The Houston humidity caused my hair to poof and my eyes to burn before I’d even pushed through the Wildcatters office’s glass doors on Monday morning. I adjusted my tote on my shoulder, my muscles tender from the tension that had ratcheted up with each day back in Houston. I missed Sweden, the sauna, and not worrying about what people thought of me. All of that had been easier to hold at bay while my mother was alive—while someone in this world loved me, knew me, and understood I’d never seek a rich, powerful man for his riches or his power.
My grief surged, still raw and jagged as a broken skate blade. I’d struggled to force it down so I could return to the rhythm of work. My mother would have wanted that. “Live, Zaila. Don’t let me hold you back.” Mom’s words swirled through my head as I headed down the hallway.
“Morning, Z,” Jay called from the cluster of desks that formed the social media bullpen in the center of the floor. He was too chipper, his smile a touch too wide. “Enjoy your vacation with the big boss man? Would have been nice if you’d told me, your actual boss, that you were taking vacation time you haven’t yet earned.”
I closed my eyes and swallowed. “I buried my mother last week, Jay.” My voice was low, my throat raw as I fought the tears that pressed against my eyes. “I’m sorry about the short notice. I… It never crossed my mind.”
“Your mom?” For a moment, Jay’s expression softened, but then he lifted his chin. “Yeah, well, you should have. Since this is a workplace, and I’m your boss.”
Tim came around the corner in time to hear those last words, and his expression turned murderous. He shoved himself between the two of us and wrapped me in a hug. “I’m so sorry about your mother, Z. Paloma stopped by and let us know what happened—well, those of us who were here. Jay’s been taking long lunches.” He shot Jay a glare as he placed his hands on my shoulder. “You okay? Ready to be back?”
No, I wasn’t, and all I wanted to do was turn around and go back to Gunnar’s house. Instead, I offered Tim a smile and nodded. “Can’t wait.”
He stayed at my side as I booted up my laptop and opened the dashboard. “What’s all this?” I asked. “I didn’t set up anything last week…”
I frowned as I skimmed the engagement numbers. After reading through the analytics, I froze.
The top-performing content wasn’t A Day in the Life. It wasn’t the nutritionist highlight I’d stayed up half the night editing. It wasn’t the heartfelt clip about the team’s anti-hate initiative.
It was Jeff.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Tim circled my desk and studied my screen. There were dozens of posts, an entire string of clips and carousels featuring the cocky rookie: Jeff laughing in the locker room, Jeff practicing extra drills, Jeff grinning with kids at a youth skate event. My Wildcatters header graphic—mine—now showed Jeff dead center, bigger than even Cormac, the captain.
My throat dried. I had made none of those edits. I hadn’t been in the office. I hadn’t had my laptop.
“Jay?” Tim called. “Did you queue all these Jeff posts?”
He ambled over, coffee in hand. “Hmm? Oh, yeah. Jeff’s content has been fantastic lately. Fans love him.”
“I never signed off on this,” I said, meeting his eyes.
He shrugged. “It’s all Wildcatters footage. It’s fair game.”
“But the balance—” My pulse kicked hard. “This looks like…like a personal rebrand. He’s front and center on every channel. That’s not how we?—”
“Relax.” Jay sipped his coffee. “You’re making him look good. That’s our job, right? Elevating players. And you happen to be the best at it.”
I stared at him. Making him look good? This wasn’t elevating—it was spotlighting one player at the expense of the team. Gunnar would hate it.
My phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Ida Jane lit the screen:
What’s going on? Everyone’s saying you’re Jeff’s PR girl now. Call me.
Before I could respond, a shadow cut across my desk.
“Ms. Monroe.”
My stomach dropped. Natalie.
“Ms. Patel,” I managed. My throat felt full of glass shards.
“Conference room. Now.” Tim moved to follow, but she held up her hand. “This is between Ms. Monroe and me.”
“Oh, I’m coming along,” Jay said, his expression gleeful.
The short walk felt like a perp march. The other staff on the floor pretended to be busy, but their sidelong glances burned. Inside the glass-walled conference room, Natalie didn’t sit. She stood at the head of the table, shoulders squared, jaw tight. Jay closed the door with theatrical care.
