Chapter 33 - Tessa #2
I try to pull back, to catch my breath. “Nate, what are you...”
His gaze is over my shoulder, a cruel little curl at the corner of his mouth I’ve never seen before. I turn my head and see her.
Brielle is still at the bar, hand frozen around the stem of her champagne glass, eyes narrowed, mouth tight.
The room tilts.
The puzzle pieces slide into place with painful clarity.
Oh.
Oh.
My cheeks burn hot. My chest feels tight. The kiss. The groping. The performative, look-at-us of it all. I was a message. A show. Not the woman he loves.
My stomach lurches.
“I need a minute,” I say, voice scraping.
He finally looks down at me, blinking like he’s just remembered I have feelings, too. “What? Why? We’re fine. You’re fine.”
“I don’t feel well,” I manage. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
“Don’t be long,” he says, already distracted by someone calling his name.
I make it to the bathroom on shaky legs. The polished tile and bright lights hit too hard. I grip the edge of the sink and breathe, trying to keep my vision from narrowing to that sharp little point it does before everything goes black.
You’re okay, I tell myself. You’re just tired. Just overwhelmed. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s...
The door swings open. Her perfume hits before her voice does, something expensive and... “Wow,” Brielle drawls. “He really did a number on you.”
I look at her in the mirror. She’s flawless, of course. Red dress, sleek hair, lipstick not at all smudged by someone else’s desperation.
“I don’t have the energy for you,” I say, turning on the tap just to have something to do with my hands. “Whatever this is you’re trying to do? Whatever game you think this is. I’m not playing.”
She laughs. “Game I’m playing? Oh, sweetheart. You really don’t have a clue, do you?”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not your sweetheart.”
“No,” she agrees, stepping closer. “You’re his. For now.”
She eyes my dress, my hair, the pain in my expression I’m trying to smother.
“Do you think this is real?” she asks, head tilted. “You and him. Do you actually think you’re here tonight because of love?”
Anger flares, cutting through the nausea. “I’m here because he asked me to be.”
“I bet he begged you to be,” she says calmly. “You know why? Because he has clauses to satisfy. An image to repair. Boxes to tick.”
I turn to face her fully. “You don’t know anything about us.”
“Oh, I know more than you think.” She leans a hip against the counter and crosses her arms. “You really think management hasn’t been all over this?
Golden boy fucks up his image after a messy public breakup.
.. Golden boy needs a good redemption story.
And then... Enter you... Little Miss Cowgirl Angel with the rescue animals and the tragic backstory.
They worshipped our brand once…” she waves a hand between us, “but you? You’re fresh.
New. Untouched by scandal. You’re not just his girlfriend, Tessa. You’re a campaign.”
I feel like she slapped me.
“That’s not true,” I say, but my voice cracks.
She smiles, “You think the kiss tonight was just for you? You think the key-in-the-tunnel moment wasn’t on the vision boards? PR has been drooling over this story since the moment they realized the camera loves you more than it loves him.”
I shake my head, but the memories flood in without my permission.
The“social official” selfie.
The way PR lights up every time I show up anywhere near him.
The comments from the players, the girlfriends... the hockey player at the away game.
The pressure Nate's been under.
The pressure he's been putting on me to be everywhere...
My hand grips the sink so tight my knuckles ache. “You’re just trying to hurt me.”
“If I wanted to hurt you,” she says lightly, “I’d tell you about the morality clauses.
The bonus structures. How clean family-friendly images and full stands and happy couples on the jumbotron factor into contract negotiations.
How much money are you worth to them as an organization?
How much money are you worth to him at the end of the year when his bonuses pay out? ”
I stare at her. “You’re lying.”
“Believe what you want.” She pushes off the counter. “But when this blows up, and it will, you’re the one who’s going to have to put yourself back together. You are the one they will tear apart. Not him. Not them. You.”
She stops at the door, looking back over her shoulder. “For what it’s worth, he does care about you, in his own messed-up way. That kiss looked real enough. But love isn’t the only thing in the room, sweetheart. Don’t forget that.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
I stand there, breathing hard, the world tilting.
It’s not like she said anything I couldn’t have pieced together on my own.
But hearing it out loud feels like someone took all the little nagging thoughts I’ve stuffed into the corners of my brain and moulded them into a weapon.
I splash cool water on my wrists and press a cold hand to the back of my neck, careful not to wreck the makeup someone spent an hour on. The woman in the mirror looks like she belongs in this ballroom, but her eyes are too bright, too wild.
“You’re fine,” I whisper to myself. “You’re okay. Just get through tonight. Talk to him tomorrow. Get the truth from him, not her. You owe him that much.”
I straighten my shoulders, tuck a piece of hair back, and walk out.
The ballroom feels even louder. Nate is near the stage now, talking to the coach and a cluster of sponsors.
Cameras are on them. A photographer circles like a shark.
Someone from PR is gesturing, orchestrating smiles and handshakes. He doesn’t see me.
I take a breath and angle toward him anyway. I should tell him I’m leaving. I should give him the chance to come with me or at least notice that I’m not okay.
Halfway there, Marcus materializes in my path, eyes soft with concern.
“Hey, Tessa,” he says quietly. “You doing alright?”
No one else has asked me that tonight.
“I’m…” My voice shakes. I clear my throat. “I’m not feeling great. Long day. I..."
I look at Marcus, the man who put his foot down about using his daughter as PR fodder. I think back to the day we went horseback riding with Olivia, "Are..." I almost choked on my words, but I need to ask. "Are there clauses and bonus structures in your contracts around image?"
The look on his face tells me everything. A wave of nausea hits me, and I feel hot.
"All our contracts are different." He looks at Nate, then back at me.
"Marcus?" I plead.
He sighs and then replies, "Yes, there are."
I need to get out of here.
"I’m going to head out,” I whisper.
His gaze is soft, with an edge of pity.
“I’ll let him know,” he says. “You want someone to walk you out?”
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
He squeezes my shoulder, solid and kind. “Text me when you get home, okay?”
I manage a small smile. “Yeah. I will.”
I take one last look across the room. Nate is in the centre of a large group, looking like a king holding court. A flash goes off. On the big screen, a highlight reel cuts to him, then to the team, and then to us.
I turn away.
I need space, I need air, I need to think.
For the first time since he kissed me at that noisy, small-town rodeo and tilted my world on its axis, I am questioning everything.