Page 81 of Spin Control

On Wednesday afternoon, Wes and I part ways for the first time in days.

After stealing as much time as we could to delight entirely in each other, we couldn’t ignore our jobs any longer. So while Wes spends his afternoon playing padel and training with Camden, I join a call with Michelle, the bubbly white woman in her fifties who serves as my agency’s HR director.

But when the call connects, Michelle is not alone.

“Clint,” I say, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice at seeing my boss on a call I arranged with HR. “Hi.”

Clint Katsaros is a legend. He’s taught me everything I know, and I respect the hell out of him. But he’s old-school about client management and protocol—which is why I was going to have this conversation with Michelle first. Then, once the forms were submitted, I was going to tell him everything.

With absolutely no preamble, Clint says, “So. You and Wes Grant.”

I blink. My email to Michelle said that I needed to disclose a relationship, but I didn’t specify who it was with. There was no reason for her to loop in my boss. And the odds that Clint checked my calendar, joined this call, and just took a very good guess are not particularly high.

“You already know,” I say, keeping my voice calm and face neutral.

“Yes.”

My stomach sinks all the way to my toes. “Who?”

He gives me a long look. “A journalist.”

I would have been less surprised if he had fired me without warning. Because what does he mean, a journalist?

I suppose my face has stopped being neutral because Michelle says, “Oh, you had no idea.”

“No,” I say, letting all my cards show. “Wes and I didn’t even decide this until a couple of days ago.”

Clint sighs heavily, and dread crawls up my esophagus. “I received an email from a journalist yesterday morning. It informed me that a story will be running about you and Wes first thing on Thursday, London time.”

I open my mouth to demand why he’s just telling me now when he’s known for a whole day, but he holds a hand up. “There’s more.”

I clamp my jaw shut.

“The email contained photos. A lot of photos. They date back to early May. So even if you and Wes have just decided this, there is a convincing narrative that says otherwise.”

I sit in silence for two full breaths. Then my stomach lurches, and I barely grab the trash can before I’m dry-heaving into it.

“You poor thing,” I hear Michelle say, and I have no doubt that if I were there in person, she’d be holding out a tissue box and a ginger ale. But that isn’t going to fix this.

I am about to be a tabloid story.

People are going to gasp when they read the headline, then gobble it up, share it with their group chat, post about it—about me—on social media.

Strangers, acquaintances, colleagues, friends from high school and college, clients, people who know my parents.

My parents.

Jane.

Holy shit.

But what did I expect? Wes Grant isn’t just some guy. He’s a professional athlete who earns millions of dollars. He’s a bona fide person of interest. Not a day goes by that there aren’t headlines about what he does on the track, what he wears in the paddock, and what he’s posted on social media. And that doesn’t take into account the scandal around Martine, the new teammates, the contract rumors, the conspiracy theories. The last thing he needs this season is news of a tawdry workplace romance. He’s going to back away from me immediately.

How did I not see this coming? How have I spent two and half days in bed with the man rather than creating a crisis plan for myself?

But it’s easy to answer that question. I was completely absorbed in the newness and excitement of us. I was having more back-to-back orgasms than I even knew were possible. I thought I finally had something good and healthy and mine.

But girls like me don’t get to be happy. We get opportunities to be in the room, promotions that give us a seat at the table, and bonuses the size of other people’s salaries. But actual happiness? It’s out of the question.