He nods.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. We step out onto the marble landing, where I take a moment to check my appearance in one of the mirrors lining the wall. Charcoal gray suit, white shirt, bright green socks with large green pickles all over—a silent fuck you to my father.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.” Henneman’s voice is barely a whisper.
We walk down the hallway toward one of the large corporate boardrooms, which is being used for today's press conference. Walsh International Holdings and Callahan Group banners hang behind the mahogany podium. Journalists mill around with cameras and notebooks. They’re here for the merger announcement that’s supposed to crown my father and Patrick Callahan as kings of North American sports media.
They're going to get a show. Just not the one they're expecting.
Security is stationed at strategic points. Some faces I recognize, most I don't. My father tends to fire people for breathing wrong, so turnover is constant.
The Callahans are up front. Patrick Callahan commands the room the same way my father does—silver hair that’s been freshly cut, expensive suit tailored to perfection, presence that demands attention. His wife hovers beside him.
And then there's Veronica.
She's stunning in that sky blue dress that hugs her athletic frame, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek chignon. Every inch the perfectly poised corporate princess. Her smile falters when she sees Henneman beside me.
Behind her, almost hidden in her shadow, stands her younger brother. Ben is on his phone, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He’s more like a stray cat than a Callahan.
A reporter steps too close to Ben. Veronica shifts, her body blocking him, upper lip twitching. She's always been overprotective of her brother.
“Connor.” My father approaches, eyes already narrowed. “You brought company?”
I shrug, nonchalant. “One of my teammates.”
Henneman's shoulders tense, but he manages to nod.
My father doesn’t return it, doesn’t even slow down. “Try not to embarrass the family.”
His gaze drops to my feet as he walks past us toward the podium, and a muscle near his jaw twitches.
I smirk and pretend to scratch my leg to lift the hem of my pants. Maybe my socks will make the evening news.
“If we could take our places?” Patrick Callahan's voice booms across the room, and the crowd begins to settle.
My father takes the podium first, launching into a prepared speech about strategic alliances and market dominance. The usual corporate bullshit that makes stockholders salivate.
“Today marks a new chapter for both Walsh International Holdings and The Callahan Group. Together, we will reshape the landscape of North American sports media.” My father’s gaze finds mine. “But it’s a merger in more ways than one.”
Game time.
I reach for Henneman's hand. He flinches but lets me claim it. Our fingers intertwine, his clammy palm pressing against mine.
“It is my great pleasure to announce the engagement of my son Connor—”
“Not engagement. Henneman and I couldn’t wait any longer. You all know how it is with wedding planning.” I face the reporters and wink.
They chuckle and flashes go off. Henneman’s grip is crushing, every breath loud as I lead him toward the podium.
“We actually eloped last week.” I turn to Henneman. His eyes are wide, skin pale. I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Time to kiss for the cameras.”
“Connor, I—”
I press my mouth against his, silencing him. His lips tremble against mine as he lets out a pathetic whimper. Once the cameras get their shot, I pull away and smile at the reporters. “Sorry, everyone. My husband’s shy.”
Henneman ducks his head, cheeks and ears bright red.
