Dear God,
I know I talk to you periodically, mainly asking for favors, but I swear this is the last time.
…
Fine. It’s probably not the last time, but hear me out anyway, okay?
Please give me a signal that my Olympic dream is not a bust.
Make it rain.
Have a pigeon poop on me.
Anything.
It’s the only thing I care about. The only thing I truly want.
Yours,
—Sailor Brennan (P.S. I totally gave up chocolate and salty snacks for Lent, so if you look me up and see a list of my family’s sins, particularly my dad’s and brother’s, just remember I’m cool, all right? P.P.S. I pray for them, too.)
I drew an imaginary line between myself and the target, squinting under the pounding sun, sweat casing my forehead. Using three fingers to hold my arrow and string, I raised the bow toward the target, my inner elbow parallel to the ground. I could practically feel my pupils dilating as I focused, a tingle of excitement shooting up my spine. I released the arrow, watching as it spun in the air, missing the bull’s-eye by mere millimeters.
I lowered my bow, wiping my brow.
“Sailor,” my trainer, Junsu, clipped in a cutting tone. He approached from the shaded visiting area of the archery range, his hands clasped behind his back. “You have a visitor.”
I removed my bracer and leather tab, turning around and dumping them into the open duffel bag behind me.
“Visitor?” I grabbed a bottle of water from the plastic chair, squeezing its contents into my mouth. “Who would visit me?”
The question was not meant to sound as pathetic as it came out. Lots of people could visit me. My parents, for instance. Mom often dropped food off for me at reception, knowing I always forget to feed myself. I also had friends—Persephone (Persy) and Emmabelle (Belle) Penrose, namely. They both spent a good amount of time trying to drag me to social events I didn’t want to attend. But everybody knew I wasn’t big on visitors while I was training. Never mind the fact that I was always training.
“A boy.” Junsu’s mouth twisted around the last word. His Korean accent, touched with an unexplained British twang, rang with accusation. “A tall, blond boy.”
Junsu was short and sinewy and didn’t look a day over thirty, though considering his prime years in the Olympics were thirty years ago, he was no doubt pushing fifty. His hair was raven black, his tan skin wrinkle-free. He wore tight, simple clothes of expensive fabrics. They always looked neatly ironed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shook my head, my Merida DunBroch-style mane whooshing around my face.
I scooped up my duffel and looped my bow over my shoulder as I started walking from the outdoor range back to the archery club. Junsu must’ve misheard. That guy was probably looking for someone else.
“Can I come half an hour early tomorrow, so you can help me tune my bow? I think I need a new string.”
Junsu gave me a slight nod, his face still troubled. “The boy,” he pressed, stroking his chin, “is he—how you say?—your boy-friend?”
He put a hyphen between the words boy and friend, knowing dang well what the answer was. I’d postponed college (and life in general) to be laser-focused on archery. More specifically: the Olympics that would take place a year from now. Boys were strictly off the menu this year. A stab at the Olympics was a once-or twice-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
College could wait. I could enroll next year, after I won my gold medal.
Boys? They were so off my radar, I wasn’t even sure I possessed said radar.
I’d had the pleasure of growing up next to two men, two strong men who taught me everything there is to know about the gender: they were wild, violent, and real time-suckers. I had no place for them.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Junsu.” I blew out air as we waltzed through the narrow hallway of the archery club. It was filled with pictures of past and current archers who’d brought pride and medals to this club. I inhaled the addictive scent of sweat, leather equipment, and faint powder. “But whoever it is, he is no one to me.” I stopped, scratching above my eyebrow as I tried to make sense of this. “Maybe it’s Dorian Sanchez. He went to school with me and has been begging me to talk to my mom about giving him a job.”
Dorian was blond and tall-ish, the only person in my class other than me not to secure entrance to a good college. He’d bought a food truck senior year and sold it before graduation, so I knew he needed money.
Yup. It had to be Dorian.
“Well…” Junsu gestured with his open palm toward the front door. “The boy is loitering outside. I shall be most appreciative if he does not do that again. This is not a Tinder.” He spat out the word.
Stifling a chuckle by biting my lower lip, I nodded seriously. “I’ll try to invite all my hookups straight home in the future.”
“Not funny,” he said sternly, his eyes widening.
“Yes, it is.” I breezed toward the entrance, a spring in my step as I twisted my head to wink at my Olympic trainer. “Because we both know it’s bull—”
“No cussing!” He waved his index at me. “Is right shoulder still bothersome?”
“Yes.” I shrugged. “It’s kind of killing me, actually.”
My right shoulder had been bothering me for weeks, but every time I visited my physical therapist, I pretended it was okay so he’d let me train. Junsu was very strict about missing practice time, and whenever I complained, he gave me a soldier-through-it look.
My trainer nodded. “It is natural. Tomorrow, Sailor.”
“Tomorrow.”
I poured myself toward the parking lot, making my way to my sensible white Golf GTI. Boston was insufferably hot in the summer, the dark colonial and federalist buildings always a few degrees away from melting into a puddle on the concrete. The archery club was located on a quiet side street by the West End, far enough from my parents’ apartment downtown that the congested daily commute cost me fifty minutes to and from.
I discarded my equipment in the trunk and pushed my AirPods into my ears. I was humming “Kill and Run” by Sia when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
I turned around, surprised, even though Junsu had given me a heads-up. An unfamiliar face looked back at mine.
A stunning, miss-a-beat-or-five face, to be exact.
Definitely not Dorian Sanchez.
“Sailor Brennan?” the man—not boy—asked flatly, his eyes raking me head to toe like I was a call girl he’d just opened his door for and discovered was not up to his standards.
I felt my body stiffening in defense and shook my head, ridding myself of the weird hold his looks had on me.
“Yeah.” I reared my head back so I could take more of him in, and also because I couldn’t tell if the need to head-butt him would arise. This guy was a complete stranger, after all. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Hunter Fitzpatrick.” He pointed at himself, his smirk a perfect, well-practiced half-moon with the right amount of teeth-to-dimple ratio.
I blinked at him, waiting for further explanation. “And…?” I frowned when it became obvious his statement was also meant to serve as some sort of clarification.
His eyes inched wider in surprise, but he soon arranged his features back into a flaccid expression and cleared his throat.
“Can we talk somewhere?”
“We are talking somewhere.” I took my AirPods out, dropping them into my front pocket. “Right here. And if you don’t tell me what it’s about, I’m afraid I’ll have to turn around, get into my car, and drive away.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to block your way out of here, if you do that.” He dragged his fingers through his tresses, each golden hair submitting to the movement, like a gust of wind swiping a wheat field.
Spoiled brat. I stared at him with a mixture of irritation and confusion.
“Then,” I said carefully, “I’m afraid I’ll have to run you over. So let’s spare you the hospital visit and me the inconvenience. Can you tell me why you’re here? You’re getting me in trouble.”
“What the fuck?”
“My trainer thought you were a hookup or something.”
“JFC, back it up all the way.” He snorted a lewd laugh, actually abbreviating Jesus effing Christ. He shot another glance at my nonexistent breasts.
I wore a snug, long-sleeved shirt and yoga pants, paired with an old pair of sneakers I probably should have replaced three years ago. Despite my best efforts, I felt myself blushing at his dismissal. I knew what I looked like, and I wasn’t a perfect ten. I was scrawny, with red, tangled hair cascading all the way down to my butt, and a dusting of freckles everywhere the sun touched. On a scale of one to ten, I was a six on a generous day. Hunter was a perfect million.
“I wanted to run an idea by you.” He leaned a hip over the open trunk of my car.
Everything about him was lazy and indulgent. He was the opposite of my brother and dad. He loved himself and was hyperaware of his good looks. It turned me off.
Not that I was turned on in the first place.
“About?” I shifted from foot to foot. My nerves were tattered, frayed at the seams. Boys never spoke to me, and when they did, they didn’t look like him.
“Us.”
“You just said there is no us. And I’d like to reinforce that statement.” I yanked my car keys from my duffel bag, slammed the trunk shut, and rounded my car. He tailed me, his movements tiger-smooth, especially for a guy his size. He was very tall and very lean, and—most annoying of all—smelled very, very nice. A mixture of clean laundry, cinnamon, and corrupted male.
“Whoa, hold the phone. You really don’t have any idea who I am?” He touched my shoulder to stop me from entering the car as I opened the driver’s door.
I looked at his hand with an arched brow. He withdrew it immediately.
“No touching,” I said.
“’Kay. So? You don’t?” He searched my face, his brows leveling with his hairline.
I shook my head. “Not even the faintest clue. My condolences to your ego.”
“H-u-n-t-e-r F-i-t-z-p-a-t-r-i-c-k,” he drawled slowly, treating me no different than a first grader practicing her letters. “You know, of Royal Pipelines.”
“If this is a sexual innuendo, I am going to have to knee you in the balls,” I said matter-of-factly. I did not, however, feel half as calm as I pretended to be. His mere presence rattled something deep in my stomach, and I felt nauseous with excitement.
“Don’t objectify me, lady.” He ripped a VLTN beanie from the back pocket of his designer jeans, slapping it on his head and covering his eyes with a sulk.
That thing cost four hundred bucks. I knew because I’d gotten something similar for Belle’s birthday. But that was a joint gift where her sister, parents, and cousin had also chipped in. Who on Earth was this guy?
“I come from the fourth richest family in the country.” He pouted, peeking through the edge of the beanie now, looking ridiculously yet adorably infantile.
“Good for you. Are there any more meaningless details about your life you’d like to share before I depart? Favorite color? Maybe the age when you lost your first baby tooth?” I hmm-ed.
But now that he’d said his name again, the penny dropped, and I understood why he was surprised I didn’t recognize him—mainly because everybody else in this city did.
Hunter Fitzpatrick was unfairly, undeniably, irrefutably stunning. Shockingly so. In a way that made me resent him simply because men that handsome aren’t trustworthy.
Let me amend—men in general aren’t trustworthy. The pretty ones were extra mean, though. That was a lesson I’d learned in high school that wasn’t in the syllabus.
Rumor around Boston was, Hunter’s parents had sent him to Todos Santos, California, four years ago after he got kicked out of a British school, hoping to clean up his act by settling him with his Bible-studying uncle and aunt, or at the very least keep him away from the East Coast press. The latter hounded the Fitzpatrick family, and Hunter specifically, seeing as he had the notable ability to act like an idiot. In fact, I remembered one particular headline referring to him as “The Great Ghastly,” after one of his pool parties back west ended up with two people breaking their limbs trying to jump from the roof into his pool.
Even from California, the rogue Fitzpatrick had managed to make headlines. According to the gossip mill, his sexual conquests were currently in the triple digits, and if angels got their wings every time he had a fling, heaven would be so severely overpopulated, they’d have to start building new, up-and-coming sections in hell.
Hunter’s hair was muddy gold, curling in angelic twists around his ears, temples, and the nape of his neck, enhancing his heart-stopping beauty. His eyes were narrow, almost slanted, and brilliantly light, a mixture of gray and powder blue with flecks of gold, and his high cheekbones, square jaw, and pouty lips gave him the elegance of a surly, spoiled prince. His nose was straight and narrow, his eyebrows thick and masculine, and he had that healthy, glowing tan of a man who got to see the better parts of the world.
Hunter’s body was discussed just as much as his antics. He’d played polo while he studied in the UK, and continued doing so privately after he got kicked out and moved to California. He was lean, muscular, and freakishly tall for a polo player. According to the rumors, he had enviable abs and a member the size of the Eiffel Tower.
In short, he screamed trouble, and not the kind I had time for.
“I have a proposition for you.” He tipped his nose up.
God, he was so arrogant I wanted to throw up on his Fear of God Jungle sneakers ($995, Emmabelle had once told me—at this point, he was a theft victim begging to be targeted).
“The answer is no.”
“That’s an untextured way of thinking. You haven’t even heard it yet.”
I raised my palm, smiling politely. “Based on your reputation alone, combined with the fact that we’ve been standing here for ten minutes and you still haven’t gotten to the point, I can deduce we are not a good match. For anything.”
“I need you to live with me for six months. But, like, in a sick-ass apartment downtown. Super rad shit.”
He completely ignored my rejection. Furthermore, he talked like he was doing me a favor. True, my parents were not on any list of the richest people in the country, continent, or outer space, but they did very well for themselves. In fact, I’d grown up in luxury. But like Mom, I rejected the idea that money equaled happiness. I found that oftentimes, the opposite was true.
“Oh,” I said cheerfully. “Well, in that case, the answer is still no.”
“Wait! I have something you want.” He had the audacity to close the driver’s door behind me, bracing his arms on either side of my shoulders, caging me in.
I stared at him, bewildered. Was he high or something? “What?” I spat, wishing someone would come out of the club, see us, and shoot an arrow through his skull. Another part of me—a teeny, tiny part—enjoyed the attention this fine male specimen was providing me. I made a mental note to drown that part of me in the bathtub when I got home.
“My da says if you agree to this deal, he’s willing to sponsor you all the way to the Olympics. Said he’ll make you a household name across America, and Boston’s sweetheart. I’m talking commercials, hooking you up with the best sports agent in America, get you a book deal. You’ll be famous, baby.” He offered me another one of his toothy-dimpled smirks.
“I don’t want any of those things. I just want to do what I love.”
“That’s cute, but I know Lana Alder from New Mexico is breathing down your neck in the archery department and might take your place on the squad. And she’s got beauty campaigns and movie deals coming out of her ass, so you might want to reconsider that big, fat rejection.”
“You did your homework,” I said sullenly. Lana was a sore subject for me. Her name alone made my skin crawl.
“First and last time.” He wiggled his brows.
I bit the tip of my thumbnail. He was right. My main competition was Alder, and she, unfortunately, was as gorgeous as she was talented. She was coming to Boston in five months so we could train together with Junsu, and had already secured more media coverage in my hometown than I’d had the entire year.
I shook my head. “No.”
“You sure? Same crib, separate rooms. My parents just want you to watch over me.”
“Why?” My eyes flared in annoyance. “Why me? Why not a willing girl? I’m sure there are lots to choose from.”
“That’s exactly why. You’re unwilling. They said you wouldn’t be persuaded or seduced—incorruptible. You have good character and know the meaning of responsibility.”
“Ehm, thank you.”
“Dear God, woman, that wasn’t a compliment.” He laughed.
I frowned. “Well, sorry to disappoint your parents, but the answer is still no.”
“Seriously?” He groaned when I swatted his arms away from me, opening the door again and slipping into my car before I could consider his crazy idea. “My da knows your da and gave him the skinny on things. Apparently, he is super into the idea. Ask him. Da can make your career. If you care so much about archery, do yourself a favor and bite the bullet, man.”
“My dad is influential, too,” I said, not quite believing the words leaving my mouth. Was battiness contagious?
“Your dad can influence the body count in Boston, but he is hardly a public figure. My old man, however, donated millions to build a new stadium for the Patriots. You need connections, Sailor. Let me help.”
I started my car with the door still open, fully tucked in, gripping the steering wheel and feeling my fingers going numb around it.
“You just have to make sure I’m sober and celibate. That’s it.”
I looked up at him, aghast. “Like, be your nanny?”
He shrugged. “I’m fully potty-trained, sleep through the night—sometimes well past the morning and afternoon—and can make a mean-ass omelet.”
“Can you stop using the word ass as an adjective, verb, adverb, and noun?” I half-asked, half-wondered.
“I’ll stop saying the word ass if you agree to my once-in-a-lifetime offer.” He pressed the button to lower my window so we could continue our conversation a second before I slammed the door in his face. Good instincts.
“This is crazy,” I mumbled.
“I’m going to take that as a yes.” He slapped my window frame, grinning.
Junsu would kill me if he ever learned of the deal. He said archery was a respectable art, not a Disney Channel special that required me to do press junkets—not that he was ever going to know about it. As far as he was concerned, that qualified as cutting corners. But I was falling behind the curve and knew Lana Alder could crush my Olympic dream—and take great pleasure in it, too.
Anyway, Dad would kill Hunter Fitzpatrick if he gave me trouble. And Sam, my brother, would get rid of the body. That was the beauty of coming from a mobster family.
It seemed like a no-brainer. I needed a big endorser to push me. That’s what everyone except Junsu kept telling me. My problem wasn’t lack of skill or talent, but that I was shy and too much of a wallflower to bring attention to myself.
Still, I said nothing.
Hunter bent his knees, pressing his palms together. “Help a dude out, old sport. I promise I’m not an asshole. I mean, I wouldn’t go as far as calling myself a good guy, but I’m harmless. My inheritance is on the line here. I just want both of us to survive this bitch of a time. I swear.”
He seemed genuine. Besides, how hard could this be? He was a willing participant in this weird deal. Plus, I’d been wanting to move out of my parents’ house for a while. They’d been bugging me about my love life—or lack of it—for a long time.
“How big is this apartment?” I groaned, feeling my resolution slipping through my fingers.
“Three bedrooms, about twenty-five-hundred square feet. Skyscraper. Walking distance from here. You can use the spare bedroom for your equipment.”
“Wow,” I blurted. That beat the studio apartments I’d been looking at to escape Mom and Dad’s constant put-yourself-out-there nagging.
“Also, there will be a private chef. I was just kidding about the omelet; I can barely open a can of alphabet pasta. And you can bring your friends and Bumble dates or whatever over. I’m an excellent wingman, Sailor. I will hand you a condom and call for an Uber to kick them out when it’s all done so you can shower and take a shit without playing hostess.”
“You’re gross.”
“Why? I’ll order them the deluxe service through my app. I’ll even risk my rating—which is four point nine eight, just saying—because that’s who I am as a person: an altruistic, stand-up guy.”
“Didn’t you do community service for public indecency recently after running down a street completely naked?” I frowned, recalling the article.
He waved me off. “That was a year ago. I’m a changed man.”
I was making a mistake. I knew that as I was making the decision. But my drive to succeed won the battle.
“What’s the drawback?” I narrowed my eyes. “If you need babysitting, there must be a reason for that.”
“Impulse control,” he said.
“Meaning?”
“Specifically speaking, I don’t have any. Just think of me, like, as Bambi: cute AF but super stupid and in total need of supervision.”
He just said aay-eff. Plus, he willingly labeled himself stupid. I felt kind of sad for him, before I remembered who he was.
“A few ground rules.” I sat back in the driver’s seat, my car still running.
Hunter’s diamond-sharp eyes twinkled at my surrender. “Anything.”
“One, as you said, we’ll have totally separate bedrooms.”
“So separate they’ll barely be in the same zip code.”
“Two, no drugs, drinks, or girls in the apartment. I’m not going to cut corners for you, and I’m not bribable, in case you’re planning on pulling any funny business.”
“No funny business.” He parked his elbows on the edge of my open window, shoving half his body inside and ignoring my personal space, not unlike an eager Labrador. “What else?”
“No hitting on me.”
“Done,” he said much too quickly, raising his palm in a Boy Scout swear. “Sized me up pretty quickly, huh?”
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“So does a certain organ.”
I lifted a hand in warning. “See? Exactly what I mean. You’re going to have to cut the BS, because dealing with your potty mouth is above this sitter’s pay grade.”
“Fine. No sexual innuendos. Can I tell Da it’s on?”
Everything was moving way too fast. I didn’t even fully grasp that Hunter was here, much less what I was agreeing to. But something told me he was the sign I’d been begging for earlier today. This airheaded, rakish boy was my good-luck charm. He was going to bring me to Tallinn Olympics next year.
Besides, Persy and Belle were going to have orgasmic seizures when they heard I’d be rooming with the Hunter Fitzpatrick.
And it wasn’t like I was breaking my no-boy rule until after the Olympics.
Hunter was a boy, but he wasn’t a good fit for me. I was in no danger of falling in love with him, of losing focus.
He grabbed my hand and shook it comically. I noticed his palm was softer than mine. Probably the only thing about him that wasn’t tarnished.
“Can I have one rule, too?” he asked.
“No,” I said flatly, then sighed. “Fine, what?”
“Don’t Google me.”
“Why?” And why was he still shaking my hand? And why, why, why wasn’t I withdrawing mine?
“Just because.”
Easy peasy, I told myself. Just like living with a really beautiful, useless picture.
