Page 19 of Wild Hit
Fortunately, I’m rescued by the arrival of a car that parks by the curb, and Audrey exclaims, “Oh, that’s my roommate. I’ll see you around, Miguel.”
“Right, see ya.” As she starts walking away, I recall something. “Wait!” She turns to me and I can’t believe how I got used to seeing the dirt smudge on her cheek. “You have some dirt around here.” I motion at my face in the same area.
“Thanks.” She wipes at it with the back of her arm. I press my lips tight not to laugh but she can tell I’m struggling. “Let me guess,” she deadpans, “I made it worse, didn’t I?”
“Yup.”
“Ugh.” She reaches for her T-shirt, except it’s probably dirtier than her face is.
“Wait.” I tug my T-shirt out of my joggers and turn the fabric around my hand before wiping her cheek with the inside. My neighbor blinks up at me but cooperates, which makes this less awkward for all parties involved. With one final swipe down to her chin, I declare, “There.”
Our eyes meet and here’s where it gets weird. We’re way too close. I can make out each freckle that dusts over her nose, all of which are standing out more and more because it’s too hot and also because I just did something incredibly cringy, as Marty would say. And if anyone else saw it, I’ll never be able to live it down.
I jump away and raise a hand for a wave. “All right, see ya later neighbor. Thanks for everything!”
“Yeah, you too,” she wheezes out.
I pretend like I jog up to my house every day, and not like I’m trying to run away from my embarrassment.
Real smooth, jackass, I tell myself.
CHAPTER 9
AUDREY
Call me a drama queen but when I walk into a door that is swinging closed because a coworker I thought would hold it open, doesn’t, and I spill my iced coffee all over my blouse, is the exact moment I realize that today is going to suck.
“Oops,” says Otto Berger, one of the therapists in Hope’s team, and apparently that’s all I’m going to get because he’s already walking away.
Sighing, I have no choice but to let it go. It’s not that I’m a pushover. Rather, people will find out any time soon that I’m the owner’s daughter, and any whiff of attitude from me is going to come back to bite me in my small behind.
However, I do keep a mental tally. The way this jerk acted toward Hope was bad enough to earn him two strikes all at once. Letting a door close on me and spilling my coffee gives him half a strike—and it wouldn’t be a strike if it was from literally anyone else. Half more and he’ll earn himself the silent treatment from me forever.
After tossing my now empty coffee cup in the trash, I make a sad beeline to the PR and communications area. We always have a surplus of marketing material, and I find a team jersey in mysize that can save the day. Unfortunately, I don’t know if that fate awaits my formerly cute blouse in a delicate cream color.
“Ugh, freaking Otto Berger,” I mutter to myself in the women’s bathroom, having swapped tops and now attempting to wash my blouse with hand soap. Who would’ve thought that purple soap doesn’t get coffee stains out?
I return to my cubicle with a sopping blouse I’ll try to rescue at home, no caffeine in my system, an overload of annoyance, and zero desire to be here.
Still, since I’m a responsible adult who has bills to pay and integrity—and oddly enough wants to keep both—I boot up my laptop to begin my work day officially. I had actually made an effort with my outfit because I have a teleconference with Amelia Herrera, Miguel Machado’s agent, to talk about theSPORTYcampaign, but surely she won’t be weirded out at seeing me wear the team’s jersey.
An email at the top of my inbox stops me. For a second I’m transported back to school when I was called to the principal’s office. Dad’s assistant—who as far as I know isn’t aware that we’re father and daughter—is summoning me to Dad’s office ASAP. It’s the four-letter-acronym the one that sends my pulse skyrocketing.
This can only mean one thing—no, not that he’s going to scold me or give me detention. Instead, he’s probably going to make the big announcement. The one I’ve been dreading, where he reveals to everyone my best kept secret.
Sighing, I drag my feet all the way up to his office. The facilities have nothing to envy from a Silicon Valley company, with team spirit decor that doesn’t border on tacky, open areas for chatting or playing a table game, more monitors than an airport showing clips from games or from the history of the franchise, enough plants to not make the place feel sterile, and more coffee machines than necessary. But the top floor of theadmin building, where Dad’s office is, boasts of serious money. Rumor has it that he modeled it after an opulent airport in the Middle East—marble, touches of gold, crystal, and priceless art.
Iknowthat he did. If only because that’s also how he decorated our home when I was growing up.
Well, not home. The house we were forced to live in when all of us were subject to his rule.
His assistant has all the air of a butler. The guy is in his fifties, with white hair and a mustache, and all he’s missing is the monocle. He jumps to his feet while wishing me a good morning—glances very briefly at my jersey and dress pants mismatched combo—and opens the door to his boss’s office.
Somehow I expect paparazzi to jump out at me, blinding me with camera flashes and overwhelming me with questions. Am I truly the long lost heiress? What made me be lost in the first place? Is it true that I’ve hidden my identity from everyone? Why does only a random player know and not my friends? What do I think they’re going to say when they find out? Shouldn’t I have told them myself?
Instead, it’s just Dad and another man.
I do a double take. The feeling in my gut that today was going to suck intensifies. I know the guy. Adam, my brother, told me years and years ago to steer clear of him.
