PISSED OFF that The Lagoon had made this morning’s headlines for all the wrong reasons, I stood with my arms folded beside Noah, watching as Hudson went through the motions on the canvas mats alongside his trainers.
“You think he’ll be good for fight night?” I asked, my eyes glued to the swelling on Hudson’s knee as he pushed his injury to his limits.
“So far, he seems to be working through the pain. There’s no telling that his training won’t do further damage. He needs rest, but ultimately, the ball’s in his court.”
“What about today’s image in The Liberty? Have you asked him about that? It’s not like the boy to be caught off guard.”
“I asked. He said it’s nothing to be concerned about.”
I sucked my teeth and scoped out the remainder of the gym. “Where the fuck is Wez?”
Noah ground his jaw. “You’re asking the wrong guy. His phone’s off. Nobody but coach has heard from him for a couple of weeks.”
“If Hudson’s injury worsens, we need Wez to take his place. Get his address off the system, have someone scope out his apartment and someone who isn’t coach find out what the fuck he’s playing at. I want him in this fucking gym, working out his issues on the floor.”
He took his phone from his pocket and nodded, sending a text to whichever staff member he’d assigned the shitty job to. Hopefully, someone with a good enough persuasion technique to have him back where he should be. If he didn’t have to work hard before, he would have to go at it harder now that Hudson was toeing the line between stepping foot in the Octagon and watching from the sidelines.
“Sophia called me late last night,” Noah said suddenly, his eyes still on his phone.
“She was asking where you were, whether you were with James’s daughter or if you’d abandoned your work as you had her for your mistress.”
“My mistress?” I scoffed. “Jesus. What did you tell her?”
“I didn’t.” He tipped his head to meet my glare. “I didn’t know what the fuck to say. I had someone over, so I hung up.”
I fought the urge to grind my teeth, tightening my already crossed arms. It hardly felt appropriate to file an injunction against my wife, though the idea crossed my mind momentarily. It seemed she’d try anything to get under my skin. She knew she held cards I’d never planned to reveal to my little brother. And I had no doubt she was ringing him to try to spite me. It didn’t matter that I’d stood by her, even after she’d openly admitted to fucking around on me with whatever sorry fuck wanted her at the time.
“You shouldn’t have answered,” I said. “Next time, don’t.”
He frowned, the lines on his forehead making him look older than his twenty-five years, making him look more like me. “No need to be a prick. I didn’t know why she was ringing me. Besides, your phone had been off all evening. For all I knew, it could have been an emergency. Hard time or not, don’t take your shit out on me.”
“She’s not listed as my next of kin,” I muttered. “That’s you. So now you know, for future reference, her calling you warrants no kind of emergency. Fucking none.” Then, I added for good measure, “If there’s ever an emergency, you’ll be the first person to be notified.”
“Noted.”
As he pocketed his phone, an agonising groan sounded from Hudson in front of us. And then, in a span of seconds, my day worsened. We both turned to see Hudson hit the floor, shielding his knee between his hands. His ocean eyes met ours, signifying that this wouldn’t be an easy feat. The chances of him stepping into the Octagon without rest were slim. And I didn’t want to think of him not stepping into the Octagon at all. At the moment, the latter seemed to be likely.
“Fuck,” Noah said.
Fuck was right. I needed a fucking drink. “Someone better find Wez. Today. We have less than two weeks, and time is not our ally. If Hudson can’t fight, Wez needs to be prepared. I swear that lad’s head has turned to fucking jelly since his last fight.”
I couldn’t begin to think how I’d repair further damage to The Lagoon’s reputation if both our fighters were to withdraw from our event. And as it stood, the media shat on James, on us, any chance they got. For whatever reason they could come up with.
When the main event took place, I needed Hudson to win the title and The Lagoon to come out on top. Because ultimately, when it came to business, I couldn’t afford to do if, buts, and fucking maybes. I could only do absolutes.
I WAS SITTING behind my office desk with a glass of Bourbon to my lips, my gaze on my staff through the window as they worked their jobs beneath me. I was beginning to resent the taste, yet it still served its most important purpose. And it did its job much better than most.
Finishing a gruesome phone call with my solicitor was all it took to start the process of divorcing my wife and for me to pick up the bottle. Typically, this was the easy part. The rest would be a headache. I was setting myself up for a game I didn’t want to participate in, a game where I didn’t hold all the cards. But my hand was forced anyway.
Interrupting me from my thoughts, my phone vibrated on my desk with a text.
Blue’s name stared back at me.
Holding my phone in one hand, I begrudgingly slid my finger across the screen and opened her message.
Beatrix–my middle name. In case you still don’t care.
I couldn’t help myself. I sat back in my chair with a smirk pulling at my lips, thoroughly amused at her ability to be sassy and endearing even through a text message.
“Beatrix,” I mused. It was delicate, rich, and soft on the tongue.
A text back acknowledging its delicacy could be construed as wanting to get to know her. Which ultimately was the plan. But did I want her to know just how much? A battle with my sanity had me putting down my glass and texting back; only I disregarded her message.
Why aren’t you in class? I replied.
Three dots appeared on the screen before disappearing. Some part of me felt disappointed and regretful that I had been so cold in my response that it had scared her away. But then an image came through, the edges of her school skirt curtained across the top of her sun-kissed thighs with the message: I am.
I stared at the image a little too long before my fingers flew over the screen. Should I be concerned that you’re not paying attention to whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing?
I waited a minute until that minute turned into four, into nine, and then into double figures. And still, she hadn’t replied. I felt like a man possessed. Was this how Sophia felt when I avoided her texts? Pocketing my phone, I stood from my chair with force, allowing it to roll back towards the wall. As it bounced off the black metalled wall, I paced over to the window, staring down at what was in a matter of months, soon to be solely mine.
No one would ruin this for me, and no one could take it away.
Not Sophia.
Not Hudson.
Not that blonde-haired tattooed fuck by the name of Wez.
Definitely not Blue Sterling.
BLUE
“MISS STERLING.”
My name being called from the front of the old auditorium had me sliding my phone into my skirt pocket and my eyes widening. I looked up at Mr Smith, my Journalism tutor, staring at me with blatant authority. He looked the opposite of kind-faced, his glasses perched on the end of his nose, making his nose look a few inches smaller than it was. We were almost two hours into his lecture on what it meant to be a journalist. It was my last lecture of the day, and a lot like on my first day, I was struggling to pay attention, wondering if it was too soon to regret choosing Media and Journalism as my degree.
I hadn’t realised how many connecting factors there’d be. All I wanted was to learn how to create compelling social media strategies and excel in my creativity. I didn’t want to gather fake news and disseminate it to the public. Only, when there was a curriculum to follow, what I wanted was a lot different from what I got.
“Do you want to be here, Miss Sterling? Or is there somewhere more important you need to be?” He spoke loudly, encouraging almost every student to stare in my direction. All of them seemed to stop what they were doing–either easing down their pens or closing down the heads of their laptops to get a better view of me.
How the hell Mr Smith knew my name out of the other thirty students here wasn’t just embarrassing, but beyond me. Unless he had an excellent recollection of his students’ first introductions, he’d gone out of his way to single me out and embarrass me in front of the others.
I cleared my throat, faking a confidence I didn’t feel as I sat straighter in my seat and attempted a smile. “I have nowhere more important to be.”
He raised a curious eyebrow and pushed his glasses up his nose. It must not have been the answer he was looking for because the next thing out of his mouth was, “Stay for a chat after my lecture.”
“Sure,” I mumbled, looking down at my lap, where I was holding too tightly onto the pleats of my skirt.
I spent the remainder of the lecture with my head down, half-heartedly taking notes where I could. But mostly, I spent my time where it wasn’t warranted. I may have–okay, I did–Snapchat Ebony with ridiculous filters on my tutor’s face to cheer myself up. And although I refused to text Walker back–he was a little too close to the truth, and I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about that–I still considered it.
I googled everything there was to know about The Lagoon, surprised to find it lacked almost any kind of social media presence, which was crazy to me, especially when The Lagoon had made such a big name for itself. Despite it being my father’s business, there was so much–away from what the media wrote about it–that I didn’t know. And now that I was in London, I found myself wanting to learn more about the business my father chose to leave behind and put into the hands of someone else.
When Mr Smith turned off the projector that was on view to the students, ending his discussion and signifying the end of the day, I packed my belongings into my tote bag and remained seated in my chair until the rest of the students had cleared out from the room.
As the last student stepped through the doorway, Mr Smith walked over to the door and closed it behind them. From a distance, he met my eyes. Then he walked over to his old wooden desk, took out a rolled-up newspaper from his drawer, and proceeded to walk up the stairs towards me. I seemed to shrink into myself as he towered over me. Up close, I could make out an indent in the middle of his chin and his beady eyes staring at me through the frame of his glasses.
“Yesterday,” he said with disdain in his tone, “despite efforts to put it down to first day nerves, I couldn’t help but notice how you looked like you didn’t want to be here.” He threw the rolled newspaper down on the chair beside me. “I’ve been given the same impression today, Miss Sterling. I hope you realise that places at Duke and for this particular degree are limited. Given that it is day two and you’ve paid more attention smiling into your phone than you have your textbooks and our discussions, I’m forced to warn you of that. There is a list of waiting students, ones I feel would be more respectful of your place. Students that would appreciate my time and efforts.”
When I made no move to open the newspaper, he leant to unroll it for me. Then, he proceeded to flatten it down with his palm. I didn’t understand what he was trying to show me until he moved his hand away and the back page came into view. My father, or more precisely, The Lagoon, had made today’s sporting headline. This, of course, was no surprise to me. They may have had a lack of social media presence, but there were enough journalists and sporting forums to make up for what The Lagoon didn’t share. Even if half of what they wrote were lies.
Mr Smith pointed to the image of Hudson “Bully Boy” Barnes. He’d been caught vulnerable outside The Lagoon, and although he had his cap pulled down over his face, tears were noticeable on his cheeks. Alongside the image, the headline read, “No Bully left in Barnes.”
My brows pinched together as I studied the paper and scanned the article. Like the television interview, the article stated how Hudson had acquired an injury and then went on to talk about the club’s previous drug raid.
None of the article explained why he was crying, which was exactly where my mind lingered.
Walker said the Lagoon’s backup fighter had mental health problems, so why was Hudson the one to be crying in broad daylight? This image was probably porn to his component.
Mr Smith sighed, air blowing down on me through his nose.
“Why are you showing me this?” I asked, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. He must have had an ulterior motive.
He looked me hard in the eye and placed a hand on the back of the chair beside me. The faint stench of his dried sweat assaulted my senses, and I struggled not to let it show.
“Miss Sterling. Blue. Do you want to make headlines, or do you want to write them?”
The only thing I heard from his mouth was judgement.
“I… what? I wouldn’t be making headlines. I’m… nobody, really.”
He sighed again, his tone sounding both resigned and annoyed. “We check the history of every student that attends Duke. We know who you are, and we know who your father is. This article here is considerably tame compared to the others I’ve read. If you want to be here, Miss Sterling, we need to see it. We hold a high standard, and we don’t take kindly to uninterested students when there’s another hundred that would be more respectful of your place.”
“Isn’t it a little unfair to judge me based on my father’s reputation? On his business’s reputation?”
“I’m not judging you, Miss Sterling. Quite simply, I’m just telling you how it is.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I didn’t respond at all.
“Perhaps you need to rethink your degree of choice,” he said, stepping back from me. “Maybe something less strenuous would suit you.”
He made his way down the stairs and towards the door, where he waited for me to follow. For some reason, I was still sitting in my seat. I collected my tote bag from beside me, bypassed the newspaper, and headed towards the exit.
“If you want to keep your place here, you need to do better. By that, I mean focus. Despite the money I’m sure you’ll inherit, that air in your head won’t get you very far.”
With that, he opened the door for me to exit through, and as quick as I stepped through it, he closed it again behind me.
Finley didn’t say anything when I slid into the passenger seat of his BMW ten minutes later and threw my bag to the floor. With shaking hands, I fastened my belt and waited for him to start the car.
Noticing he was a little sluggish starting the engine, I glanced at him to find him staring at me, the wrinkles on his forehead showing concern.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
This was the fourth time I’d been in the car with him, but it was also the first time he’d spoken more than his usual hello to me.
I was too embarrassed to tell him what had just happened. So I said, “I think perhaps I’m just a little jet-lagged.”
It was some of the truth, at least. Really, my anxiety was making itself known by weakening my muscles. And my conversation with Mr Smith was likely at the root of that, but now, sitting in a car on an already bad day, was not the time to confess. Since being on medication for my anxiety, it wasn’t often I was triggered unless a night terror got too much, and because I understood enough about the disorder itself, I knew that identifying how I felt often helped limit the occurrence of a panic attack. I wouldn’t allow Mr Smith that privilege over me.
Finley stared at me a beat longer before reaching over to open the glove compartment and signalling inside to a packet of Kleenex and an unopened bottle of flavoured water.
I was relieved he didn’t ask any more questions. And although my throat was drying by the second, and I wanted to take the water, I couldn’t help but feel guilty for accepting something that wasn’t mine. “I can wait till we get back to the penthouse.”
“No, it’s yours. Walker said it’s what you like. He ordered for the penthouse to be stocked this morning and told me to keep a bottle in my car at all times.”
“He did?”
He nodded.
“Well, um, thank you.” I uncapped the water bottle, not wanting to read too much into the gesture. First my sunglasses, and now this? I knew it was because he’d told my father he would take care of me–he said as much himself–but I wasn’t used to being catered to so… thoughtfully.
I almost felt… cared about, which was ridiculous because these two things were hardly anything at all. I definitely shouldn’t have been reading into them like I was.
“If it’s not an inconvenience, can we make a stop on the way back to the penthouse, please? I noticed we passed a home and furniture boutique this morning that I’d like to check out.”
Without another word, Finley side-eyed me and gave one gentler nod of his head.
Grateful that the man barely spoke, I sipped my water. Only the calm that settled over me didn’t stay long, and my mind began to drag me to a discomfort I only wished I could escape from.
I tried to convince myself I was strong, but it wasn’t always as easy as telling myself so in my head. And it seemed even far from home, with the path paved towards the future I thought I wanted, nothing in my life would quite ever be that simple.
