Chapter Six Griffin
Griffin Hayes did not believe in curses.
He believed in poor planning, weak exits, bad footwear, wet docks, uncharged phones, and Tyler Donovan being allowed near microphones.
But as the Lake Briar lawn erupted around him and Tyler shouted the phrase Maren Brooks bad-idea makeover day like it was a national holiday, Griffin considered revising his position.
Some curses had names.
Some wore shark fins.
Some held microphones they had absolutely not been cleared to use.
“No,” Griffin said.
The crowd screamed louder.
Naturally.
Because people, as a rule, had terrible instincts when witnessing a man attempt self-preservation.
Maren stood beside him with her phone clutched in one hand, eyes wide, lips parted, the entire bright machine of her confidence paused for one rare, dangerous second.
She had not expected this.
Good.
At least one thing was still fair.
Then her face changed.
Griffin watched it happen in real time. Surprise folded behind a smile. Alarm sharpened into glitter. The girl who had frozen at the idea of being handed control over his day disappeared behind the woman who could turn almost anything into a performance if enough people were watching.
He hated that he could see the switch now.
He hated more that he wanted to know who had taught her to flip it so fast.
Maren lifted her chin. “Well.”
“Do not,” Griffin said.
“I did not say anything.”
“You said well.”
“Well is not a crime.”
“With you, it is intent.”
Her mouth curved.
There it was. The public smile. The dazzling one. The one that made everyone think she was delighted instead of cornered.
Griffin did not trust it.
Tyler bounced on the bench near the scoreboard, microphone still in hand, cheeks flushed with his own importance.
“The rules,” Tyler announced, “are simple.”
“No,” Griffin called.
Tyler ignored him with the focus of a man immune to consequence. “From sunrise tomorrow until sunset, Griffin Hayes has to say yes to Maren’s plan for the day.”
The lawn roared.
“Within legal limits!” Ava shouted from near the snack shack.
“Obviously,” Tyler said.
Denise appeared beside the bench so silently that several players startled.
Tyler lowered the microphone three inches.
Denise held out one hand.
Tyler looked at it.
Then at the crowd.
Then at Denise’s face.
He gave her the microphone.
Smartest thing he had done all night.
Denise took the mic and addressed the lawn like a woman who had survived summer tourists, staff shortages, youth baseball parents, and men with big ideas.
“Clarification,” she said. “There will be no illegal activity, property damage, unsafe stunts, dock jumping, roof climbing, boat misuse, food waste, unauthorized vehicle use, or anything involving fire.”
Beckett lowered one finger.
Denise looked directly at him. “Especially fire.”
Beckett placed the finger behind his back.
Maren glanced at Griffin. “She is very specific.”
“She has met us.”
Denise continued, “Maren may choose tomorrow’s approved content plan for Griffin. Griffin may refuse anything unsafe. I may overrule everyone. Challenge Two begins at eight a.m.”
The crowd applauded.
Griffin stared.
It had taken less than thirty seconds for his life to become a schedule item.
Nate drifted up beside him, arms folded, smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.
“Looks official.”
Griffin turned his head. “You are enjoying this too much.”
“I am enjoying it an appropriate amount.”
“You could have stopped Tyler.”
“I was carrying water bottles.”
“That is not a defense.”
“It is hydration.”
“Captain.”
Nate’s smile faded into something more deliberate.
There it was.
The shift from teammate to leader.
Griffin disliked when Nate used it on him. Mostly because it worked.
“Doyle gets here in the morning,” Nate said quietly. “You know he’s going to ask about the post, the poll, and whatever this becomes by breakfast.”
Griffin’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
“And if your answer is I shut it all down because it was not my plan, he’ll hear that.”
Griffin looked toward the scoreboard.
Team Dock had twelve points. Team Sand had ten. Team Snack Shack had nine. Team Vibes had been crossed out by someone and rewritten by someone else as Team Emotionally Necessary.
He did not have to ask who.
Maren had lifted her phone and was filming Denise turning the microphone over to Ava, who immediately used it to announce that anyone who left trash on the lawn would be banned from fries.
The crowd cheered with genuine fear.
Maren laughed behind the camera.
Then glanced toward Griffin.
Only for a second.
But he caught it.
Not the public look.
Not the challenge.
A question.
Are you going to make this hard?
He wanted to say yes.
That was the easier answer. Hard had rules. Hard had structure. Hard kept people from assuming he could be moved by one almost-kiss photo, a decent content strategy, and a woman who kept smiling when people hurt her.
But the truth was already worse.
Maren did not make things hard.
She made them uncontrolled.
And somewhere between the dock, the photo booth, and the way her hand had shaken around her phone before he offered to film sand cones badly, Griffin had started to worry that uncontrolled was not always the same thing as wrong.
Nate followed his gaze. “She’s good at this.”
“I know.”
The answer came out too fast.
Nate’s eyebrows lifted.
Griffin regretted everything.
“I mean the content,” he said.
“Of course.”
“The event needed energy.”
“Sure.”
“And she found it.”
“Definitely.”
Griffin looked at him. “Stop sounding like Ava.”
Nate smiled. “Best thing anyone has said to me all day.”
Before Griffin could respond, Tyler appeared between them without warning, apparently having learned nothing from multiple near-consequences.
“Tomorrow is going to be huge,” Tyler said.
“No,” Griffin said.
“Yes,” Tyler said.
“No.”
“Yes, but with boundaries.”
Nate pointed at him. “That was growth.”
Tyler nodded solemnly. “I have been mentored by women who can destroy me.”
“Accurate,” Ava called from twenty feet away.
Tyler beamed. “See?”
Griffin took one step toward him. “You do not announce public challenges involving my entire day without asking me.”
Tyler’s expression shifted.
Not much.
But enough.
The giddy edge softened, and for one second, he looked less like chaos wearing swim trunks and more like a younger teammate who had forgotten jokes could land on real people.
“Yeah,” Tyler said. “Okay. I got carried away.”
Griffin exhaled.
That was unexpected.
“And,” Tyler continued, “I am sorry for not asking before announcing.”
Also unexpected.
“But,” Tyler added, brightening again, “it was an incredible announcement.”
Griffin closed his eyes.
Nate coughed.
Maren approached then, phone lowered, expression carefully casual.
Too carefully.
“Good news,” she said. “Denise likes the numbers.”
Griffin opened his eyes. “That is not the kind of good news I trust.”
“She said the account has gained more followers tonight than it gained all last month.”
Tyler whispered, “I am the moment.”
Maren looked at him. “You are the liability that got views.”
“I accept my role.”
Griffin focused on Maren. “You do not have to do tomorrow.”
Her smile sharpened immediately.
Wrong opening.
He knew it the second her eyes cooled.
“I don’t?”
“That is not what I meant.”
“It sounded like what you meant.”
“I mean you should not feel pressured by the crowd.”
“I created the crowd.”
“Tyler created the crowd.”
“I posted the match.”
“And I am saying you can step back if you want.”
Maren’s shoulders squared.
Ah.
There.
He had done it again.
Tried to offer an exit and made it sound like doubt.
“I can handle one day of content, Griffin.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Because you keep offering me ways out like I need rescuing from my own idea.”
“That is not what I am doing.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He hesitated.
The honest answer was too complicated for the middle of the lawn.
He was trying to keep her from being swallowed by the same thing she had built.
Trying to stop the public from turning her work into another joke about flirting.
Trying to protect her without making her feel like a problem.
Trying not to think about the text from Paige.
Trying not to think about how badly he wanted to see her smile without needing it to prove she was fine.
Too much.
Too honest.
Too soon.
So he chose the practical piece.
“I am making sure the plan is yours,” he said.
Maren blinked.
The spark in her eyes dimmed into surprise.
Griffin continued before he could overthink it. “Not Tyler’s. Not the team’s. Not the comments. Yours.”
For once, she did not answer immediately.
Tyler looked between them, oddly quiet.
Nate smiled like he had just watched a teammate finally pass instead of forcing the shot.
Maren’s throat moved.
Then she looked away, toward the lawn, the scoreboard, the glowing photo booth, the people still laughing beneath string lights.
When she looked back, the bright smile was softer.
Less armor.
More person.
“That almost sounded respectful,” she said.
“It was.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“I am experimenting.”
“Careful. People might expect consistency.”
He nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”
Her eyes searched his face. “You are actually saying yes?”
“I am saying yes to an approved content plan that you design and Denise reviews.”
“There he is.”
“But,” he said.
She sighed. “Of course there is a but.”
“No unsafe stunts.”
“Fine.”
“No humiliating people.”
“Agreed.”
“No using Tyler’s suggestions without review.”
Tyler lifted both hands. “Targeted.”
“Accurate,” Cooper called from his chair.
Griffin kept his eyes on Maren. “And no making yourself the joke to make everyone else comfortable.”
The words left him quietly.
Too quietly for anyone else to catch except maybe Nate, who immediately looked away like a man pretending he had not heard.
Maren heard.
Her lips parted.
The warm noise of the lawn moved around them, but for a second, Griffin could have sworn the whole lake held still.
She blinked once.
Then twice.
Then the armor came down so fast it almost made sound.
“Well,” she said lightly, “that rule feels impossible to enforce.”