Chapter 25
twenty-five
. . .
Maci
Game Chat Rune
Some victories happen long before the time runs out.
By the time I step into the gaming pavilion I've accepted one undeniable truth.
Witt wasn't exaggerating.
Preparation for Opening Day of the e-Football League is absolute chaos.
The lobby buzzes with vendors wheeling in equipment cases, production assistants checking credentials, and camera operators weaving through clusters of developers discussing last-minute software updates.
Massive banners featuring the Dillos hang from the rafters, while giant LED screens cycle through highlight reels from last season's championship.
It's organized chaos.
The kind where everyone seems to know exactly what they're doing except the newish girl.
Which would be me.
Thankfully, Sutton O'Ryan doesn't give me time to panic.
She appears beside me carrying a tablet and an iced coffee.
"You look like someone just handed you the keys to NASA."
"I feel like someone handed me the keys to NASA."
She laughs. "You'll be fine."
"I have approximately four hundred things on today's checklist."
"Only four hundred?"
I groan. "Please don't tell me there are more."
"There are definitely more."
I sigh dramatically. "I liked you five seconds ago."
"You'll like me again by lunch."
Sutton effortlessly falls into step beside me as we head toward the production floor.
Unlike her brothers, she fills quiet moments with reassurance instead of noise.
Every few minutes she points out someone I'll need to know—a lighting director, the social media lead, the broadcast producer—never overwhelming me with information, just handing it over one manageable piece at a time.
"You've got this," she says after introducing me to another department head.
That’s the genius behind Witt’s headquarters being here in the Armadillo stadium offices. They share expenses and employees, contracting them out to one another when needed.
"I appreciate your confidence."
"It isn't confidence."
"No?"
I glance at her. "It's evidence."
"Witt doesn't hand over responsibility because he's being nice."
That makes me smile. "He said something similar."
"I know my brother."
She bumps my shoulder lightly. It’s sweet how she never says brother-in-law.
"If he trusted someone else to run this, he'd have assigned someone else."
For reasons I don't fully understand, those words settle my nerves more than anything else has all morning.
“Thank you. How do you do it all?”
“I practically raised myself. Living on my own since first grade. I’m used to being in control so I just do the same thing here… breathe. When I’m really overwhelmed, I find Greyson and he calms me down.”
I want that.
“Plus, after being in this family for five years, chaos has become part of my daily routine. And if Witt fires you, you can come work for me.”
I choke. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen. This is my dream job.”
She has her hair pulled in a tight ponytail and looks like a million bucks. “I think you’re his dream partner… in business.”
Swallowing hard, I just try to smile. I want to be more than his right hand woman. I want to be more.
The next several hours disappear into controlled madness.
I review livestream graphics with the design team, finalize sponsor placements, approve social media countdown posts, and help the broadcast crew tweak the schedule so interviews won't overlap with player introductions.
Somewhere between testing microphones and confirming the trophy lighting sequence, I realize I haven't looked at the clock in over an hour.
I love this.
Not because it's perfect.
Because it's alive.
Ideas bounce from one department to another until they're better than where they started. Problems become opportunities. Last-minute changes somehow improve things instead of breaking them.
It's messy.
Creative.
Exactly where I belong.
As I leave the production booth, my phone buzzes. Chase.
A smile tugs at my lips before I answer. "Hey."
"Hey, superstar."
"I don't know about superstar."
"Tyler said you’re in charge of Opening Day. That’s huge,” he says, completely assured that I can do it.
"I am. It’s a lot, but I’ve never been more excited for a work project than today.”
"So..." His voice carries that familiar easy confidence I've always liked. "I was thinking when all this opening weekend craziness is over..."
I already know where this is going.
"...maybe we could grab dinner."
I stop walking.
People stream around me carrying camera equipment and lighting stands, but suddenly everything feels oddly still.
"Just the two of us," he finishes.
He's kind.
Funny.
Supportive.
Exactly the type of guy every mother hopes her daughter ends up with.
For the first time, I don't know how to answer.
"I..." I glance through the glass wall overlooking the executive offices.
Witt is inside the large conference room speaking with two department heads. Even from this distance, I recognize the way he gestures toward a screen without realizing he's talking with his hands.
"I don't know if I can."
"You don't know if you're free?"
"It's not that."
"Then what is it?"
I open my mouth.
I'm kind of seeing someone.
The words reach the tip of my tongue before I stop.
Am I?
Witt kissed me.
More than kissed me, he made love to me and looked me in the eyes.
He held me while I fell asleep.
He canceled an entire workday just to spend it with me.
But...
We never actually talked about us.
We never labeled whatever this is.
For all I know, he still thinks we're simply... figuring things out.
"I've just got a lot going on," I say quietly.
A beat of silence passes. "I figured."
He sounds disappointed, but not angry.
"How about next week?"
My chest tightens.
"I... can't promise anything."
Another pause.
Then, because Chase has always been Chase, he chuckles softly. "That's the nicest rejection I've ever gotten."
"It wasn't supposed to be a rejection."
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize." His voice is warm with a hint of disappointment lining his words.
"Just promise me one thing."
"What's that?"
"If somebody finally caught your attention..." I close my eyes. "...make sure he deserves it."
My throat suddenly feels tight.
"I will."
After we hang up, I stare at my phone for several long seconds.
What are we?
The question circles my thoughts all afternoon.
Because if Chase had asked me that six months ago...
I'd have said yes without hesitation.
Today...
I couldn't even imagine wanting to spend an evening with anyone except Witt.
By the time the workday winds down and everything is marked off my to-do list, I reach one unavoidable conclusion—I need to talk to Witt. Not because I need labels, because I need honesty.
Before I can have that conversation, though, another thought slips in.
Witt surprised me yesterday, taking me somewhere that mattered to him.
He showed me a piece of himself.
Maybe...
I can do something for him.
The idea arrives all at once.
Dinner.
Not takeout.
Not delivery.
Something homemade.
Something that says thank you for opening his world to me.
How hard can cooking be?
Three grocery bags and one optimistic recipe later... I have my answer.
Very hard.
The first warning sign is the smoke alarm.
The second is when the rice somehow fuses itself to the bottom of the saucepan like industrial-strength glue.
"I followed the directions," I mutter at the pot.
The pot remains unconvinced.
Flour dusts the kitchen island. Measuring cups cover every available surface. A cracked egg drips slowly down the cabinet door because apparently I missed the bowl entirely.
I glance at the recipe again.
The app on my phone made it look easy. They snapped their fingers and it was done. I think the caption left out a few details.
Determined not to surrender, I try the chicken. The pan hisses violently. Five minutes later it looks less like dinner and more like evidence from a fire investigation.
"Oh, come on!" I poke it with a spatula and the spatula bends.
"Seriously?" I throw both hands into the air.
Somewhere between salvaging the vegetables and attempting whatever the recipe means by "reduce the sauce," I manage to splatter tomato sauce onto the backsplash... the refrigerator... and, judging by the suspicious red dot near the ceiling...
possibly the ceiling.
I stop moving.
Slowly...
Very slowly...
I turn in a circle.
The kitchen looks like a tornado developed a passion for Italian food.
Flour coats the countertops.
Dirty bowls are stacked in the sink.
Wooden spoons rest in places wooden spoons should never rest.
A trail of shredded parmesan leads from the island to the stove like breadcrumbs left by an exceptionally confused baker.
My shoulders sag.
"Oh no."
I press both palms against the counter and close my eyes.
Witt notices everything.
Every crooked picture frame.
Every coffee mug out of place.
Every pen sitting three inches from where it belongs.
I look around the kitchen one more time.
He's going to flip his freaking lid.