Page 76 of Facing Off
So once again, Hughes is helping me out in a way I’m struggling to digest. How am I going to pay him back? To balance all this?
…letting my team down.Failing anyone who needs me.Being selfish.Because I can and have been selfish.Even Oslo, I wish I was there but I don’t deserve it?—
In the rage room, he played all that off as nothing, but I have a feeling it’s affecting him a lot more than he lets on. So like I told him, when we made our deal, I’m going to help him manage his stress. Whatever that looks like, it’s at least a way for me to balance the growing debt between us.
But first, he said we’d focus on me. On this meeting.
An older woman standing separately from the others gives me a wave, gesturing at me to come over.
I approach, keeping my expression as neutral as I can. “Hey.”
“I’m Iris.” She sticks out her hand, so I shake it. “You must be Sonya.”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Adrian’s personal assistant.”
“Blink twice if you need rescuing.”
She blinks three times—then laughs. “Was that twice? I think it was more. Either way, I’m just playing because I’ll never get another job as good as this one.”
“Coincidentally, that’s exactly what someone who has Stockholm syndrome would say,” I tell her dryly.
She laughs again. “I have to admit I was curious about you, about why he’d pull us together so quickly. But I think I already like you.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
Not noticing or caring, Iris gives me the sunniest smile. It makes the wrinkles near her mouth settle into familiar grooves. She takes off the backpack that was resting on her shoulders and starts pulling out…shirts? I look down and see the stack she piles on the table. But that’s not what makes my mouth drop open.
Labeled across the shirts in bold letters are the words: Project Nutcracker.
I grab one. “Who are these for?”
“Everyone,” Iris exclaims.
T-shirt material fists in my hand. “On whose orders were these made?”
Iris gives me a furtive glance. We both know the answer. Her boss gave the orders, of course.
I take in a forced breath, disturbed by how close my chin is to wobbling. Really, I should have expected this. He’s the guy who wears silly headbands under his helmet and then pushes the rest of the team to wear headbands,too. All while grinning ear-to-ear as if we’ll always win in life as long as we band together like we’re in some sort of perpetual summer camp.
Doubt is a fire spreading inside me as my thoughts spin. I must be showing my worries on my face, because Iris puts a hand on my arm. “Hey. Wait. Whatever you’re thinking isn’t it. The shirts aren’t for no reason?—”
I pull away. “Please tell me, Iris. What are custom-made ballet-themed shirts going to do to help me?”
If I expect Iris to gulp or back down because of my tone, that’s not what happens. Her spine straightens. “He’s the captain of a billion-dollar franchise for a reason. Wait and see,” she tells me firmly.
With that, she goes and joins the rest of them.
I’m left alone. By myself. And it’s completely fine.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand—hiding it—because my chin needs to get it together. There should benowobbling. It needs to calm down, and if it doesn’t, I blame the fact that for these last few days, my ballet has continued to suffer. Ifthatwasn’t happening to me, I’d be closer to getting back to my normal self. Strong. Unaffected. Unapproachable. Unbothered.
“It’s time to start.”
The deep tenor of his voice cuts through everything.
Adrian Hughes is here, and he walks to the front of the room. He’s wearing a suit, tailored to fit his tall, broad-shouldered frame. Seeing him again, my pulse whooshes up to my ears. It must be because I don’t like how dressed up he got for this.
