Page 11 of Faking the Shot
His now-ex-girlfriend didn’t just dump him; she staged an entire public meltdown. There she was, in the middle of a packed bar, live-streaming a tear-filled rant in front of his teammates and her legion of one hundred thousand followers. She called him cold, selfish, inattentive—the holy trinity of breakup insults.
But here’s the kicker: she forgot to turn off the camera. She also forgot that others could be recording the scene.
By the time she climbed into her getaway car, she let it slip that the whole thing was a calculated ploy. A little revenge for Kaden not making their relationship “online official” or introducing her to the WAGs. Then there are other videos where you can see how she slapped him pretty hard after being an asshole to him—right before the big break up.
Now it’s all backfiring. Hard. Her followers turned on her faster than you could say hashtag accountability. But not before Kaden’s image took a nosedive. Thanks to her dramatic exit, he’s now “the guy who made her feel invisible and mistreated her.”
I scroll through the trending videos, my tea going lukewarm as I watch the chaos unfold. Something about Kaden feels . . . familiar, but my foggy, caffeine-deprived brain can’t place him right now.
Meanwhile, the PR team is in full damage-control mode, their voices overlapping as they throw out phrases like “narrative shift” and “crisis rebranding.”
“Why do I feel like this is about to become my problem?” I mutter under my breath, shooting Jacob a side-eye.
His guilty smile tells me everything I need to know.
“Kaden Crawford is a pain in the ass,” Gloria, one of my colleagues, says, not even bothering to mute her mic. “I worked with him on one project right when he hired us, and I couldn’tstand him. Entitled, aloof, and completely convinced the world revolves around him. This is karma doing its thing.”
I raise an eyebrow, curious to hear more, but before I can ask any questions, Jacob jumps in.
“As you all know, Kaden Crawford is one of our biggest clients,” Jacob begins, his tone calm but firm, though the tension in his jaw betrays him. “He might not be the poster boy everyone wants, but he brings in major endorsement deals and media attention. We can’t afford to lose him.” He pauses, his gaze sweeping across the screen. “Also, his parents and siblings are my clients. They called me personally to handle this. This breakup is all anyone’s talking about. Even though the Barracudas pulled off a win last night, the media is obsessed with Kaden.”
“Great,” someone mutters. “So, what are we supposed to do? He’s blown through dozens of reps, and he doesn’t listen to anyone. If he suddenly starts acting like a choirboy, no one’s going to buy it.”
They’re not wrong. I clear my throat, cutting through the noise. “Changing the media’s opinion of someone isn’t impossible, but it takes something big. Weddings, babies, even a death in the family—those are the kind of monumental shifts that make people reconsider their narrative. You just have to find the right angle to make this go away. He didn’t make it official because he has a girlfriend. Clearly, this Brittany girl didn’t get the memo that they weren’t a thing and was actually just a puck bunny using him.”
I don’t like throwing her under the bus, but her video made it pretty clear that her goal was to ride Kaden’s fame as long as she could.
“Well, it’s our job to make the media believe the unbelievable,” Kimmy says, puffing out her chest like she’sdelivering a speech of a lifetime. I suppress a laugh—she doesn’t even acknowledge that I’ve spoken.
Listen, I like my job—I can do it from anywhere—but days like today remind me that I’m not exactly climbing the corporate ladder. Maybe all I need is one chance to prove myself—a client, a project, anything to show what I can really do. Or maybe it’s time to start looking for something new, or even take a leap and build my own business. After all, isn’t this supposed to be my big reinvention era?
“Still,” Gloria grumbles, “what do you expect us to do? The guy’s impossible to work with. It’s like the more we try to help him, the more determined he is to screw it all up. He doesn’t listen—ever.”
I nod silently, waiting for Jacob’s response, though this whole situation feels like a real-life soap opera. I’m caught somewhere between cringing and wanting to grab popcorn.
“Leave that to me,” Kimmy says confidently, her tone leaving no room for debate. “Our immediate priority is shifting the focus back to last night’s win. That’s what we need the media talking about.”
Her gaze sweeps across the room—or at least, it feels like it does—and for a moment, her eyes linger on me. My stomach tightens, anticipation and dread curling together. Could this be my chance? Or is she just looking for the next person to throw under the bus?
I shake off the uneasy feeling. Why would she be looking at me? I’m just here for moral support. Right?
“He’s in Boston,” my boss says, smirking like she’s about to drop a bombshell. “Valentina, I have great news for you.”
I blink, instantly suspicious. “Great news? Do tell.”
Before she can elaborate, the door swings open, and in strides the man of the hour.
Kaden Crawford walks into the room with an energy that immediately draws every eye. He’s tall, with broad shoulders that stretch the seams of his shirt just enough to make you take notice. His jaw is set, the hard lines of his face making him look like someone who’s used to getting what he wants—or at least fighting for it.
He looks . . . familiar. For a moment I wonder where I’ve seen him then I remember it’s obviously the videos I just watched. This is what happens when you’re working without caffeine at midnight.
His dark eyes scan the room, assessing everything and everyone with an intensity that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. He’s unfairly handsome, the kind of good looks that feel deliberate, like he was designed to make people forget how to form complete sentences. And, judging by the way my stomach twists, I’m not immune.
“Let’s get this over with,” he says, his deep voice carrying an edge of irritation as he pulls out a chair and drops into it like he doesn’t care if it holds.
Jacob clears his throat. He pulls up one of the clips of Brittany’s meltdown, freezing the frame on her teary, mascara-streaked face. A collective cringe ripples through the room.
“As you know, Brittany made quite the spectacle,” Jacob starts, gesturing at the screen like it’s exhibit A. “And while her followers turned on her for not turning off the camera, the damage to your image is already done.”
