Page 9 of Face Off
“That wasn’t the question.”
I press my nails into my palm. “Fine. Productive. I have notes. Character sketches. Locker-room impressions.”
He exhales, long enough that I can picture him sitting behind his desk, polished wood gleaming, a skyline stretching behind him. “Your first official day and all you can give me is ‘fine’? I don’t bankroll fine, Chloe.”
“I’ll get sharper,” I say quickly. “This isn’t fluff for me.”
“It isn’t fluff for me either.” His tone cuts. “The Raptors are a multi-million-pound machine. My money keeps that machine running. You are there because I put you there. Do you understand? Not because of your…talent.”
The word drips contempt.
“I understand,” I whisper.
“Do you?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Good.” He pauses, then drops his voice lower, dangerous. “Because if you can’t produce, if you can’t show me you deserve this, then I’ll cut you off. No freelance contracts quietly greased by my contacts. Do you want to go back to scrambling for puff pieces in the lifestyle section?”
My throat tightens. “No.”
“Then don’t waste my time.”
The line goes dead. I set the phone down like it’s venomous. The silence after his voice is heavier than before, like lead in my chest.
He’s the reason I’m here. The anonymous sponsor, the money behind The Raptors’ new media push, the string-puller who made sure the journalist shadowing the team would be me. No one knows. Not Murphy, not Dylan, not even Ollie with his too-quick grin and sharper eyes than he lets on. If they did, if Murphy especially did, I’d be out before I’d unpacked my bag.
I pace the flat, restless. My father’s words rattle in my skull.I don’t bankroll mediocrity.He doesn’t bankroll weakness either. And sometimes, when I catch myself staring at a blank screen too long, I wonder if I’m both.
The apartment feels like a stage I don’t belong on. My mug sits solitary on a shelf, the only piece of crockery not matching the porcelain set my father’s assistant ordered. My bed is too big for one person. The wardrobe is filled with clothes bought for image rather than comfort. Tailored, pressed, elegant. Sometimes I wonder if I exist at all here, or if I’m just another piece of the set design.
I try to shove the thought away and open the fridge. Rows of bottled water, pre-cut fruit, a single bottle of white wine I don’t remember buying. I shut it again. Hunger’s there, but eating feels indulgent when my work isn’t done. Instead, I return to the laptop, and force myself to type.
Day One with The Raptors. First impressions.
I sketch the outlines. Murphy, tense, guards his home like a fortress. Dylan, dark, always watching. Jacko, solid, grounded, eyes softer than you’d expect for someone his size. The rookies trying to fit in, and find their place on the team. And Ollie,golden retriever energy, too bright for his own good, always the one to draw fire so others don’t have to.
My fingers still. I shouldn’t write about Ollie that way. It’s not professional. It’s not safe.
But I can’t stop remembering the way he smiled when he teased me about the pen in my hand, how for a second it felt like a real conversation instead of a chess match. Then Murphy’s glare landed between us like a blade, and Ollie shut down, retreating back into loyalty.
I rub my forehead hard enough to sting. No. Don’t go there. I’m not here for distraction. I’m here to prove myself.
The cursor blinks. I force myself to type again.
Murphy’s hostility isn’t subtle. He still resents me. Probably always will. I can work with that; conflict is copy. The rest of the team watches, waits. I’ll find the cracks. I have to.
I lean back, exhaling through my teeth. The words sit stiff on the screen. They don’t sound like me, not really. They sound like the version of me my father demands.
The version I promised myself I’d be.
And yet, memory ambushes me, sudden and sharp.
The charity gala.
Champagne flutes balanced on silver trays. The flash of cameras bouncing off crystal chandeliers. Me in a red dress too bold for the room, laughing too loud at a joke no one else found funny. I leaned into Murphy for a staged photograph, my lips too close to his cheek. I’d wanted a headline. I’d gotten it.Star Player Back On The Market?
Samuel Murphy Spotted Getting Cozy With Notorious Reportersplashed across tabloids the next morning.
