Page 14

Chapter Four

Graham

“Elias Novak is becoming a public relations nightmare,” Brooke says, her voice laced with frustration as she paces my office. The thick folder she’s clutching slaps rhythmically against her thigh with every step, a testament to her irritation. She knows this team better than I do and has been the Public Relations Manager for almost four years. Her track record is impeccable, which is why I kept her.

I lean back in my chair, the weight of the situation pressing down like a ton of bricks. Elias Novak, one of the Tigers’ most talented players, has found himself at the center of yet another scandal—and this time, it’s not something that can be dismissed as youthful recklessness or bad judgment.

“This isn’t just another ‘he said, she said’ situation,” Brooke continues, turning to face me with a tight jaw. “The woman involved, Amber Clark, has gone on record. She’s alleging that Elias groped her at Club Vibe last weekend after he’d been drinking heavily. There are multiple witness accounts, and while none of them confirm the assault outright, they paint a picture of him being belligerent and out of control.”

I rub my temple, feeling a headache brewing. “And the fight? How does that play into this?”

Brooke sighs, tossing the folder onto the desk with a dramatic thud. “Elias reportedly got into a heated argument with another patron—some guy Amber was with. Words escalated, and before anyone could step in, Elias threw the first punch. The bouncers kicked him out, but not before half the club had their phones out recording the whole scene.”

The file is bursting with printouts of articles, screenshots of social media posts, and grainy videos of Elias being escorted out of the club, his shirt wrinkled, his hair a mess, and his expression one of smug defiance.

“This isn’t just bad optics, Graham,” Brooke says, her tone sharpening. “This is a disaster. The sexual assault allegations alone could tank his career—and ours if we’re not careful. Add the fight into the mix, and you’ve got a cocktail of public outrage brewing.”

I lean forward, steepling my fingers. “What’s the current media narrative?”

Brooke grimaces. “It’s bad. Sports outlets are running with headlines like ‘Tigers’ Elias Novak: Off the Field and Out of Control,’ while mainstream media is focusing on Amber’s allegations. Social media is a dumpster fire. The hashtags #NovakOut and #BelieveAmber are trending.”

“Damage control,” I say, my voice clipped. “What’s the plan?”

Brooke doesn’t hesitate. This is her arena, and she knows how to play the game. “First, Elias is going dark on social media—no posts, no comments, no cryptic tweets that could add fuel to the fire. Second, we’re crafting a public apology. He’ll take responsibility for the fight and acknowledge his behavior was inappropriate. We’ll frame it as a lapse in judgment due to stress and alcohol, but he’ll make it clear there’s no excuse for violence.”

“And the assault allegations?” I ask, my tone hardening.

Brooke’s jaw tightens. “That’s trickier. Amber has hired a lawyer, which means she’s serious. We’ve got our legal team reviewing her claims and gathering witness statements. If there’s even a shred of evidence that Elias is guilty⁠—”

“There won’t be a next step,” I cut in coldly. “If he’s guilty, he’s done. I won’t have this team associated with a predator.”

Brooke nods, a flicker of approval in her eyes. “Agreed. But until we know for sure, we’re preparing for a public defense. That means emphasizing Elias’s contributions to the team and his clean record up until now. We’ll also highlight the mandatory team training on respect and conduct, to show we take these issues seriously.”

I exhale slowly, the knot in my chest tightening. “And the fight footage?”

“Already flagged for copyright claims and takedowns where we can, but it’s out there. No putting that genie back in the bottle. We spin it—‘Elias Novak, targeted by hecklers, acted in self-defense but regrets his actions.’ It’s not perfect, but it shifts the focus.”

Before I can respond, there’s a sharp knock on the door, followed by Betty stepping inside.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, her voice calm but purposeful. “The new team doctor has arrived. Brady’s waiting in the conference room for introductions.”

I glance at Brooke, who gives a tight nod, already gathering her things. “We’ll circle back,” she says, her tone all business. “I’ll prep Elias for the apology and loop in legal for an update.”

“Good,” I say, rising to follow Betty. “Let’s hope this new doctor isn’t another PR disaster waiting to happen.”

By the time Betty leads me to the conference room, I’ve managed to smooth my expression into something neutral, if not entirely composed. But when I step inside and see her—her—every ounce of calm I thought I’d mustered shatters like a cheap glass hitting the floor.

She stands there, hands clasped in front of her, wearing tailored navy slacks and an off-white blouse. Her long brown hair is swept back into an efficient knot, but it’s those green eyes that catch me—sharp and clear, narrowing slightly when they land on me.

It’s like the air gets sucked out of the room. For a second, I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Memories of Cape Town slam into me: her laughter, the taste of her lips, the way her green eyes softened when I told her I wasn’t ready for anything more than a single night. And now, here she is, standing in my facility, looking every bit as composed as I am unraveling.

Brady’s oblivious voice breaks the silence. “Graham, this is Dr. Anastasia Bellows, the new team doctor I mentioned. Anastasia, meet Graham Callahan, the new team owner.”

Her lips part slightly, and for a fraction of a second, I see the flicker of recognition in her eyes. A hint of warmth. But then my silence stretches a beat too long, and that flicker dims, replaced by something colder, more guarded.

She recovers before I do, extending her hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Callahan,” she says evenly. Her tone is polite, and professional, with just enough distance to drive home the point: I’m her boss now.

I open my mouth to respond, but the words tangle in my throat. “I—uh—welcome to the team,” I manage, my voice awkwardly tight. I clear my throat, scrambling to grab hold of some semblance of composure. “We’re… lucky to have you.”