But it was absolutely ours, down to the life-size cardboard cutout of David Bowie fromLabyrinth. He never failed to make us smile.
I flipped through our content calendar, tapping my pen against my cheek. “Next week we’re also dropping the ‘Which Roaster Are You?’ filter on Instagram, so plan on adding some of those to the social media queue.”
“Done.”
“Oh, and between you and me, I’m rigging it so that nobody gets Roman.”
That was what he got for missing the team’s mandated weekly social media training.Fuck with me, I fuck with your ego.
“You’re a monster.”
I shrugged. “I prefer the termvisionary.”
It felt good to be back in the office, especially after a week-long road series in Tallahassee and Atlanta.Fucking humidity.I had never been so excited to come back to the rainy Pacific Northwest.
This was the fun part for me—the calendar coordination, the brainstorming sessions, the quiet chaos of trying to wrangle professional athletes into acting like adults on camera.Easier said than done.What I did notappreciate was the nausea that had been slowly creeping up on me since that emotional piece of toast this morning.
Clarke looked up from her laptop, narrowing her eyes like she could read my whole internal monologue.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I told her, even though there was a good chance I might throw up on my planner any second.
She twisted her lips, unimpressed with my answer. I should have known better than to lie to her, of all people. There were three things that set Clarke apart from the crowd, all of which made her the ideal coworker.
First, as a former socialite, she had extensive media training herself—poise, charm, and the kind of camera-ready resting face that could make a senator sweat.
Second, she knew how to coax just about anything out of anyone, and she did so with a smile on her face and honey in her voice. There wasn’t a player on the team who hadn’t been taken with her charm. Platonically speaking, of course. Soren would never give her up without a fight.
Third, she always had a fully stocked mini pharmacy in her purse—antacids, Advil, floss picks, even backup tampons in three different sizes. The woman was a walking CVS, and more than once, she had saved my ass.
And stomach. And vagina.
“Nausea?” Clarke asked.
I nodded.
She reached into her Mary Poppins bag and produced two separate packages. “Ginger chew or lollipop?”
“What, no Saltine crackers?”
“Those are in my other purse.”
I waved her off. “I think I just need to take a break for a few minutes.”
She closed her laptop. “That works for me. Soren wanted to meet me for lunch anyway, before he meets with Coach Daddy.”
The bile in my throat flared instantly, and this time it had nothing to do with the hormonal havoc going on in my lower abdomen.
I sat up straighter and leveled her with a look. “Oh my god. Notyou, too.”
“Sorry, but it’s a catchy nickname,” she defended, trying to suppress a giggle. “Once you say it out loud, it sticks.”
I buried my face behind my hands. “I hate it here.”
“And yet, here you are,” she said sweetly, reaching for her latte. “By the by, since we’re already on the subject—”
I groaned, loud and long, tilting my head back toward the ceiling like I was summoning divine intervention.
