I nod.
Because I don’t trust myself to speak.
“You’ll just need to sign the paperwork,” he continues. “It shouldn’t take long. A few days at most.”
A few days.
That’s how long I was supposed to be in Vegas.
Seventy-two hours of rebellion.
Now it’s turned into seventy-two hours of damage control.
“And my dad?” I ask quietly.
He stiffens.
“We don’t tell him.”
I blink. “What?”
“We don’t tell him,” he repeats. “There’s no reason to create a problem that’s about to be solved.”
“That’s not how my dad works.”
“That’s how this is going to work.”
I cross my arms slowly.
“And if he finds out?”
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice.
“I know how to manage media exposure.”
“Oh, I’m not talking about media,”I say.
He pauses.
I hold his gaze.
“I’m talking about him.”
Something flickers in his expression.
Recognition. Understanding. Fear.
Coach Petrov doesn’t need headlines.
He has instincts.
He reads people for a living.
And we both know it.
