Chapter Twenty-Two

Rowan

The last few days on the road with the team have been busy, jumping from city to city, the Hawkeyes fighting for each win and coming out victorious. And each place we go, Bex finds out where I’ll be and leaves his jacket for me.

We share glances here and there but we both have teams relying on us to do our jobs. And with Charles on me about this story, I feel the guilt creeping up my neck. There’s no story that I could tell that Bex would approve of, I already know that. There’s no piece puffy enough to get away Scot-free from his scowl. Any article I write could be the end of anything that was starting to grow between us.

Yet, my notebook keeps filling with more and more pages of little tidbits that I learn about him.

At the team’s usual dinner after the game, I overhear Bex talking to Seven about staying another night in Vancouver

“I won’t be on the flight tonight morning with the team. I’m staying overnight.”

Seven raises his eyebrows, his eyes glinting with curiosity. “Got yourself some plans, Coach?”

Bex only shakes his head, a barely-there smile on his face at what Seven is insinuating. Whatever his plans are, he isn’t sharing them with the rest of us.

And it shouldn’t matter to me. I mean, it doesn’t matter to me. I have no claim over his plans, his whereabouts, or his decisions. But somehow, knowing he’s staying—unexpected, unplanned—has me curious.

Just then, my phone buzzes in my lap. I check the screen—Charles.

I excuse myself from the table and step outside, where the crisp Vancouver air nips at my bare arms in only a shirt. It’s April and thus hard to predict the weather. I left my jacket inside the restaurant but hopefully this won’t take long.

I swipe to answer. “Hi, Charles, I’m still working on it, I promise.”

“Working on it?” His voice is a mix of impatience and authority. “Rowan, I need that interview with Townsend—tomorrow. And before you say he won’t be in town, I already know he’s staying overnight.”

I’m speechless. “He didn’t tell me…”

“Hold on,” he snaps, cutting me off, and I hear him bark some commands to his assistant before he returns to me. “Check your email.”

The notification dings just as he says it, and my stomach sinks as I read the message on my screen. A new hotel reservation, extended flight, all arranged by Charles.

“My new itinerary?” I ask.

“Get the interview, Rowan. Give him whatever he wants. Shouldn’t be hard… from what I can see, Townsend has an obvious interest in you.”

I balk, my grip on the phone tightening. “Excuse me?”

“Townsend hasn’t done an interview with a reporter in nearly twenty-five years since he became a rookie. This would be a huge story for us, and you owe me this one. That magazine article that just came out about Keely Woods and her father being the front man for the mob— don’t tell me you didn’t know that your new best friend didn’t have ties to Barrett Humphries. You knew and you gave the story to a magazine instead,” he says, his voice gruff—he’s not happy and I don’t blame him.

That was click bait at its best and The Seattle Sunrise would have made a good profit and tons of new subscribers. And yes, if Keely wasn’t turning into one of my best friends, and I didn’t feel a loyalty to the Hawkeyes, I would have busted that story wide open.

I bet Charles would have given me the promotion right then.

“Charles–” I start, but he cuts me off.

“The only reason that you’re not fired already for pulling that stunt is because you’re in good with the Hawkeyes and I know you can pull this off. Make it happen,” he says.. “If you want to be considered for the head sports journalist position, I need to know you can rise to the occasion. Don’t let me down.” And with that, he hangs up.

I stand in the cold for a second, trying to catch my breath, processing the conversation as frustration and disbelief mingle. As if Bex’s interest in me could be casually exchanged for some exclusive interview. The audacity of it—it’s demeaning, both to me and Bex. I almost want to march right up to Charles’s office back in Seattle and let him know exactly where he can shove his “head journalist” position.

When I finally walk back inside, I catch Bex’s gaze as I return to my seat. There’s a quiet warmth there, a curiosity, and I force my gaze away, hoping the frustration on my face isn’t obvious.

With Bex nowhere to be seen this morning around the lobby, I decided to take Jordan’s suggestion and take a little time for myself.

I slept in, found a great breakfast place that makes strawberry crepes to die for, and caught up on a few emails from Leo.

Working on things for The Painted Easel isn’t work for me. It’s more like a reward that I treat myself with after I complete a requirement for The Seattle Sunrise , and I’m beginning to wonder what my life would have been like if I would have taken a different path in my career and not taken the one dropped in my lap—the one that led me into sports journalism.

It’s early afternoon when I decide to take a break from The Painted Easel project and head downstairs to the cafe for a caramel latte.

I’m sitting in the hotel lobby, my coffee in hand, trying to figure out how to manage the situation with Charles. I don’t want to be here, playing into his assumptions and bending over backward for a job I suddenly realize I’m not sure I want. But when Bex spots me, he crosses over, a look of surprise mingling with intrigue.

“You’re still here?” he asks, hands shoved into his pockets as he steps closer.

I could lie and say that I’m here for the scenery, but I know better than to think Bex will believe it. Honesty is the best policy with Bex even though I know it might have him on alert. If I don’t tell him and he finds out later, he’ll have a real excuse not to trust me, and with our history, it’s likely he’ll hear it from someone.

“Charles booked me a flight tomorrow morning. He thinks I’ll convince you to give me an exclusive by… well…” I hesitate, but there’s a smirk on my face I can’t help. “By sleeping with you.”

His face darkens. “What a fucking asshole—Did you tell him to go to hell?”

Charles has heard worse insults than that. He sells people’s secrets for a living. “I almost told him we’ve already slept together twice, and that it hasn’t helped to loosen your lips in the least, but I didn’t think that would help my situation,” I tease, hoping to lighten the mood.

A grin lights his face, his eyes narrowing with that familiar glint of humor. “And here I was, thinking you’d be mortified at using me for career-advancing sex.”

I take a sip of my latte and shake my head. “Oh, my career isn’t worth that much.” Though that’s half a tease and half a truth. “But if the sex were for recreational purposes, I might be persuaded.”

I hear a gasp, and turn to find a mother covering her child's ears while running in the opposite direction, sending me a low brow scolding.

She’s welcome to do her worst. Her scolding has nothing on the man standing in front of me.

His head is turned to watch the woman running from us too. He chuckles low, shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe me, but I can tell he’s more amused than annoyed. There’s a glint in his eyes as he folds his arms and leans slightly toward me.

“So, if you’re not planning on advancing your career with me in my hotel room, what are you doing until our flight home?”

I lift a finger to my chin, pretending to think. “Maybe I’ll do some sightseeing? Or head back upstairs to check over a new social media campaign that Leo sent me.”

His face shifts, his eyes darkening slightly. “If Leo’s taking up too much of your time, I’ll tell him to knock it off—”

“No, please don’t!” I wave my hands to emphasize. “I’m loving it. Getting to be part of the magazine, even if it’s small, is a dream. Your brother is brilliant, and it’s a chance to see how your family built this legacy from the ground up. I’m learning a lot.”

He pauses, studying me, and I get the feeling he’s seeing something in my expression he hasn’t before.

“Fine,” he says, relenting. “But if he starts crossing a line, tell me.”

“Don’t spoil it, Townsend. I’m living out my girlhood fantasy working with an art and travel magazine—even if it’s pro bono.”

His brow lifts, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he checks the clock and glances back at me. “So, how about something a little more in-person?”

“Oh? Out in search of Vancouver’s best English pub?”

He’s already pulling out his phone, firing off a quick text before I can even finish. “Got a better idea. Come with me.