Chapter 5
Grayson
Should I have gone to the restroom to change my shirt?
In the sportsworld everyone has seen me bare chested. Top-half naked. Team staff, photographers, fans after a game.
Then why is she staring at me like this is highly inappropriate?
Or like she's a woman who likes what she sees.
But there's no way that blush could be from seeing my pecs. I mean, I'm much older than she is. It's like playing in two different leagues.
I pause, realizing again that I’m not exactly on top form this morning, shuddering at what she must think I’m insinuating. “That’s not—I don’t mean it like that. Hold on.”
I turn halfway toward the wardrobe built into the wall, pulling the shirt off my shoulders. The air against my bare skin is a shock, cooler than I expect.
And I can feel her stare boring into my shoulder blades.
I clear my throat, reach for one of the spare shirts hanging neatly in a row. “You can breathe,” I say, keeping my tone even. “This isn’t a disciplinary meeting. I’m not telling you off and I’m certainly not expecting anything from you.”
“I—okay.” Her voice comes out too thin.
I slip my arms into clean sleeves, buttoning the shirt as I turn back toward her. She’s still standing near the door like she’s one wrong move from bolting, fingers white-knuckled around the cup. “Right.” I nod at the chairs in front of my desk. “Have a seat.”
She hesitates, then obeys, perching on the very edge of the nearest chair like she doesn’t trust it not to eject her.
I finish with the buttons, tug the shirt straight, and circle around to lean a hip against the edge of my desk instead of sitting behind it. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” I say.
She makes a wounded noise. “Has Jared told you I’ve been late a few times? I’m sorry, I’ve been—”
“Stop thinking I’m going to tell you off,” I cut in, taking a deep breath to give myself a scrap of patience. “You’re fine. This isn’t a warning. Take a deep breath and calm down.”
She blinks at me, clearly not following directions.
I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair once. “I wanted to talk to you about the board meeting last week,” I say. “Your work, specifically.”
Her spine straightens a fraction. “My work?”
“Jared presented the tennis athleisure capsule,” I remind her. “He was clear it was yours. The line cohesion, the color stories, the way you were thinking about people actually living in the pieces. That all came from you.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. “Oh. That.”
“That,” I echo, because she says it like it was nothing.
I push off the desk and move to my credenza, grabbing the folder I pulled last night in anticipation of this conversation, the same one I’d pored over after the meeting.
I flip it open and spread her sketches out on the desk in front of her — bold lines, clean silhouettes, subtle details that only show up if you’re looking.
“This is strong work,” I say. “The strongest we’ve had in-house in a while.”
Her eyes dart over the pages like she’s seeing them for the first time. “Thank you,” she says softly. “That means a lot.”
“It should.” I lean my hip against the desk again, trying to look somewhat relaxed. “We’re about to step into a bigger arena. The NFL wants to partner with us.”
Her head snaps up. “The NFL?”
I nod. “We’ve been in talks for a while. The offer came through last week. If this goes ahead, we’ll be doing more than regional collegiate gear when it comes to the football side of things. We’d be on every field, in every fan shop, on every broadcast.”
Her eyes are huge now. “That’s… massive.”
“It is. And it means we need someone leading design who sees it all the way you do.”
She stares. “The way I…?”
“I’m promoting you,” I say. “Head of the training line. You’ll lead the design team on the NFL collection and the associated training wear. I want to hit both markets: athletes and fans. Wearable merch that isn’t just jerseys. Things people want to buy. You’ve shown you’re exceptional at that.”
For a second, I think she didn’t hear me. Then her mouth opens. “You’re… what?”
“Promoting you,” I repeat. “To head of the line.”
“I—I must have misheard you.” She shakes her head sharply, sending a damp curl flying. “I’m a junior designer. I’ve only been here—”
“Four years,” I supply. “I’ve been looking over your file. In that time, your concepts have outperformed every other designer on your level. Half the best-selling pieces in the last two drops started on your sketchpad.”
Her cheeks flush again, but this time it’s not embarrassment. It’s something warmer, half bewildered, half proud. “Those were team efforts,” she protests weakly.
“I’m not discounting the team. But I’m also not going to pretend I don’t know where the success is coming from.” I tap one of the sketches. “This is you. I need that at the front of this thing, not buried in busywork.”
She presses her lips together, like she’s physically holding back an argument. “Why me?” she whispers. “You could’ve picked one of the senior designers. Someone who—”
“Has more years on paper?” I finish for her. “Maybe. But they’re not doing this. You are.” I nod at the spread of pages.
She looks at me like she’s trying to find the trick. “Is this real?” she mutters. “You’re not—this isn’t some kind of test?”
“I don’t test people with their careers,” I say. “It’s real. HR will give you the paperwork.”
Her hand flies to her mouth, fingers pressing against her lips like she’s holding something back. Her eyes water suddenly, and I feel a flicker of alarm.
“Hey,” I say. “If you don’t want it, we can—”
“What? No. Yes. I mean—yes. I want it. I just—” Her voice cracks. “I really needed some good news.”
Something in my chest tightens. “Then I’m glad I could give you that,” I say quietly.
She swallows, nods too many times. “Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Sparkks. I won’t let you down. Promise. Oh my god.”
“I don’t plan for you to.” I pause. “And in here, you can call me Grayson.”
Her brows knit. “What?”
“My name,” I say casually. “In this office, at least, use it. Elsewhere, I don’t care.”
“Oh.” She seems thrown by that, like I’ve asked her to solve an equation. “Right. Okay. Grayson. Thank you.”
My phone buzzes on the desk between us, the screen lighting up with a notification. I grab it and flick open my texts.
Ellie:
Hey, I’m so sorry to do this again but I’m not feeling well. I don’t think I can pick up Pen this afternoon. Or stay late tonight. :(
Another buzz.
Ellie:
Maybe all week. I think it’s the flu. I’ll let you know.
A string of tight, silent curses runs through my head. Of course. Of course Pen’s nanny would call out again on the day I need her the most.
I scrub a hand over my face, the beginnings of a tension headache pressing behind my eyes.
“Everything okay?” Carly asks cautiously.
I look at the text again, running through every meeting I have today, every scheduled call I’m going to have to scrap past three o’clock so I can pick up my kid, because god knows Halsey won’t agree to do it.
“Something’s come up,” I say. My voice is flat enough that it could mean work or home. “That’s all.”
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I want to tell Ellie she’s fired for calling out so often lately. I want to scream and punch a wall and tell the world to go fuck itself. But I don’t. I can handle that later.
I look up and meet Carly’s eyes again. “I need to make a call. Give me a second, and then I’ll take you down to HR,” I say, already lifting the phone to my ear and heading toward my office door.
I have the feeling this will be my rock bottom.