Page 3 of Relationship Goals

No pants off. Pants on. Pants very much on.

I very much do not want to envision anyone in this room sans pants.

“Charles Treadwick,” one introduces himself. “So nice to meet you. This is John Pugilisi. We own the Aces.”

“Hello, hi,” I say, shaking their hands and smiling as big as I can.

“Ms. Hunt, thank you so much for coming today,” John says. A soft crop of snow-white hair sits atop his head, and if I hadn’t researched him already, I’d think him a kindly old grandpa. He’s not, though. Not evenclose. John’s renowned as a killer in the business world, and I’d be an idiot to let his looks deceive me. “We’re thrilled to have you here with us. Dick told us you’d be in and out of here for the next few weeks?”

It takes me a few seconds to realize thatDickis Richard Grace, and I’m so busy digesting the nickname that I don’t have time to falter at the extended timeline.

A few weeks?

I assumed it would be a couple of interviews at most. This isfantastic.

“Oh, no,thank you,” I tell him, beaming. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get to see the inner workings of the LA Aces. Thank you so much for meeting with me.”

The gray-haired man, Charles, nods, slightly surprised. “Are you a soccer fan? Dick didn’t mention that.”

“Absolutely.” My smile grows as I try to cover up the lie. Shit. Why did I lie about that? “I’m a casual fan more than anything, but what’s not to like?”

Backtrack, backtrack, backtrack.

“Casual fans still buy tickets.” John laughs, but his expression is eagle-eyed, and I justknowhe can smell the lie. “For instance, my granddaughter loved you in that vampire mermaid show. I could be called a casual fan of your work there, too. Definitely tuned in more than I care to admit!”

This gets a laugh from Charles, and I force one out, too.

I shouldn’t read into it. For a while there,Blood Sirenswas thecrown jewel in the teen melodrama lineup. He probably isn’t making a jab at me with everything that went down after my disastrous last premiere red carpet.

My throat tightens, my pulse hammering in my neck.

“I’m glad to hear she enjoyed it.” I listen to myself say the words, and there’s a weird, fuzzy quality to them, like I’m watching myself from afar.

“Of course, sweetheart,” John says, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.

The wordsweetheartsnaps me out of the momentary panic. I blink, trying to reorient myself in my body, in the moment. The only people allowed to call mesweetheartare my parents, but I stop myself from blurting that out at the very last minute.

“Who’s your favorite player?” Charles asks, raising an eyebrow at John.

Goddammit. He knows! HeknowsI don’t know much about soccer at all.

My carefully constructed Academy Award dreams are about to plumb the depths of the Mariana Trench.

“You couldn’t possibly ask me to play favorites,” I say slowly, batting my eyelashes. “Besides, it’s not one player that matters, it’s the whole team, right?”

John’s mouth quirks in a smile, and I swallow a relieved sigh.

I had a theater teacher who used to say that every day.It’s the whole cast that makes the play, people!

We used to finish the sentence with her, and a real smile curves my lips at the memory.

“What do you know about the IFF scandal?” Charles asks, steepling his fingers, watching me carefully, a cat playing with a mouse.

My nerves increase, and I clear my throat again.

“Just what I’ve researched since speaking with Mr. Grace about the film.” I shrug a shoulder. “It’s not great, is it?” That’s true, at least.

“It’s a real black mark on the sport,” John says slowly, also steepling his fingers. “But the thing about shining light onto the dark parts of any business is that it usually inspires change.”

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