Page 17 of The Run Option

“Here, you can use this to dry your eyes. Or if you’re cold.” She takes it from me. I don’t get many crying women in my car so I haven’t considered having tissues in here.

“Thank you,” she mumbles and uses the sleeve to dab under her eyes. “I’m sorry for crying in your car. I just found out today, so it’s still raw. And my granny–” she cuts off, pressing the sleeve to her mouth.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to share.” Heaven knows she’ll regret it in the morning, along with everything else that happened tonight.

“My granny hurt her hip, that’s why I missed work. Now she’s going to be alone, all because I didn’t change my address. I’m so stupid.” She hides her face in my jacket completely now.

“You’re not stupid. You made a mistake. It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “I’m sure there’s a way to fix all this.”

There has to be. She can’t leave the Lions. It won’t be the same without her. All the guys used to hate being in videos, now most of them love it because of her. The whole team and staff adore her.

Willow stays silent the rest of the drive, and I don’t push her to talk. Instead, I try to think of what I can do to help. Maybe there’s someone in the office who’s a Lions fan. I’m not againstbribery when it comes to this. Or some kind of loophole she doesn’t know about. I could hire a lawyer for her–

I’m not yours to take care of, Kingsley.I cringe. Even if I could help, would Willow want me to? I glance over at her again. She’s curled up, using my jacket as a pillow against the door. An instinctual urge rises within me to protect her, to fix everything just to see her smile. I think that makesmethe stupid one, but that’s how I feel. I guess I’m stuck hoping that one day she’ll feel something similar, or at the very least, not hate me. That is, if she stays in the country.

Chapter nine

Willow Delmont

I let out a groan. “Whatever time it is, it’s too early for people.” I scrunch up my nose. My mouth tastes disgusting, and when I move, a dull ache pulses through my ankle. The buzzing sound that awakened me continues on my bedside table.

I snatch my phone and I’m tempted to throw it. The only thing that stops me is the insane amount of notifications. I’ve turned off notifications for the Lions’ accounts so that I don’t get spammed like this, so these all have to be from my personal accounts.

My brows pull together as I unlock my phone. Maybe one of my videos went viral, but that seems unlikely since I haven’t posted in a few days because of Granny’s injury.

Just as I’m about to check my accounts, I get a call. The nameBrock Jonesappears on my screen, making me frown. Why is a sports agent calling me? I have his number in case I need to talk to him about brand deals or advertisements with the players he represents on the team, but he’s never called me before.

“Hello?” I rasp, then clear my throat. “Hello,” I try again, sounding marginally better.

“Miss Delmont, this is Brock Jones.” He sounds much more formal than I remember.

I rub my eyes, feeling my mascara crumble. “How can I help you?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound as hungover as I feel.

“I’m sure by now you’re aware of the fanfare surrounding you and my client, Jason Kingsley.”

I shoot up in bed. The room spins and I have to grip my blanket to ground myself.

“Fanfare? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, I thought with you being a social media manager you would have already seen the photos and videos.” The sound of typing breaks up his words.

“I just woke up,” I say.

“Ah, that makes sense, given your…um…state in the videos. As well as what Jason detailed to me.”

My blood runs cold. “State? What do you mean?”

“You were drunk, practically passed out in Jason’s arms.” Brock rips the bandaid right off. “Videos and photos have circulated, along with rumors. I’d like to have a meeting with you and Jason to discuss our options.”

I rake a hand through my hair, but it gets caught in the tangled mop. As if Granny getting hurt and me being deported weren't enough, now there’s footage of me drunk with Jason carrying me running rampant.

“Okay,” I manage to say. “When would you like to meet?”

“I’m currently in North Carolina, but Jason has agreed to set up a video chat in a conference room for us. Can you meet him there in an hour? If you give me your information, I can send you money for an Uber, as I’ve been informed your car is still at Jamal’s.”

My face flames. There’s something about the clinical way he’s explaining things that makes everything sound so much worse. Not that it isn’t bad. It is. But if he could throw in a joke or two, that would be nice.

“I can pay for myself.”

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