Page 21 of Golden Rule

Hold up.

Pause.

Is Mr. Woods trying to steal my thunder?

Sir, there’s only room for one catty gossip queen in this city, and I’ve got that position on lock. But all pettiness aside, kudos to you. There’s something to be said for a ballsy media professional who goes straight for the jugular and says what we’re all thinking.

While I’m not known to play well with others, this is one alliance I would possibly consider. In the meantime, Mr. Woods, if you find yourself needing new material, direction on where to dig next, my archives are a treasure trove of Golden-themed scandals.

On another note, #KingMidas, #PrettyBoyD, and #MrSilver were all just formally introduced as members of the Cypress Pointe Emperors. Of course, #NewGirl, #VirginVixen, and #TheSubstitute were all present on the front row. Good thing they were there for moral support, seeing as how the guys were definitely met with mixed reviews.

The looks on the faces in the crowd ranged from thinking of the #GoldenBoys as local royalty, to them serving as a reminder of a blight on this city’s past—the late Vin Golden (a.k.a. #BigDaddy).

As I ponder it, maybe neither assessment is too far off, but one thing I think we can all agree on is that this will quite possibly be the most interesting season in Cypress Pointe professional football yet.

No pressure, boys, but we’ll all be watching. In fact, the entire country will be.

Good luck out on the field!

You’ll definitely need it.

Side Note: #KingMidas, it was so sweet of Coach Wells to stand up for you today, shutting Ira down when he was just getting started. But I was looking through old messages the other night, things I saved over the years for a rainy day, and I came across something Coach Wells might find particularly interesting. It made me wonder if he would’ve been so quick to jump to your defense if this info were to somehow make it into his hands?

Hm… I suppose we’ll have to see what happens, but let this serve as a reminder for you and the rest of the #GoldenCrew…

Not much gets past me.

Later, peeps :)

—P

Chapter Seven

West

“Called it on the elevator,” Dane grumbles. “I said it’d be a shitshow, and it was certainly that.”

This is the most any of us have said to one another since leaving the team facility.

Sterling sips his beer. “Technically, you said it would be a clusterfuck. So…”

The bartender slides a dark bottle across the bar and into Dane’s hand. “Either way you look at it, the entire thing was a fucking nightmare.”

No one can argue with that.

The door to the bar swings open, and without turning to see who’s just walked in, I already know it’s Ricky. Like damn-near everyone else, he tuned in to watch this morning’s press conference and saw how shit went down. Hence the reason we barely made it to the parking lot before he shot us a text, telling us to meet him here this afternoon.

So, here we are.

I look around. I’ve been here before, but it looks much different than it did years ago. As one of the few Southside bars I’ve frequented, it’s the site of one of my most significant memories. Glancing over my shoulder toward a booth, I recall a pivotal conversation that took place there. It was the first time I said out loud that I was thinking about proposing to Blue, and it was Ricky who told me to get my head out of my ass and just go for it.

Best damn advice I’ve ever been given.

Since then, Ricky added this bar to the long list of local spots he’s bought and given a facelift. It’s like he’s on a personal mission to clean up our city. In more ways than one.

Knowing the owner comes with perks, though. Like this—him shutting the place down for the afternoon, just so we can vent in private after having a monumentally shitty day.

Ricky walks up and places a hand on my shoulder as he passes. “Good to see you gentlemen on this fine afternoon,” he says with a laugh, pretending to be proper, knowing his ass is anything but that.

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