Page 40 of The Americana Playbook

“If you really want me to sleep upstairs?—”

Fitz shakes his head. “You can sleep here. Just give me until tomorrow to switch out closets. There’s a bunch of stuff upstairs.”

“I thought this was your room.”

Fitz rubs his chin. “I know I’ve got great legs for a guy, but something tells me you’ll pull off the skirts better.” He’s joking, of course, but there’s a serious gleam to his stare as it lingers on my bare knee poking through the opening of the robe. “I had some stuff sent over for you.”

I lean forward. “Youboughtme clothes? Fitz, you already gave me money?—”

“You came with aweekendbag, and we haven’t even discussed getting your stuff out of your apartment even if you have the lease through June.”

I don’t care to embarrass myself by admitting I don’townthat many things—clothes or otherwise. But I haveenough. It just might not be enough of the right stuff. It wasn’t while I was down in DC. That’s why my mother sent a wardrobe to the room I was staying in after she sent for my bag at the hotel. I left every piece of it behind apart from the dress I wore to the reception because I was too eager to leave to bother changing. I just threw what little I brought with me—and my secondary lock—into the bag and fled with Fitz.

“It’s not so much anyway. You’ll probably need other stuff”—he reaches behind him, pulling out his wallet—“use this. Tomorrow, you need to buy a dress.”

“No.”

“It’s for your benefit,” Fitz says. “I don’t think you’d feel super comfortable showing up to a black-tie event on Saturday in whatever is upstairs. There’s a gala benefiting the Rebels’ charity foundation. It would be good for me if we went together.”

I tip my head to the side, confused. “Good for you? What does that mean?”

Pushing off the wall, Fitz puts the credit card down on the nightstand. “It means…you might need a husband, but I could sure use a girlfriend.”

My eyebrows rise into peaks and Fitz sighs.

“It’s Coach Foller.”

“Did you break up?” I quip.

Fitz snorts. “No. There’s just been some issues in his past that have come up, and Nick’s a little worried I’d be guilty by association.”

A tingle spreads up my neck. “What issues?”

“Some allegations about abusing players back when he was a college coach.”

I freeze.

“Allegations,” Fitz repeats. “As in former players coming outyears later.”

Something tells me from Fitz’s nonchalant tone that he doesn’t believe there’s no smoke without fire. Or, he’s clouded by said smoke and maybe can’t see through it.

I swallow. “What kind of alleged abuse are we talking about?”

Fitz folds his arms across his chest. “Mental? I don’t know what you call it. It’s not like he water boarded a bunch of kids.”

“Why does it have to be all or nothing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I begin, my eyes glancing at the door handle, searching for the lock. “You don’t have to be covered in bruises and a sport a bloody lip to have been beat down.”

Invisible abuse doesn’t leave a mark, but you sure as hell will be scarred.

“Allegedly,” I add, returning my gaze to him. “And what do you have to do with it? Why is Nick concerned and what does that have to do with me?”

Fitz sighs. “You fell into my lap at the right time. Every interview I’ve done, every article written, it ties me to him. Nick wants me to change the narrative. Starting Saturday at the gala.” He points to the credit card.

“Well.” I sigh. “I guess the second act begins then.”

---