68. The Fake Out

Rhys

Fifteen more minutes and the awards begin. Fifteen minutes till our woman takes the stage to receive the prize.

I'm going to cheer the loudest.

Right now, the four of us are standing at a high table in the corner of the ballroom, chatting, toasting, enjoying life, and just being together when my phone buzzes with a text. I thought I'd silenced it. Grabbing it from my pocket, I see it's the psychologist asking if Wednesday afternoon works for our next session.

Gavin shoots me an admonishing look. "Maybe turn that off."

He makes a good point. But this is also a good opportunity. I haven't told my friends yet. "I'm seeing a psychologist," I say. "He specializes in athletes. It's…helpful so far. I just need to confirm a time."

Chastened perhaps, Gavin's lips twitch in a curious grin. "Oh. My bad. And yeah, do it."

Hollis claps my shoulder. "Good for you, man."

I turn around, weave through the finely dressed crowds to the hall and tap out a reply when my attention snags on a man with perfectly gelled black hair, a straight nose, and a ticking jaw. I catch his profile, but his back is to me as he talks to a woman with box braids and leopard-print glasses at the end of the corridor. "What the hell kind of independent firm picks my fucking ex-girlfriend?"

I clench my fists, stopping a few feet away.

"An independent one," the woman repeats in a warm, husky voice, holding her own against a bully and a thief.

"You have to disqualify her, Zora," Steven seethes.

With a calm demeanor, she says, "There's nothing in the rules saying former girlfriends of the site's editor can't enter."

This guy. I'm not surprised. But there's no way I'm going to let him hurt her ever again. We stayed close to Briar during the cocktail hour, but my senses were on high alert as he glad-handed with advertisers. Now he's showing his true colors. A jack-in-the-box about to spring, Steven steps closer to Zora, lifts a finger.

Not on my watch.

I clear my throat. "Besides, you probably don't want to make a scene here at the event. Or let all your advertisers know that you stole her idea for the contest in the first place," I say pleasantly, laying on the British charm.

He wheels around and bites out, "Who the hell are you?"

One of her great boyfriends. But I don't tell him that. He'll find out soon enough. I don't even know if Briar has the receipts to prove the idea was hers. But I don't care. Sometimes on the ice, you have to fake out the opponent, make them think you have the puck when someone else does.

"A friend. But also an observer. And I can only imagine how terrible it'd look if everyone here knew you wanted to disqualify her after you stole her idea. That'd look a little bit bad," I say it sympathetically, but with zero sympathy.

His eyes turn to slits. Zora seems to fight off a smile.

Steven breathes fire before it dies on an angry, muttered, "Fine." He turns and walks the other way.

"This should be fun," she says when he's gone.

"I can't wait," I say, and after I hit send on the text to my shrink, I return to the ballroom.

When it's Briar's turn to receive the prize, Zora calls her onstage, looking a little like she has an ace up her sleeve. "Congratulations for an enlightening piece on what makes a great boyfriend. The ten-thousand-dollar prize goes to Briar Delaney." She slips a rolled-up sheet of paper from her sleeve. Well, I guess she did have something in her blouse. "And I'd like to invite her to read it to the crowd."

Briar walks to the stage, looking proud, looking deserving.

She takes the podium and surveys the crowd, her eyes finding us quickly. Then, she reads.