Chapter 26
Jasmine
I get to the office at eight-thirty and drop my bag on my desk and open my laptop. My eyes are gritty from lack of sleep. I slept for maybe four hours last night, and most of it was broken by nightmares.
Cat Shaw standing in her dining room, telling me I don't belong. Cat at my apartment door telling Logan to come home. Cat in the family section at MSG, turning to the woman beside her and saying, “That's the girl who thinks she's good enough for my son.”
My phone buzzes with a text message. It’s from Logan.
Morning, beautiful. How did you sleep?
I type back: Like a baby. You?
The lie comes easily. If I tell him the truth — that his mother has taken up residence in my subconscious and is running a campaign of psychological warfare in my dreams — he'll worry. He'll want to come over and fix it.
And there's nothing to fix. I need to process the rest on my own.
Logan: Good. Miss you. Dinner tonight?
Me: My place. I'll cook.
Logan: Can't wait.
I take a long sip of the coffee I picked up on the way in. Clara stops by my door on her way to her office.
“You look tired,” she says.
“Long weekend.”
“The dinner?”
“The dinner.”
“That bad?”
“His mother reiterated what she said ten years ago. Logan needs someone devoted to his career.”
Clara leans against the doorframe. “Oh my God. How did Logan react?”
“He was awesome. He stood up for me. It was the bravest thing I've ever seen him do.”
“So why do you look like you haven't slept?”
“Because brave doesn't undo ten years of damage in one evening, Clara.”
She nods. “Coffee refill when you're ready. I'm down the hall.”
At nine o’clock, I'm in the conference room on the twenty-fourth floor with my laptop open and my legal pad ready. Wilder Ross is seated on one side of the long table with three executives from the sportswear brand across from him.
Mabel is at the head in her usual chair with her reading glasses on and a pen in her hand. I'm beside her with my professional smile firmly in place and Cat Shaw's voice playing on a loop in the back of my mind.
The sportswear brand wants Logan for a solo endorsement campaign. Print ads, digital content, social media integration. They've put together a presentation with mood boards, campaign concepts, and projected reach. The money is significant — seven figures over two years.
The marketing director is a woman named Diane, mid-forties, polished, confident. She clicks through the presentation with the ease of someone who has pitched a hundred campaigns.
“Logan Shaw is perfect for this,” Diane says.
“He's got the look, the build, and the on-ice credibility.
Our research shows he tests extremely well with the twenty-five to forty-five male demographic.
He's athletic, handsome, and” — she pauses for emphasis — “no girlfriend. Very marketable as a single athlete. Our campaign concept leans into that. The rugged, independent, dedicated-to-his-craft angle.”
No girlfriend. Very marketable as a single athlete.
This is unreal. I’m sitting in a boardroom listening to a marketing executive explain that my boyfriend's romantic availability is a selling point.
“The single athlete angle is strong,” Wilder says. “Logan's personal life has always been private. There's no social media presence, no tabloid history, no public relationships. It reinforces the brand identity.”
“Exactly,” Diane says. “He's the strong, silent type. Women want him, men want to be him. And the fact that there's no girlfriend in the picture means we can position him as aspirational without any complications.”
Complications. That's what I am. A complication.
I take notes and nod. I ask a question about the exclusivity clause in the proposed agreement.
I redirect the conversation to contract terms and performance benchmarks.
I’m professional and precise, and nobody in this room has any idea that the woman reviewing Logan Shaw's endorsement deal is the same woman who was in his bed this weekend.
The meeting ends at ten-thirty. Handshakes, business cards, promises to review the terms. Wilder walks the sportswear executives to the elevator, and Mabel gathers her files and leaves.
I go to my office and close the door. I sit down at my desk, put my hands flat on the surface, and breathe.
I can't do this anymore.
Negotiating Logan's endorsement deal is a conflict of interest. If anyone at this firm discovers that I'm in a relationship with a player whose contracts I'm handling, my credibility is finished. The partnership track is finished.
Everything I've built at Caldwell, Price & Associates over the last six years goes up in smoke.
I need to recuse myself from Logan's file. Transfer it to another associate. But doing that means explaining why. Telling Mabel that I have a personal connection to a player on the Renegades account. Not the full truth — not yet — but enough to justify the transfer.
It's a risk. Mabel doesn't tolerate complications. She gave me this account as a test, and admitting that I have a personal entanglement with one of the players could change how she sees me.
But getting caught is worse. Getting caught means I wasn't just entangled — I was dishonest. And dishonesty is the one thing Mabel will never forgive.
I need to discuss this with Logan.
For dinner, I make pasta and set two places at the kitchen island because I still haven't cleared the dining table of work files.
Logan arrives at seven with a bottle of red and a paper bag from the bakery near his apartment.
“Almond croissants,” he says, putting the bag on the counter. “For tomorrow morning.”
“You brought me breakfast for tomorrow?”
“I'm planning ahead,” he says with a cute grin.
We eat at the island and talk about the dinner last night — properly this time, not the exhausted, sad version from the car.
“My mother called me this morning,” he says.
“What did she say?”
“She said she hopes I know what I'm doing and that she only wants the best for me. Same words she's been using my whole life.”
“Did she mention me?”
“She said, 'Jasmine seems very accomplished.' Which, from my mother, is as close to a compliment as you're going to get.”
“Accomplished. Not very warm,” I say, sadness coming over me again.
“Baby steps.”
“Baby steps with a glacier.” I twirl pasta on my fork. “Your father?”
“Dad hasn't said a word. He'll process it in his own time, and then he'll have an opinion, and he'll deliver it at Sunday dinner like a postgame analysis.”
“Something to look forward to.”
“He'll come around. He's stubborn, but he's not cruel. My mother is the one we need to work on.”
I put my fork down. “There's something else I need to talk to you about.”
“Okay.”
“I had a meeting today about your endorsement deal with the sportswear brand.”
“I know about the deal. Wilder mentioned it.”
“The brand wants you for a solo campaign. Print, digital, social media. The money is significant.”
“Okay.”
“During the presentation, the marketing director described you as — and I'm quoting — 'athletic, handsome, no girlfriend, very marketable as a single athlete.'“
Logan puts his wine glass down. “They said that?”
“They don't know about us, Logan. As far as everyone in that room is concerned, I'm the Renegades' legal counsel reviewing a standard endorsement deal. And the player in question happens to be single, and that's a selling point.”
“That's bullshit.”
“That's marketing. And it's also my problem because I'm negotiating contract terms for my boyfriend's endorsement deal, and nobody knows he's my boyfriend. That's a conflict of interest. A serious one.”
He's quiet for a moment. “What happens if someone finds out?”
“My credibility at the firm is gone. The partnership track is gone. Mabel trusted me with this account, and I've been compromised from the start.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I need to transfer your file. Hand your specific endorsement deal to another associate. I can keep the rest of the Renegades account — the team-level sponsorships, the compliance work, everything else — but your individual contracts need to be handled by someone who isn't sleeping with you.”
“How do you do that without telling them about us?”
“I’ll tell Mabel I have a personal connection to a player on the account. I don't have to give her details. I just need to explain that there's a potential conflict and I'm removing myself from that specific file to protect the firm's integrity.”
“Will she respect that?”
“Mabel respects honesty more than anything. If I go to her proactively, it shows I'm protecting the firm. If she finds out on her own, it looks like I was hiding something.”
He reaches across the island and takes my hand. “Then do it. Talk to Mabel. Transfer the file. Whatever you need to do to protect your career.”
“It might raise questions.”
“Let it raise questions. Your career matters more than keeping our relationship secret from your boss.”
“You realize this is the beginning of it going public. Once Mabel knows, it's only a matter of time before the firm knows. And once the firm knows, the Renegades organization knows.”
“Good. I'm done hiding.”
I look at our hands on the counter. His fingers laced through mine. His thumb rubs small circles on my knuckle. “I'll talk to Mabel tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“She's going to ask questions.”
“Let her.”
“She's going to look at me differently.”
“She's going to look at you like a lawyer who identified a conflict and handled it professionally. That's what good lawyers do.”
I squeeze his hand. “When did you get so smart?”
He grins. “I've been taking notes from you.”
We finish the pasta and the wine. He washes the dishes while I dry them, the same routine we've settled into. He stays the night. When we make love, it’s slow and sweet.
Logan handles me like I’m fragile. He lays me down on the bed and undresses me piece by piece, kissing every inch of skin he uncovers. His mouth moves from my throat to my collarbone to the space between my breasts.
“I've got you,” he murmurs against my stomach.
He takes his time with me. His tongue circles my nipples until I'm arching into him. His mouth between my legs is patient and thorough, building me up slowly. He doesn't rush. He stays there until I come apart under his mouth, my body shaking, my hand in his hair.
When he pushes inside me, he holds my face in his hands and keeps his eyes on mine. Every thrust says I'm here.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you.”
He comes with my name on his lips and his arms tight around me, and afterward we lie tangled together.
Hours later, when I wake up, Logan has already left. I pad to the kitchen to make coffee, but he’s already done it. He’s also warmed the croissants.
I smile as I pick up the note on the counter.
You've got this. I love you.
I put Logan's note in my wallet next to the photo of my mother.