Page 52 of Off the Mark
It didn’t make a lick of sense, getting this worked up for a fake boyfriend when I never did for my real ones.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
I lifted a shoulder. “Just a little. Not that I’d ever tell anyone that.”
Dad smoothed a hand over the top of his head. “You haven’t been treated that great recently. I’d be nervous too if I had to stand in front of a pit of vipers and be nice to them.”
“When were you ever nice to reporters?”
His smile was rueful. “Never. Don’t trust ’em, never did. You shouldn’t either, Charlie.”
“I never have and I never will,” I said, my usual reply to this Malcolm Maddox-specific directive. But all of this was easier for him to say now, when he was barely in the spotlight anymore. I despised the way I’d been treated by the media—and what felt like half the internet—recently. Did my best to ignore it.
Except the sponsor that paid me expected positive media, which would then reflect positively on them, which in turn reflected, again, ontome. The cycle was obnoxious but also integral. I couldn’t shake loose from its binds no matter how desperately I tried.
“Hey, so I met a few of your devoted fans today,” I added. “Fraternal triplet sisters who grew up adoring you. I’ll send you the picture we took. They were extremely cute and said you were ahootto watch on the track.”
He brightened. “Your old man’s still got it.”
I made sure to catch his eye on screen. “I’m of the opinion that he never lost it.”
He sent me a grateful look before going a bit red in the cheeks. He coughed into his fist and said, “Random question, but do you have a boyfriend out there in Philly?”
I propped my hands on my hips, surprised. “Well…yeah. But it’s new, and I haven’t gotten a chance to tell you yet. How did you know?”
“Penny told me.” He turned his head and waved her over. She came, carrying a dirt-covered watermelon in one hand, flapping a pair of sunglasses in the other. “She saw it somewhere. He looks like a…like a nice man.”
Unease flickered through the pit of my stomach. I’d done this whole thing with Rowan to bolster my reputation with the media and increase my press coverage. Ofcoursethey were likely to see it.
Lying to them about it didn’t feel fair though.
“Rowan’s nice and a wonderful person,” I replied. “We’ve known each other for a long time. Do you remember when my friend, the major league pitcher, hurt his arm during a game and I went with him to the hospital? That was Rowan.”
Nothing I’d said was a lie, but the way my dad’s gaze softened only agitated that unease.
“I remember,” he said. “How is he? Healed up?”
I hesitated. “He won’t pitch ever again but he’s landed a job that makes him happy and has a family that supports him.”
“Good,” Dad said firmly. “I’m sure you being there with him that night meant a lot.”
Memories of our time in the hospital still raised goosebumps on my skin—the thick tension in the air, the steady beat of various machines hooked up to Rowan’s body, his face gone sheet-white from the pain.
The way holding him as he cried gave me a feeling I’d never experienced before—a fierce protectiveness that made me want to commit acts of violence against every single person who’d ever wronged him, even slightly.
If he’d asked me to tear the world in half to ease his agony, I would have eagerly saidyes.
Penny sank down next to Dad, handing him the watermelon and dropping her glasses onto the coffee table. “Are we talking about the ginger hunk of burning love I saw you with on Instagram?”
“Penny.” I laughed, feeling like a teenager. “Where did you see these pictures?”
I was already picking up my phone, awaiting instructions. Penny rattled off a cheesy, niche fan account that shared its ownTMZ-style gossip about the dirt bike scene. I found the account but kept my focus on Penny and Dad.
“Should I look? Or will it only make me upset?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It’s nothing like that. Just some cute pictures of you and…what’s his name again?”
“Rowan.”
