him.
Structure helps. Give people a list, a sequence, a clear set of expectations, and most of them will fall in line. It’s when things get vague that they start to drift. Owen Rourke strikes me as someone who drifts when he’s left to his own devices.
“Sign these photos,” I command.
Owen dutifully takes the stack of headshots and uncaps the Sharpie I toss him. “Are these for anyone in particular?”
“The kids from the rink the other day.”
“Oh.” Owen’s face lights up. With a real, honest-to-God smile. I… was not expecting that. “Do you have a list of their names?”
That doesn’t match the version of him I walked in expecting. I catch myself staring a beat too long, like I’m waiting for it to disappear.
“Yes, actually.” I shift through my stack of papers. “One of the volunteers thought it would be nice to give one to each of the kids who met you. They’ll pick them up the next time they’re in for a free skate day.” I hold up the list, just to demonstrate that I have it.
To my surprise, Owen reaches over and takes the list from me.
Without another word, he starts writing out a little note.
I thought he’d dash off some incomprehensible squiggles, but he takes his time, including each kid’s name and a short message.
I have no idea if he remembers the children specifically, or if he’s writing a personalized note that could apply to any of them.
If I can’t tell, I bet the kids won’t be able to, either.
And if they compare their photos, they’ll know that Owen Rourke took the time to write them a special message.
It’s a sweet gesture, and one that I did not expect. I didn’t know that Owen could be so… thoughtful.
Most clients would rush through this, treat it like a box to check so they can move on. He doesn’t. He leans into it.
I drag my eyes away from Owen’s face before I can decide how to feel about that. This is exactly how it starts—one unexpected moment, one deviation from the narrative you’ve already built in your head. I don’t have time to rewrite that narrative every time he surprises me.
I go back to my work for a while, answering emails and checking in with my clients. Or at least, I try to. My focus keeps slipping, snagging on the quiet scratch of his pen against the glossy paper.
Clementine’s strategy seems to be working, an old client from Boston has emailed me with an update about her publishing career, and I field a few questions from other members of the firm who have questions about their own projects.
“Remy?”
I hold up one finger as I finish re-reading my email draft. Once I’ve hit send, I swivel my chair toward Owen. He’s finished signing his stack of photos.
“Alright.” I clasp my hands together. “One last thing.” I hand him the two stapled-together papers I’ve left sitting next to my keyboard. “I want you to go through this list of charitable programs. Comment on their socials and repost their information to your account.”
If he’s going to rebuild his image, it has to mean something. People can tell the difference between a performance and a pattern. This needs to look like the latter.
Owen wrinkles his nose. From his expression, you would think I handed him rotten garbage. “No.”
There it is. Resistance, immediate and instinctive. Not calculated, not strategic. Just a hard stop.
“No?” I repeat.
He sits back in his chair. He won’t touch the printout. “Fuck virtue signaling.”
I’m shocked that he even knows what that is.
I drop the papers in front of him. “Look, I hear you. But I don’t think you appreciate how much influence you have over people.
You have over six hundred thousand followers.
Amplifying these causes on your platforms might not be the same as donating a hundred dollars to every one of them, but it might help them more in the long run. ”
Owen is giving off major I-want-to-flip-a-table vibes. “So you want me to shout out a bunch of random charities—”
He hears noise where I see opportunity. That’s fine. It’s my job to bridge that gap, whether he likes it or not.
“They aren’t random,” I interrupt.
Owen scowls at me for a few more seconds. I stare right back, utterly nonplussed. Eventually, Owen huffs out a breath and plucks the printout off the desk. As soon as he starts reading, his expression softens.
“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t… okay.”
The change is immediate. Not dramatic, but real. Whatever he expected to see on that page, it wasn’t this.
Every charity I included on the list deals with some aspect of men’s mental health: therapy, anger management, counseling, and mentorship programs for boys.
I didn’t pick them at random, and aside from the fact that it will look good for Owen to support these causes, sharing resources for men’s mental health might actually help some of his followers in the long run.
I turn back to my computer, but before I delve into the next email, I notice movement in the corner of my eye. Owen has pulled out his wallet.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Owen types in his card number. “Donating a hundred bucks.”
That’s not part of the plan. I didn’t ask for that. For a second, I just watch him, trying to decide if this is another performance or something else entirely.
“To which one?”
He nods to the paper. “All of ’em.”
“I said you didn’t have to.”
“Might as well, while I’m at it.”
I watch him for a moment, bemused.
He flicks his eyes up from the screen. “What? It’s a good cause. Maybe I’ll inspire some of my followers to do the same.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” I get back to work, but it’s harder to focus than before.
I keep checking in on Owen, who does exactly what I asked and more.
I want to ask him why—surely he isn’t doing this to impress me?
Maybe he wants to impress me, perhaps to show that he doesn’t need my services anymore?
If that were the case, I’d expect him to make more of an effort to impress me.
I don’t understand Owen Rourke.
And I don’t like not understanding the people I work with. It makes it harder to predict them, harder to manage the outcome.
But I’m starting to think I’d like to give him a chance.
* * *
That night, in my home in Henderson, I indulge in a few of my mid-week guilty pleasures. On the drive, I stop for takeout from one of my favorite restaurants, a little Turkish cafe that makes amazing sandwiches and a Basque cheesecake that I can never resist.
Distance usually helps. A few hours, a change of scenery, something to reset the mental file I’ve already started building on a client. Tonight, it doesn’t quite stick.
My plan was to have a quiet night at home, maybe watching a show or reading one of the books I bought on my last visit home. When I pull up to my house, though, my friend Cara’s waiting on the porch.
“I brought wine,” she says by way of greeting.
Of course she did. Cara has an uncanny sense for when I’m about to spiral into overthinking a subject I shouldn’t be thinking about at all.
I lift my bag of food. “I only have enough for one. You should have told me you were coming over.”
She shakes her head. “I had a late lunch with a client.”
I fish my keys out of my purse. “Want to talk about it?”
Cara follows me into the house, cradling her bottle of wine. “No. Maybe. I don’t know, this new boss…” She shakes her head.
“Come on, tell me about it. And then you can listen to me vent about my new client.”
“Ooh, the Hulk-Smash hockey bro?” Cara kicks off her sneakers and pads off to the kitchen in search of a corkscrew.
“He’s not as bad as all that,” I admit, somewhat begrudgingly.
I follow her to the kitchen, where she’s already pawing through the drawers.
Cara and I are relatively new friends; I met her on my first trip to Vegas, before I’d decided to join Ezra’s firm.
She’s an East Coast transplant, too, from New Hampshire.
Neither of us has fully adjusted to life in the desert, and even though I’ve known her for less than two years, I feel comfortable with her.
She’s in middle management at a restaurant supply company that works with hotels on the Strip.
Her old boss transferred to California a few months ago, and his replacement has been causing problems ever since.
Cara finally unearths the corkscrew and sets to work on the wine bottle. “How about we skip over my boss, and you can tell me more about the jock.”
“Owen is…” I pause longer than I should. That alone tells me I’m already in dangerous territory. I take a fork from the silverware drawer and turn it over in my fingers. “Owen is not what I was led to believe.”
“So, not a knuckle-dragging ogre?” Cara twists the cork free with a pop.
“Definitely not.”
“I can’t help but notice that you’re on a first name basis with the guy. Sounds like you two are getting friendly.” Cara pours a generous amount of wine into two stemless glasses. She sits down at my kitchen table, where she immediately curls her feet beneath her.
On second thought, I grab a second fork. Cara might have eaten, but no one is strong enough to resist the lure of the cheesecake. I join her at the table.
“I wouldn’t call us friendly. Owen isn’t a big talker.”
“But?” Cara prompts.
“But he seems like a decent guy.” Which is not a complication I need.
Before she can get the wrong impression, I backpedal.
“He’s a pain to work with, though. You know that phrase, ‘like squeezing blood from a stone?’ That’s how I feel every time I try to talk to him.
Why are guys so emotionally constipated? ”
“They aren’t,” Cara says. “I’ve been hanging out with some of the guys from that Cirq troop that performs at the Mona Lisa. They’re fantastic. Emotionally intelligent. Flexible.” She whistles and fans her face with one hand.