“No! Also, why would you? Gabriel Fortunato—who I’m Googling right now—just fell into your lap. You take that …” Her voice fades as images load on her phone.
“Katie?” I lean across the top of the desk to see what she’s looking at. Link after link of headlines like “Hot Mess Soccer Star” and “Chicago Fire Star Comes Under Fire … Again” fill her screen.
She looks up at me and scrunches her nose. “At least he’s nice to look at.”
KATIE GIVES ME A THIRTY-SECOND CRASH COURSE ON HOW TO ACCEPT and transfer calls and shows me how to log in to Patty’s computer so I can get my interoffice email before she goes back to collating copies for William. Chaos ensues. Phones are ringing. The elevator is pinging. And I have sweat dripping down to my elbows.
Okay, not literal sweat. But it feels like I should be sweating. I disconnect the first two people I try to transfer—I know because they call back and yell at me—and maybe a third one, before I finally get the hang of things. Then, the phones stop but the computer dings. There’s an email from my aunt that says simply, “Please review” and has an attached file titled “Gabriel Fortunato—PRIVATE.”
Besides managing the front desk, I’ve got one little project to finish for William before I can dig into Gabriel Fortunato’s dirt. And I’m actually grateful. Something about the file makes me feel like Aunt Em handed me the key to Gabe’s house and told me to rifle through his underwear drawer. When I’m searching through tabloids for other athletes, it’s like a history project. I wouldn’t worry about the filthy secrets I’d discover about Babe Ruth or Pelé because they aren’t anyone I’d meet in real life. They’re figures, not people.
Gabe is different. He’s a boy I spent a weekend daydreaming about, which is ridiculous now that I know who he is. But even so, he was so nice to me at the beach both after I crashed and when he returned my phone. He played with Watford. He had a conversation, albeit an uncomfortable one, with my mother. And even after the Wednesday panties comment, he did sort of apologize. I want to hang on to those few shining moments of humanity before I let the tabloids throw shadows.
I take my time collating the presentation William prepared for a ticket-pricing study, hole punch each of the copies, and put them into folders I find in the copy room.
William’s office door is shut, but as I raise my fist to knock, it flies open. Mara brushes past me without even making eye contact. Her steps are a little louder than they should be against the carpeted floor.
Still unhappy.
I tap on the door frame before poking my head into William’s office. “Hey,” I say when he looks up. “Is Mara okay?”
“Yeah. She’s fine. Those my copies?” He changes the subject smoothly.
“Yeah. They looked important, so I thought I’d dress them up a bit.”
He turns back the cover and flips through the pages. “Nice. I like your attention to detail.”
Was that a compliment? Before long he’ll call me by my real name. I mentally do a little happy dance. “Thanks—”
“Which is good since I hear you’ll be working on the Fortunato account?” His pitch lilts up at the end of the sentence, turning it into a question.
“Yeah. It was a surprise to me too.”
“Hmm.” He nods a few times, the wheels turning behind his eyes. “Emma’s running point, but with her other clients she doesn’t have time to helicopter you on this. Everything you intend to post will need my approval before it goes live.”
Oh. I sort of thought that I’d be handling the social media on my own. Which is ridiculous because I’m just an intern. Interns don’t handle accounts; they make copies and do grunt work.
“Put Emma’s plan into play, and don’t deviate from the script unless there’s a way to upgrade her suggestions. Which you should definitely want to do.” He gives me a significant nod.
I envision a little kitten pouncing on a ball of yarn. No! my imagination shouts. You are a lioness. POUNCE!
“In the end, I’m still responsible for making sure that everything is disseminated, filtered, proofread, and on-brand.”
Did he just use the word disseminated in a sentence? And actually mean it? “Of course. And Emma wants Gabe to have more involvement in what is posted on his accounts, so I’d planned to get his input.” Which is a lie. I hadn’t planned anything, but I’m planning it now because I’m a lioness.
William waves off that idea. “I know guys like him. He’ll do what we want as long as it doesn’t require too much effort on his part. Don’t expect Gabe to come up with anything helpful.” William moves the stack of folders to the corner of his desk, and I get the sense that this conversation is over. Not that I said much.
Feeling like an ignored house cat, I stand, preempting my dismissal. “Is there anything you want me to work on right now?”
“You can look through other players’ Instagram feeds to get an idea of what types of things we should post on Gabe’s accounts. Emma asked me to be on-site with you tomorrow to help get footage.”
“Are we meeting here first?”
He hesitates before answering, and I almost think he’s going to tell me not to bother showing up at all. “Be at the stadium by nine a.m. Go straight there. No point commuting twice. How much experience do you have editing video?”
Besides adding hashtags and text? None. “A little.”
“I can ask Mara or Arman to help you with Final Cut—”
“No!” I say too loudly, then soften it with a smile. “Thank you, but I can handle it on my own. I’m pretty good at figuring out these sorts of things.”
I have no idea what I’m talking about. I don’t even know what these things are, but I have to impress William. He’s the intern manager. He’s going to write my letter of recommendation.
“Emma sent me some info. I’ll go catch up on everything Fortunato-related and look at the editing program.” I’m assuming it’s a program. Or an app? Either way, William doesn’t stop me as I back out of his office. “See you later. Thanks. Bye.”
My ridiculous exit is the least of my worries. What have I gotten myself into?
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Full name: Gabriel Dominic Fortunato
Age: 19
Place of birth: Sanremo, Liguria, Imperia, Italy
Height: 1.89 m (6 feet 2 inches)
Weight: 77.1 kg (170 lb)
Playing position: Forward
Current team: Chicago Fire Soccer Club
Number: 7
THE FIRST PAGE OF GABRIEL’S INFORMATION SHEET READS LIKE a Wikipedia page, including all his career highlights, trophies won, goals scored. It looks like he started to make a name for himself when he was fifteen, which was right around the time I quit watching soccer permanently. That makes me feel a little better about having no clue of his identity.
I skip over his ridiculous list of awards, international appearances, and style of play, and stop after the “Personal Life” section, totally disappointed.
I’ve attended—or stolen snacks from—enough of my mom’s romance writers’ group meetings to know the importance of a good backstory. That tattooed, motorcycle-riding, brooding alpha male secretly has a heart of gold. He rescues puppies or has military scars or a family death he can’t forgive himself for. I was hoping I’d find something in Gabe’s past that made him redeemable—not that I’m wishing someone murdered his imaginary brother—but it’s just not there.