One Abigail #2
“Casual fans still buy tickets.” John laughs, but his expression is eagle-eyed, and I just know he can smell the lie. “For instance, my granddaughter loved you in that vampire mermaid show. I could be called a casual fan of your work there, too. Definitely tuned in more than I care to admit!”
This gets a laugh from Charles, and I force one out, too.
I shouldn’t read into it. For a while there, Blood Sirens was the crown jewel in the teen melodrama lineup. He probably isn’t making a jab at me with everything that went down after my disastrous last premiere red carpet.
My throat tightens, my pulse hammering in my neck.
“I’m glad to hear she enjoyed it.” I listen to myself say the words, and there’s a weird, fuzzy quality to them, like I’m watching myself from afar.
“Of course, sweetheart,” John says, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.
The word sweetheart snaps me out of the momentary panic. I blink, trying to reorient myself in my body, in the moment. The only people allowed to call me sweetheart are my parents, but I stop myself from blurting that out at the very last minute.
“Who’s your favorite player?” Charles asks, raising an eyebrow at John.
Goddammit. He knows! He knows I don’t know much about soccer at all.
My carefully constructed Academy Award dreams are about to plumb the depths of the Mariana Trench.
“You couldn’t possibly ask me to play favorites,” I say slowly, batting my eyelashes. “Besides, it’s not one player that matters, it’s the whole team, right?”
John’s mouth quirks in a smile, and I swallow a relieved sigh.
I had a theater teacher who used to say that every day. It’s the whole cast that makes the play, people!
We used to finish the sentence with her, and a real smile curves my lips at the memory.
“What do you know about the IFF scandal?” Charles asks, steepling his fingers, watching me carefully, a cat playing with a mouse.
My nerves increase, and I clear my throat again.
“Just what I’ve researched since speaking with Mr. Grace about the film.” I shrug a shoulder. “It’s not great, is it?” That’s true, at least.
“It’s a real black mark on the sport,” John says slowly, also steepling his fingers. “But the thing about shining light onto the dark parts of any business is that it usually inspires change.”
I blink.
I didn’t take him for an idealist. Not sure I do now, either, despite that little comment.
“That’s why you’re allowing me here? You want the film to inspire change?” I try to keep the questions as neutral as possible.
John snorts, wrinkles creasing around his eyes. “Sports films have a trickle-down effect. Doesn’t matter to me how bad Dick’s movie makes IFF look. It’ll sell tickets, and that I care about.”
Can’t say I love that answer, but it’s not entirely surprising.
“Kinda like how your little TV program made my granddaughter absolutely wild about mermaid tails for a while,” John adds.
“She was torn up when it was canceled. Show really went downhill after they killed your character off.” He gives me a long look, and it’s calculating, like he’s waiting to see how I react.
Unease makes me shift in my chair.
“Publicity is good for business.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I know that as well as anyone. It’s just too bad the publicity I got took such a toll on my character’s health.” I wink at him, which I regret immediately, icked out at myself.
Charles laughs, too, then spears me with a slightly apologetic glance. “You do have quite the reputation with the press.”
“I have a tendency to say what I think,” I manage, making myself laugh along with him. “I’d like to believe I’ve learned from my, ah, mistakes.”
There. That’s about as much as I would like to address the damned Blood Sirens scandal.
My heart’s pounding, my stomach in knots, and a cold sweat’s broken out on my palms. It still hurts to think about, that the rest of the cast thought I was throwing them under the bus, the way I gave the press just enough ammunition to do a hit job on the show and my career.
“Honesty. We like that about you,” John tells me, and there’s real warmth in his eyes when I force my gaze back at him. “Of all the actresses Dick ran past us, you were one of the few we wanted to come on board and study the organization.”
I try not to react. He asked these guys for casting input? They know their industry, sure, but they seem to be the least likely people on Earth to have a say in Grace’s decisions.
“We thought you’d be the most fun,” Charles agrees, interrupting the flow of my thoughts.
That catches me by surprise, and I let out a laugh to hide my discouragement. They thought I would be the most fun?
That doesn’t sit right with me. I’m not sure much of this conversation is sitting right with me, if any.
“Good to know.” I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “A few weeks, you said? Well, we will definitely have the chance to have fun, and I look forward to learning everything I can.”
A chair creaks as John leans farther forward.
“Sure. Dick said to give you the opportunity to sit in on meetings, practices, games, whatever you wanted access to—within reason—for the role.” Charles folds his hands in front of him.
“And having a celebrity at our games never hurts,” John adds.
My heart’s beating faster now, as the reality of what they’re saying sinks in. Regardless of why these two thought I’d be good in the role of the badass whistle-blowing woman, or why they wanted me here, I am here, for a few weeks, to research my role.
My role. Mine.
Four weeks, six at most, to soak it all up, so I can give this role my absolute best. I inhale slowly through my nose. A few weeks of research here with the Aces. Going to meetings, games, practices.
“We’ll work with your schedule, of course.
” John peers at me with concern at my silence.
“We know you’re busy working, but we’re going to pair you up with Michelle Oxford, our new director of operations.
You’ll have to sign an NDA for all things considered proprietary, and our lawyers will get that over to you today. ”
He shrugs a shoulder as he mentions the NDA, but I barely clock it. Of course they’d have me sign an NDA. That makes sense.
“What else is happening today?” I tilt my head. “Do I get to sit in on anything?”
“Today?” He squints at me, as if surprised by my go-get-’em attitude. “Today we’re just giving you the lay of the land. We have a tour planned—”
The conference door opposite me bursts open, and one of the most striking men I’ve ever seen stalks through, his clear blue eyes locked on me.
He’s handsome, but not in the easy Hollywood way most men around here are—his nose is slightly too large and there’s a bump where it looks like it broke and was never set right.
His jaw is almost aggressively strong, as are the thick slashes of dark eyebrows above those memorable light blue eyes.
He’s visually arresting.
Powerful.
My eyebrows rise, and when he smiles at me, slow and wicked, I swear to god, my heartbeat quickens. Now my palms are sweaty for an entirely different reason. I start to fan myself, but drop my hand halfway up.
It hangs limply at my side. Right. This isn’t awkward at all.
“Luke Wolfe,” my mouth says.
I recognize him—he’s probably the only player on the team I would. He’s famous. Famous for being an utter asshole, but at least I know who he is.
John and Charles wear matching expressions of surprise.
I stand up, smiling at Luke, and extend my hand.
He stares at it, grunts, then addresses Charles. “What the fuck’s she doing here?”
“She’s here to learn more about soccer and the team,” Charles says. “Remember?”
“I remember.” Luke Wolfe doesn’t take my hand, and all too aware of it, I set it on my hip just to give the poor abandoned appendage something to do.
“And you remember what we discussed yesterday?” John asks him sharply.
“What did you discuss?” I ask, a thin smile stretching across my face. I don’t mind confrontation—I’ll stand up for myself—but I do not like this power struggle playing out in front of me.
“None of your business,” Luke tells me.
I blink but recover quickly.
“Luke—” John starts.
I snort, interrupting whatever he was about to say. “Well, you certainly live up to your reputation,” I tell Luke cheerily. “Good for you. On brand. You’ll have to give me some pointers. I’m always looking for ways to strengthen my image.”
His icy blue eyes scan me from head to toe, and I just grin at him.
“For starters, don’t trust a word out of these fuckers’ mouths,” he finally answers.
Charles barks a laugh, but Luke scowls at him. “You told me you needed to see me?”
“That’s right,” John tells him, and there’s a pointed quality to it, like Luke is being stupid. “We thought it would be best if you could show her around the facility, since you’re one of our star players.” The last sentence drips with acid, and the vitriol takes me by surprise.
John really doesn’t like Luke Wolfe. As for Luke Wolfe, he’s staring at me like watching me squirm would make his day.
I might like to see silver linings when they’re actually just gray, but I’m not an idiot. Luke might not like the idea of giving me a tour, but there’s nothing he can do about it. I’ll just kill him with kindness.
“What a great idea,” I gush, fluttering my eyelashes. All three men give me a look, and I get the impression I’ve slightly overplayed my hand. What else is new? “Mr. Wolfe, I’d love to get a tour.”
He says something under his breath, and it takes me a full second to realize he’s grunted his first name at me.
“Luke,” I repeat.
He doesn’t even move, just keeps staring at me.
Do I have something in my teeth? My hair? My nose wrinkles.
“Come on, then, I don’t have all day,” he barks.
I laugh because, man, it’s been a minute since someone has been so freaking rude to my face. Not the snide, typical LA passive-aggressive shit—I get that a lot—but straight-up rude?
It’s…weirdly refreshing.