“I went over everything again last night—talking points, boundaries, what to say if the media shows up, what he’ll ignore because he’s… him.”
“Alycia.” She steps closer, voice softening. “You don’t have to strategize every breath.”
“I know, but it’s the only way I know how to breathe right now.”
“Sweetheart,” she says gently, “you could show up barefoot, and that man would still look at you like you’re the whole damn show.”
Heat curls up my throat. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, honey… even you don’t believe that.”
By the time I’m standing at the head of the table with a laser pointer and a stack of agendas, my heartbeat has settled into something functional. Theprojector casts the gala’s timeline across the wall. The owner wants another sponsor banner. The broadcast network wants an extra interview corner. Security wants people to stop reinventing the plan every hour.
“Players arrive between six and six forty-five,” I say, pointing to a blue block on the run-of-show. “Families may arrive with them or separately, but everyone uses the north entrance. The media stays on the main carpet and in the interview corral. No exceptions.”
Hands shoot up:“What about donor photos?” “Can we shift family interviews earlier?” “What if the owner wants a solo shot?”
“The donor queue stays. Family interviews depend on schedules. If the owner arrives late, he goes straight to the ballroom photographer,” I say, the practiced calm in my voice smoothing over the flicker of tension I refuse to show.
My eyes skim the schedule and land on his name:HENDRIX, KYLE—ARRIVAL 5:45.
My stomach tightens, but I keep my expression immaculate.
Janine still notices. “Smart call, Alycia. Getting him in early will save us a ton of chaos.”
A few people murmur agreement. Then Phil, who never outgrew his fraternity era, lets out a low whistle.
“Early arrival, huh? So, you two get… extra prep time?”
He fucking winks. Ever since the news broke about Kyle and me, the comments from him have been getting bolder. He thought the gala should’ve been his to run.Of course, there was no way I would have gotten the job because I work harder than anyone—aside from Janine—in this department. To him, it was because I was supposedly sleeping with the Timberwolves’ shiny new defenseman.
Before I can respond, Janine snaps her head toward him so fast he startles. “Phil, shut your mouth before you lose the privilege of using it.”
The room goes dead silent.
“Just kidding.” Phil laughs awkwardly and sinks lower in his chair.
“No,” she says, voice like a blade. “You weren’t.”
A few people look at me, waiting to see how I’ll react, and I give them nothing. Not a shift in posture or a blush, just the calm, polished neutrality I’ve mastered.
“We’re arriving early because it minimizes risk, that’s all.”
It’s the truth, but the truth doesn’t stop the heat pooling low and tight under my ribcage. Being doubted for the job I earned is familiar. Having my competence questioned because of a man is a ghost I thought I’d outrun. I push that flicker of heat deep down where it can’t touch anything. My face stays perfectly composed, my years of practice settling over me like armor, cool and seamless.
“Moving on,” I add, flipping to the next slide.
The rest of the briefing rips by in a blur of logistics and barely contained panic. Questions ricochet across the table like ping-pong balls. Everyone wants answers,and I give them, delivered with the effortless confidence I’ve trained like muscle memory.
The social media intern wants confirmation that the TikTok team won’t “accidentally wander” into the restricted press corridor again.
“They won’t,” I say, because I already scheduled a staffer to shadow them like a babysitter with a high-risk toddler. “Next slide.”
By the time the projector powers down and people shuffle out, I’ve regained every inch of my command. Externally, at least. But internally, the flicker from Phil’s comment hasn’t fully settled. It lingers low and tight, a pressure I refuse to name.
“You handled that well.” Janine’s tone is even but edged with approval.
“Just doing my job.”
