Right Man, Right Time

From the moment I stepped into Silas’s apartment, I knew this was a bad idea.

The last thing I’m sure he wants to see when he gets home after a brutal road trip is me, but Ross is right. If I’m going to have any chance at salvaging this relationship with Silas, then I need to talk to him. And the only way I can do that is if I’m at his place.

Doesn’t make it any less intimidating.

Because I have this horrible feeling that this is the end of us. That there is no coming back from this. And the more I think about that, the more I can’t hold back my emotions. Because I love this man. I love him more than anyone I’ve ever loved, anyone I’ve ever been with.

He’s made me feel beautiful again.

He’s made me feel like I matter.

He’s put a smile on my face every day, and the knowledge that it could all end after tonight has my stomach in absolute knots.

I got a text from Ross about a half hour ago letting me know that the boys landed, so Silas should be home any minute.

I check my phone for the time just as the front door unlocks.

Nerves shoot through my veins, and as the door opens, I brace myself for what’s to come.

I stand from the couch, wearing his sweatshirt and a pair of leggings, hoping and praying he’ll give me a chance.

He steps into the apartment wearing a stunning dark gray three-piece suit that clings to every part of his body. He rolls his suitcase inside, then shuts the door behind him and locks it. When he turns around and spots me, he freezes.

His lips thin.

His brow turns down.

And I immediately know I’m not welcome.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks.

Hands trembling, legs about to give out, I take a step forward and say, “I really need to talk to you.”

“About what?” he asks as he tosses his keys on the entryway table and walks over to the kitchen. That’s when I catch the black under his eye as well as the swelling. My heart aches, knowing I’m the reason he has that. I’m the reason he’s had such a rough few days. I’m the reason his team now has two losses.

“About the article,” I say.

“Nothing to talk about,” he replies as he grabs a beer from his fridge and pops it open. “You decided to take advantage of me to gain momentum in your career. Simple as that.”

He downs what seems like half of the can.

“I . . . I didn’t write that,” I say.

He lowers his can of beer and looks me in the eyes. “Do you really expect me to believe that? You wrote that fucking article. I read it before you turned it in. That was yours.”

“Yes, it was,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper from how tight my throat is. “But that part about you, it wasn’t written by me. I wouldn’t do that to you, Silas.”

“Wouldn’t you, though?” he asks. He takes another gulp of his beer and then sets it down on the counter. “You were desperate to make something of yourself, to impress Roberts, so what would stop you from using me? Seems like it’s worked out for you. The story is everywhere.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Silas. I wouldn’t do that to the man I love.”

“Love?” He scoffs with an ugly laugh. “You don’t fucking love me, and don’t even try to claim that you do,” he says while reaching into the fridge for another beer. “No one would ever write that about the person they love.”

“Silas, I didn’t write—”

“You fucked me, took what you wanted, and left me bleeding,” he says, his voice growing angrier. “Was it worth it?” He tips his beer back and chugs.

For the third time, I say, “I didn’t write that—”

“Don’t fucking bullshit me, Ollie,” he yells and slams his beer on the counter next to his empty can. “I don’t want to hear your excuses. Before you turned in your article, three fucking people knew about Sarah cheating on me.” He holds up three fingers. “Me, Sarah . . . and you.”

“Well, did you ask Sarah? Maybe she said something.”

“She came up to me, horrified because her life has drastically changed. She’s getting harassed, about to lose her job, and her name is being dragged through the mud. She wouldn’t have done that to herself.”

“And you believe her?”

He takes a step forward. “Why the fuck would she damage her image to make you look better to your boss?”

It’s a good point.

“You’re out of options, Ollie. You sure as hell know it wasn’t me who said anything. No one else knew, so tell me again how this is not your fault.”

I can’t.

I have no answers for him.

No reason as to why or how this happened. I’m just as confused as he is.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Silas.”

He shakes his head. “Get the fuck out of here. Leave your key on the table.”

“Silas, please. Just give me a second to figure this all out. I can talk to Roberts and see what happened.”

“What the fuck do you not understand when I say get out of here?” he asks, yelling. He flings his arm toward the door. “Leave. You’re dead to me, Ollie.”

“Silas . . . you don’t—”

“Leave!” he yells. “Now. Get the fuck out of my life.”

And with that, he walks toward his bedroom without looking back. And I know, that’s the last time I’m going to see him.

That’s the last time I’ll talk to him.

There’s no coming back from this.

A sad, heartbreaking reality I’ll have to face.

OLLIE: Five minutes and counting.

Ross: How do you feel?

Ollie: Nauseous.

Ross: You can do this.

Ollie: The only reason I’m doing this is so I have answers.

Ross: I know. You’ve got this, Ollie.

“Mr. Roberts will see you now.”

I tear my eyes off my phone and lightly smile at Roberts’s assistant as I stand up. “Thank you,” I say before pushing through Roberts’s glass doors and straight into his office, where I find him typing away on his computer.

“Miss Owens, is this about the email I sent you?” he asks, eyes still on the computer.

“No,” I say as I sit in one of the chairs across from his desk. “I was hoping to speak to you about the article.”

He moves his mouse around, clicks a few times, then finally gives me his attention. “What about it?” he asks. “It’s picked up a lot of traction. I’d think you would be happy to see your name everywhere.”

One would think.

“Well, there was a part in the article that I didn’t write, and I was wondering where it came from.”

“What part in particular?” he asks as he presses two fingers to his temple.

“The part where it talks about Silas and how his girlfriend cheated on him.”

“Ah, well some changes were made in the editing process. It probably was added then.”

“Added? That’s what everyone is talking about. How can you be so casual about it being added in there when I didn’t write it, but my name is on the article?”

He picks up a pen from his desk and tilts his head to the side, silently studying me. “Do you have a problem with the article, Miss Owens?”

Nerves flit through me as I slowly gulp. I don’t want to make him mad, but I also want to get to the bottom of this.

“I do.” It feels like my internal organs are shaking from his stern look. “You see, that information about Silas was private. It should never have been available to the public.”

“Private?” he says. “Funny, because my source heard you talking about it with your friend.”

“Talking about it? I never—” I pause, my mind flashing to my lunch with Ross, where I accidentally told him.

“I can tell from your expression you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“That was . . . that was accidental,” I say. “That wasn’t public information.”

“You should know anything said out loud is public information, Miss Owens. Or have you not learned that in your years studying to be a journalist?”

“But who . . . how . . .”

“It doesn’t matter,” Roberts says. “The information was brought to me, and I thought it was an integral element of our article that was missing. Frankly, it was boring up until that point.”

“But you can’t do that,” I say, growing angry. “You can’t just change my article like that.”

“Yes, I can. It’s in the contract you signed when you first joined the company. I can change anything you write. And I did.”

“But that messed up my relationship with Silas. You . . . you hurt us.”

“Are you looking for an apology?” he asks, a maniacal smile passing over his lips.

“I’m looking for some decency,” I say. “Good God, where’s your integrity? You’re talking about a man’s private life here, one that’s being dragged through the mud.”

“You’re talking about the same thing that happens to every professional athlete and celebrity out there. They’re in the limelight, and they know the consequences. They get paid a lot of money, so their private lives are fair game.”

“No, it’s not. They’re humans. You shouldn’t have the right to destroy someone based on the narrative you believe is correct in your head.”

“Are you telling me how to run my business? A college student, really, Miss Owens?” He tosses his pen on the table and then folds his hands together. “I suggest you stop and think about what you’re saying to me.”

“I know exactly what I’m going to say to you.” I stand from my chair and say, “You’re a pathetic man who has made millions bashing other people’s lives. You’re a sorry excuse for a human, and I truly hope that when it’s your time, karma comes back to bite you so hard in the ass your mustache falls right off.”

His jaw ticks, and he stands as well. “That was a mistake, Miss Owens.”

“What are you going to do? Fire me?” I ask. “I already quit. I will not subject myself to a man who deems it suitable to pry in other’s lives to fulfill some farsighted Napoleon complex you’re embodying.”

“You think this conversation will remain within these walls?” He shakes his head and then presses his finger into the desk in front of him. “I’ll make sure you never get a job within this industry. You can count on that.”

“If that’s what’s going to make you sleep better at night, then go ahead. I don’t give a fuck. You’re a tiny man with a fat ego. I feel sorry for you.”

“You won’t get credit for this internship. Insubordination.”

“Fine,” I say as I head toward his door. “Do whatever you want. You already took away the most important thing in my life. Feel free to take away the rest.” And then I fling his door open so hard that it clashes against the wall, startling his assistant right out of her chair. “Your boss is a lying motherfucker with a tiny dick. Have fun.”

And with that, I go straight down the elevator, through the bustling hallways, and straight to my desk, where I grab my purse and fill it up with my belongings, including the picture of Silas.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Candace asks as she pops up out of nowhere. “Can’t be the article that has you all in a tizzy.”

The tone in her voice feels slimy.

Too slimy.

Like . . . like she knows something.

Slowly, I turn around and say, “That article, you don’t happen to know who edited it, do you?”

“Who do you think edited it?” she asks with a smirk. “Every article went through me.”

My nostrils flare.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

And I clutch my bag as I take a step forward so we’re nearly nose to nose. “Did you put the cheating part in the article?” I ask through clenched teeth.

As if in slow motion, Candace’s expression morphs from smug to full-on demonic as the corners of her mouth lift like the Grinch. “Roberts practically begged me to liven it up, and since you were so indiscreet, spreading your boyfriend’s dirty laundry everywhere, I thought the information was up for grabs.”

“You overheard us. You were there in the cafeteria?”

“You should really learn to keep your voice down.”

The rage of a thousand men takes over my body, causing my blood to boil. How fucking dare she?

I should have known.

She was out to get me from the day I used her Post-it Note.

“You . . . bitch,” I mutter, causing her to smile even broader if possible.

White-hot anger blisters through me.

My fists clench at my side.

And before I can stop myself, I grab her head, and I slam my forehead against hers, headbutting her straight into the wall behind her.

I don’t even register the pain.

I don’t bother to say anything else to her.

Instead, I bump into her on my way down the hall, and while I pass her desk, I sweep my arm across her neatly organized pens and Post-it Notes and trash it all to the floor before reaching the elevator and pressing the down button.

I don’t realize the full extent of what I’ve done until I’m in my dorm, with ice on my forehead, and an email from my adviser that I’m going to have to repeat my internship, which will delay me from graduating.

Fucking . . . great.

The worst thing? The pain in my head and the pain from failing is no comparison to the pain in my heart from losing Silas.

TO: Ollie Owens

From: Professor Wheeler

Subject: Scheduled Meeting

Miss Owens,

Since you failed to show up to our meeting regarding your future here in the journalism department and you didn’t obtain credit for your summer internship, it’s with deepest regards that I’m recommending to the dean that you’re excused from the School of Journalism, effective after the semester is done.

You will maintain credit for the classes you’ve taken this semester, given you pass them, but unfortunately, we will no longer be able to offer you any more classes in the journalism department moving forward. I believe you are aware of the circumstances that brought you to this point. And since you were on a partial housing scholarship, I have the difficult job to tell you that you no longer will have access to those funds at the semester’s end.

If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me. I would advise that you sit down with a school-provided counselor to figure out what your next moves should be.

Sincerely,

Professor Wheeler

ROSS: Want me to come over?

Ollie: No. I just want to be alone.

Ross: I don’t like you being in your room all by yourself.

Ollie: I love you for caring, but I just want to sit here and cry alone.

Ross: Can I at least bring you something? Maybe find Candace and accidentally run a razor over her head, right down the middle perhaps? I have impeccable accuracy. I also know where Professor Wheeler’s office is. I can stick a dead fish in it somewhere.

Ollie: I’m not going to stop you if that’s what you choose to do.

Ross: I’ll keep a razor in my pocket at all times, then. The fish, well, that will have to be specifically planned. But seriously, anything I can bring you?

Ollie: No, I’m good. Thanks.

I set my phone down, then press my palms against my eyes and let out an ugly sob.

This is so unfair.

All of it.

The loss of the internship, the loss of credit even though I performed everything required. I even wrote an article that was within the scope given to me.

Yet I’m losing everything.

My job.

My dreams.

My housing.

My man . . .

I’m not going to negate the fact that I’m the one who slipped up. I’m the one who broke Silas’s trust. Even if it was accidental. That’s on me, but what Candace did? I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, how someone can be so maniacal.

How one mistake can have such an adverse effect on the outcome of my life and everything that was important to me.

Then again, that’s what Silas must think of me. That I took a piece of his life and sold it for gain. And he’s dealing with a shitstorm from the media. I know, because I’ve looked. Sarah too.

All because of Candace. There’s no doubt in my mind that she’s Roberts’s favorite right now, something I strived for throughout my internship, but now, now it feels like a baseless desire.

Why would you want to team up with a man like that? With someone who has absolutely no heart or awareness for the people around them? Someone who would derail a person’s future with zero regard for how adversely it will change their life.

I grab a tissue from my nightstand and blow my nose before wiping my eyes again.

At least I felt like I made the right decision by choosing to leave.

And headbutting Candace. I hope she has a concussion. I can still hear the sound it made when our heads collided.

Sure, it cost me my graduation and reputation, but I walked away knowing I did the right thing.

As for what I’m going to do now? I have no freaking clue. Roberts not only got me kicked out of the School of Journalism, but he’ll prevent me from obtaining any internship or job here in Vancouver, which means, I have to go back home.

The thought of walking back there with my tail tucked between my legs only to see my dad’s “I told you so” face creates a whole new level of nausea. Something I can’t think about right now, even though I probably should since my time here is quickly dwindling.

Sighing, I slowly climb out of bed and fill up my water glass. That’s when I see the box of things I collected while dating Silas and all the little items I saved to put in a scrapbook.

Maybe because I love self-inflicting pain apparently, or maybe because I miss him more than anything, I pick up the box and carry it to my bed. I set my water on my nightstand, then flip open the box. I swipe away my tears, making way for fresh ones, and pick up the first thing at the very top. The picture frame I brought into work of him. I never changed the picture out of pure spite. Nope, I made everyone stare at his abs.

I set the picture down and then pick up another one. It’s a selfie of the two of us. He’s kissing my cheek, and I’m smiling. I choke down a sob as I stare at how incredibly happy I was. How happy he was.

I set that down and grab the map we used at the zoo. It’s folded in half from where Silas stuffed it in the back pocket of his jeans. I remember watching him do that and thinking it was an odd thing to think was hot. But I did. I thought it was so hot, and I had to check myself because we were still friends.

Another picture of us, this one is of me sleeping on his bare chest.

The labels to the yogurts we shared together.

Napkins from the bar.

Another picture of us from one of the events we went to together. I found it online and printed it out.

Agitators paraphernalia.

A business card from . . .

I stare down at the business card, remembering when I got this. We were at the sponsor event for Silas, and I was trying to break him by fondling him all night. But there was a break in my pursuit to drive him crazy. That was when we spoke to JP Cane and Ryot Bisley . . . the owner of The Jock Report.

JP handed me his card in case I could help him with his charities.

I rub my lips together and once again swipe at my eyes as an idea forms in my head.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and text Ross.

Ollie: I think I have an idea.

He must be on Ollie watch because he texts back right away.

Ross: Uh, an idea for what?

Ollie: It’s kind of crazy, but I think it might be the solution I need.

Ross: Are we talking about stalking Silas? Creating a PowerPoint on how you didn’t fuck up but sort of did in a small way? I really think we need to just let him be for now.

Ollie: Not about Silas, he has asked me to leave his life, and I’m going to respect that.

Ross: Okay, then a solution for what?

Ollie: Leaving school.

“I’M ACTUALLY SWEATING for you right now, and you know how much I despise perspiring,” Ross says into the phone.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Ross asks.

“No, but what else am I going to do? Go back to Oregon? That is the last-case scenario.”

“I know, but The Jock Report? They just ran an article about your article and how the media manipulates stories for views.”

Yeah, that didn’t bode well for me. After I told Ross my plan, we pooled together our money and bought the cheapest airplane ticket we could find to Los Angeles and then put the hotel on my credit card. I’m here for twenty-four hours with a mission to talk to JP Cane without an appointment. And with a big black mark on my name.

“It won’t be easy,” I say. “But I need to at least try. I’m all out of options.”

“Okay, but call me as soon as you’re done.”

“I will.”

“Good luck. Love you.”

“Love you too,” I say before hanging up the phone and sticking it in my purse. Dressed in a deep purple pantsuit and a white blouse, I clutch the strap of my purse and walk through the doors of Cane Enterprises. I know Ryot Bisley is one of the owners of The Jock Report, and JP is an investor, but since he’s the one I made a connection with, he’s the one I’ll try talking to first.

When I reach the front desk, I casually say, “Hello, I have a meeting with JP Cane.”

I don’t.

The assistant looks up at me and says, “ID?”

I smile and dig into my purse for my ID. When I hand it to her, I’m almost worried she’s going to run some quick background check, but instead, she scans it and then prints out a visitors pass for me that I stick on my shirt.

“Through security, top floor.”

I smile and say, “Thank you.”

I work my way through security, get searched, and then head to his office. The building is beautiful. Full of live plants and modern lines, I could see why working for Cane Enterprises would be relaxing even though the demand for success is high.

When I reach the floor I’m supposed to be on, there’s another receptionist, so I stop at her desk. “Can I help you?” she asks.

“Yes, I, uh, I don’t have a meeting, but I would like to see if JP Cane has any availability today.”

Without even checking, the woman shakes her head. “I’m sorry, he has no time in his schedule.”

Exactly what I thought was going to happen.

“I understand,” I say. “I actually met Mr. Cane up in Vancouver at a sponsor event, and he gave me his card.” I flash the card at her. “He said to contact him. Well, I’m here in Los Angeles for the day and really need to talk to him.”

“And as I said, he doesn’t have any time in his schedule.”

“What if . . . what if I just wait around, see if something opens up?”

“You are more than welcome to see if that happens, but I can’t guarantee you anything.”

“I understand, and I appreciate the chance.” I glance behind me at two leather armchairs. “Would it be okay if I sat there?”

“That would be fine,” the receptionist says.

“Thank you.” I smile kindly. “I’m Ollie, by the way. Ollie Owens.”

“Ollie, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Terri.”

“Terri, thank you for letting me crash in your waiting area for the day.”

I walk over to one of the chairs, and just as I take a seat, the elevator doors part, and three extremely attractive men step into the lobby.

Huxley.

JP.

And Breaker.

I know what they look like and what they do for the company, thanks to careful research. I’ve even researched their personal lives and noted that they’re all married.

Each with a cup of coffee in hand, they greet Terri, and as they’re walking by, JP glances over at me and pauses for a moment. Faded recognition crosses over his face as he points his finger at me. “How do I know you?”

“The sponsor event in Vancouver. Ollie Owens,” I say. “I was with Silas Taters.”

“That’s right,” he says. “Ollie Owens?”

“Yes,” I say.

“She’s hoping to slip in to see you today,” Terri says. “I told her your schedule is full, but she’s willing to wait to see if there’s an opening.”

He slowly nods, keeping his eyes on me. He lifts his cup to his lips and takes a sip. “Well, looks like you’re going to have to wait.” And with that, he takes off.

Dammit, and for a second, I thought he’d meet with me quickly.

Looks like I’m here for the long haul.

I take out my phone and send a quick text to Ross.

Ollie: Schedule full. Waiting in the reception area to see if there’s an opening. JP saw me, recognized me, and made me repeat my name. I think he knows I’m the one who wrote the article. Do you think this is a lost cause?

Ross: I was afraid of that. They’re very passionate about The Jock Report, and your article goes against everything they believe in.

Ollie: I get it. Do you think I should leave?

Ross: What do you think?

Ollie: I could admit defeat. Or I could hang in here and hope he gives me a chance.

Ross: I’m guessing you’re going to wait.

Ollie: I don’t think leaving is an option.

OLLIE: Two hours and counting and nothing. Not even a peep.

Ross: What have you been doing?

Ollie: Writing in my notepad about how much I miss Silas.

Ross: That has got to be the saddest two hours ever.

Ollie: I cried at one point and realized I needed to stop.

Ross: The receptionist is going to judge you.

Ollie: Trust me, I think she already has.

OLLIE: Just saw JP leave for lunch with his wife. I almost cried just from the sight of them holding hands. I miss Silas.

Ross: Pull it together, woman.

Ollie: I know. It was a weak moment.

OLLIE: I want to stand and stretch so bad. I’ve been sitting in this chair for six hours. I need mobility.

Ross: Don’t stretch. Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself.

Ollie: So don’t perform jumping jacks?

Ross: Jesus, no.

Ollie: This is torture.

Ross: Hang in there.

OLLIE: Everyone is leaving the office. It’s past five. What do I do?

Ross: Has JP left?

Ollie: No. Seems like everyone else has filtered out.

Ross: Well, stay put until told otherwise.

Ollie: I feel so pathetic. It’s clear he knows who I am from the article, and the last thing he wants to do is talk to me.

“Miss Owens?” Terri says. I look up to see her standing next to her desk, her purse strapped on her shoulder.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. It’s time for me to go home, and I can’t let you be here by yourself.”

“Oh . . . yeah, I understand that,” I say, feeling heartbroken.

I stand from my trusty chair and pick up my purse.

“I’m sorry, Miss Owens.”

“No need to apologize,” I say. “I get it.”

Terri gestures her arm to the elevator, and I follow suit. Terri has been nice all day. She even offered to grab me something for lunch. Who does that? Offers a complete stranger lunch? I declined, not wanting to put her out, but even though this has been a shitty day of waiting in a chair, at least someone was nice to me, a person who probably doesn’t deserve it.

Terri presses the elevator button, and as the elevator dings, I hear, “Ollie, come back here, please.”

I look over my shoulder to catch JP standing in the hallway, hands on his hips.

Oh dear God.

A wave of nerves streams through my veins, and I think about turning around and bolting for a moment. But this is it, my one chance. So with my chin held high, I thank Terri, and then head back to his office. He props his office door open, and I follow him in.

A corner office, of course. It’s full of rich tones but isn’t pretentious like Roberts’s office. And instead of sitting behind his desk, which is intentionally intimidating, he sits in one of the armchairs in the sitting area of his office.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from him.

I sit up straight, trying not to look defeated or exhausted from the day, battling my nerves up until this point.

“I’m interested to know why you waited all day to talk to me,” he starts. “Last I remember, you were dating Silas Taters, but from the article you wrote about him, I’m assuming that’s no longer a topic of conversation.”

Yup, I knew he read the article.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I would love to have a conversation with you where I speak openly and honestly about my situation.”

“Please, so would I,” he says, crossing his ankle over his knee and leaning back in his chair. “Tell me why you’re here.”

“For a job,” I say, which causes his eyes to slightly widen before he lightly chuckles.

“Okay, you’re here for a job. Tell me why you think you would be a good fit for Cane Enterprises.”

Here goes nothing.

“This past summer, I was an intern with Alan Roberts, as you know, headed into my last year of college. For my end-of-internship assignment, where I would get credit for all my work, I was assigned hockey as my general topic.”

“Ah, so the article was your end-of-the-year topic?”

I nod. “I also met Silas at the end of summer. I had no idea who he was, but we became friends quickly, and from there, the relationship grew. When Alan Roberts found out I was dating Silas, he asked me to look into the Agitators organization and to write a ‘gotcha piece’ exposing the dark secrets of the organization.”

“While you were dating Silas?” JP asks as he props his chin up on his hand.

“Yes, I told Roberts that was a conflict of interest, and I wasn’t comfortable doing it. He persisted. I chose not to go in that direction but rather provide a lifestyle piece on what it’s like to be a professional hockey player. It was the best I could do, given my background is in lifestyle and that I know nothing about hockey. I gave the article to Silas so he could read it over to make sure he was good with everything in it.”

“He was?” JP asks, surprised.

“Yes, so I turned it in. Little did I know, Roberts had asked a girl at the company to run edits on it. She offered up the information about Silas being cheated on, and they stuck it in the article without my consent.” I take a deep breath. “From there, everything has fallen apart. Silas, rightfully, has ended all communication with me. When I found out what Roberts did, I quit on the spot, not wanting to work for a company that would do such a thing to someone. I, uh . . . I headbutted the girl who added the cheating part and left.” JP smirks. “I lost credit for the internship. Roberts and the head of the journalism department are close, and he told her about it. I was cut from the school for not earning credits for my internship, and I’ve lost my housing scholarship because I’m no longer in the School of Journalism. Instead of graduating this coming summer, I have to start over.” I take another deep breath. “That’s why I’m here, because I’ve not only researched Cane Enterprises and everything it represents, but I’ve also researched The Jock Report, and after going through the hell I’ve been through the past week, I know, deep in my soul, I want nothing more than to help lift the voices of those who deserve it. I know you’re not in charge of making decisions for The Jock Report, but I am hoping this conversation might be a foot in the door.”

I end there and wet my lips, so freaking nervous as he sits there and studies me.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“It’s a great question, and frankly, I don’t have any way of proving to you that Roberts made the switch other than forwarding you the email I sent Roberts with the original article.” I pause and take a deep breath. “This summer, I fell in love with the most incredible man I’ve ever met. I had no idea men like him—noble, honest, funny, selfless, and respectful—existed. I’m absolutely gutted that this happened to him. I’m trustworthy, I’m a hard worker, and if that means putting me on probation or—”

“What’s Roberts’s number?”

“Huh?” I ask.

JP pulls out his phone. “Give me Roberts’s number. I’m going to call him.”

“Oh, uh . . . okay. But, he, uh, he won’t say nice things about me.”

“I’m not looking for nice things. I’m looking for the truth.” I hand him my phone with Roberts’s number on display, and as he dials, he asks, “What’s the name of the person who edited your article?”

“Candace,” I say as my palms start to sweat.

JP nods and then puts the phone on speaker. It rings a few times and then, “This is Roberts.”

“Alan Roberts?” JP asks.

“Yes, who is this?”

“Sorry for the cold call, this is JP Cane from Cane Enterprises.”

Roberts’s voice loosens up as he says, “Oh, JP, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Just hearing his gruff voice makes me want to stick my hand through the phone and pull his mustache off.

“I was approached by a former employee of yours, looking for a job. An Ollie Owens?”

“Really?” Roberts says. “That’s bold of her.”

No, it’s not, you moron. What am I going to do, just sit in a corner and not work at all?

“Yes, well, she told me this story about how she wrote an article, but you changed it in the editing process. It was a real woe is me sob story.” JP keeps his eyes down while he speaks to Roberts, not allowing me to see his facial expressions. “I’m not interested in her, but I am interested in hearing about the girl, Candace, who changed the article. She clearly knows how to grab readers’ attention.”

“Ah, so she told you about Candace adding that piece?” Bingo! Thank you, Roberts. “Candace is the kind of employee anyone would be lucky to have. She takes action, but unfortunately, she’ll be offered a job here at the end of the school year. Can’t let you poach her from me.”

JP chuckles. “Dammit, I thought you were going to say that. Well, keep me in mind if someone like Candace comes up. I’m looking for someone who could help grow the business.”

“Of course.”

They exchange a few more pleasantries, and then JP hangs up. He fiddles on his phone, then leans back in his chair.

When his eyes connect with mine, he says, “You were fucked over.”

It must be the validation of what happened because I can’t stop myself as I start to cry and nod. “I was. And I lost everything, even Silas. And granted, part of it was my fault. I . . . I let it slip to my friend Ross what happened to Silas, and Candace was apparently eavesdropping. That’s how she knew.” I shake my head. “That little slip-up made me lose the best thing that ever happened to me . . . Silas.”

JP studies me for a few more beats. “How are your editing skills?”

“I took multiple classes, and I was actually certified this summer.”

He nods and then places his hands on the armrests and lifts from his chair. Confused, I do the same. “Well, I can’t promise anything, but I’ll put in a word for you with The Jock Report.”

“Oh, thank you. That means a lot.”

He nods. “I’m sorry you lost Silas. I know what it feels like to love and to lose. The worst pain a person can experience.” He grabs a pad of paper from his desk. “Write down your contact info here, and I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you,” I say as I take the pen from him and write down my name, number, and email address. I’m almost tempted to toss in Ross’s number too in case he can’t get ahold of me, but I think better of it.

“I’ll walk you out,” JP says, guiding me toward the elevator.

“Thank you,” I say again. And for the first time since I read the article, I feel a sliver of hope that maybe something will go right for me. I’ve lost Silas for good, I know that. And even though I thought living in Canada was my future, it might be LA where I end up. That’s better than going home and seeing the disappointment in my father’s eyes.

“IT’S BEEN A WEEK,” I say as I sit on Ross’s bed while he streams the game. “I was sure I’d hear something from him by the end of last week. But nothing.”

“He helps run a billion-dollar enter—get the puck!” he yells. “Yes, go, fucking go.” My eyes fall to the computer on Ross’s lap, and I catch sight of Silas screaming across the ice, his hockey stick out in front of him, sprinting toward the puck. He collides into the boards, but somehow kicks the puck with his skate toward Rivers. Rivers brings it around the goalie’s net and passes it to Holmes, and within a blink of an eye, Holmes shoots the puck in the goal, scoring. “Yesssss!” Ross screams while pumping his fist.

I sink down into his bed, unable to watch. Especially a celebration. It’s too painful to see Silas’s handsome face. It’s been a few weeks since we’ve talked, and all I can wonder about is if he’s moved on. If he’s been with someone else. If he’s . . . if he’s gone back to Sarah. The thought makes me so ripe with nausea that I have to take deep breaths.

“Sorry,” Ross says. “I was saying that he has a big company to run, it’s probably going to take him a second. I’m sure you’re not the first thing on his list.”

“Probably not,” I say as I curl into his pillow. “How does he look?”

“Silas?” Ross asks.

“Yeah.”

“You really want to know?”

No.

But I can’t help myself.

“Yes, I do.”

“He looks good,” Ross says. “Thicker scruff, but he looks good, clear eyes.”

I swallow down my emotions. “Good,” I answer just as my phone rings. I sit up and stare at the Los Angeles number. “Oh my God, Ross. I think it’s JP.”

“Really?” he asks as he turns down the volume on his computer. “Answer it.”

I push my hair behind my shoulders, straighten up, and then lift the phone to my ear while accepting the call. “Hello?” I ask.

“Ollie, this is JP Cane.”

“Oh, hi, JP,” I say, my nerves just about to fray every last inch of me. “How are you?”

“Good,” he answers. “I had a moment to speak with Ryot, Banner, and Penn, and they all agreed with the popularity of the app, they need to take on another editor. I gave them your name and qualifications, and they’re ready to make an offer.” Tears well up in my eyes.

“Oh my gosh, that’s . . . that’s amazing,” I say.

“I can send you all the details in a moment as well as connect you with the guys so you can introduce yourself.”

“Wow, that would be fantastic. Thank you so much.”

“Of course. And hey, I hope that broken heart heals soon.”

A tear floats down my cheek. “Me too. Thank you, JP.”

“Don’t let me down.”

“I won’t. I promise. Thank you.”

I hang up and drop my phone to my lap as I press my hands to my eyes and cry.

Ross scoops me up into a hug. “You got it, didn’t you?”

I nod against his shoulder. “I did.” When I pull away, I say, “Looks like I’m moving to Los Angeles.”

Ross’s face falls flat, and his grip loosens. “Wait, you’re moving?”

“Yes, the company is in LA.”

“Yeah, but I thought.” He grips his hair. “I thought you’d work remotely.”

I shake my head. “I can’t stay here, Ross. Firstly, I’m no longer a student and my study permit visa will be terminated.” The joy of being an international student. You only have three months to leave after your studies have finished, or by the date on your study permit, whichever comes first.

Although, of course, it’s more than that. “But also, Silas is plastered everywhere, and when it’s not his face, it’s the Agitators logo. Even if I could stay, it’s just too painful. I have to think of it as another opportunity for a fresh start.”

“Well . . . fuck,” he says softly. “I wasn’t expecting that. I mean, yeah, of course. You’re no longer a student, but fuck.”

“I hate that I’m leaving you though, Ross.” I hate that I’m leaving without a degree . . . and a broken heart. But it’s life.

“Going to miss you, girl.”

“Going to miss you right back.”