No diseases overcome, no financial hardships, no broken family. It looks like the only excuse for his behavior is privilege, money, and overindulgent parents. From the photograph pasted into the file, his family is the picture of perfect. His dad owns a successful ship-building business and his mom comes from a floriculture dynasty. Which is apparently a thing? There’s even a pixelated photo of a much younger Gabe standing with his mom, dad, and a sister in front of a gorgeous field of cultured flowers with an ancient-looking mansion in the background.
When sifting through his past doesn’t yield any positive results, I move forward. Onto controversies. Yikes. Red cards. Flagrant fouls. Game suspensions. Words and phrases like hothead, out of control, fiery temper are listed in bold, and that’s all before the car wreck. Some people believed he was drunk, others said it was a suicide attempt. For the last four months or so, he’s been pretty clean except for reports of the occasional partying and carousing, right up until the fight at the club this weekend.
Wait … he chartered the plane himself? I guess it’s possible. Thanks to the detailed analysis of his life, I also know exactly how much he made in La Liga. With 150,000 euros per week, he could probably buy his own plane.
After the official report ends, the magazine clippings begin. He’s with a different woman in every picture, appearing at red carpet events, parties, film festivals. One article in an Italian tabloid, which has a helpful English translation in the comments, claims he leaves heartbreak everywhere he goes.
I’m not sure how much damage a guy can do when he’s a serial dater, but I’ll give the journalist this: Gabriel Fortunato is devastating in a tuxedo. Some people were made for formal wear.
Not really something I can use, as the fans we’re trying to target aren’t the gala-attending crowd.
I spend the entire day at the front desk, skimming articles about Gabe and poking through his accounts. His Instagram posts are all action shots taken by professional photographers. There’s nothing personal, very little text, and no responses to any comments. Given the other photos I’ve found online, I expected shirtless selfies, questionable parties, and lots of dudebros. His Twitter feed—what little there is—is mostly retweets of other players’ messages and an occasional “Good game.”
At five p.m., everyone starts to filter out of the office, telling me goodbye as they walk through the lobby. Mara, Javi, Arman, and Katie all leave together, but only Arman and Katie say good night. Mara and Javi are deep in a whispered conversation, so I tell myself they aren’t actively ignoring me. And I believe it until they get in the elevator and Javi’s gaze lingers on me. I wave goodbye, but he rolls his eyes and leans closer to say something in Mara’s ear. Her jaw is set hard enough that I can see a muscle twitching.
I try not to let myself feel bad about it. I pounced when an opportunity presented itself. Mara would have done the same thing if the situations had been reversed.
A half hour later, Em sends me a text telling me not to wait for her. She’s got lots of work to catch up on and is meeting a friend later for drinks. I walk out of the building alone, but as I turn right on Michigan Avenue the sun breaks between the buildings. And with it, I think, this is finally it—I’ve turned a corner in my life, I’ve been handed an opportunity, and I’m going to use it to make everything better.
I STAY UP LATE WATCHING YOUTUBE TUTORIALS ON HOW TO USE THE video editing software. It takes hours, but by one in the morning, I can cut video, lay in audio and text, and add music. I’m not a pro by any means, but I won’t look like a total idiot when I try to edit the footage tomorrow.
Emma wasn’t home by the time I climbed in bed with Watford curled into my knees, but she must have come in sometime, because the next morning, I find a fresh grapefruit on the kitchen counter and a sticky tab that says to meet her at the field at 8:30 a.m.—a half hour earlier than when William told me to be there. As I take a thirty-second shower, I wonder if he told me the wrong time.
That’s got to be it. He wouldn’t sabotage me intentionally.
I throw my hair into a bun that won’t stay on the right side of messy, drag Watford out to the park to take the slowest dump possible, and speed walk to the closest bus stop so I can get on the first train out to Soldier Field. There’s a line to climb on, and I’m mentally coaching the man in front of me to shuffle a little faster when my phone rings.
“Have you gotten on the bus yet?” Emma doesn’t wait for an answer, powering on in a verbal rush that matches the physical rush of my morning. “If not, don’t. Gabriel isn’t answering his phone, and Scott thinks that means he’s still asleep. Apparently, he’s a very deep sleeper, so I need you to swing by his apartment and make sure he’s on his way.”
“Go to Gabe’s apartment?”
“It’ll take too long for one of us to come back from the stadium, but since you’re close you can get him out here faster.”
“Yeah. Of course.” While I’m happy to do something that is actually helpful, the idea of going to Gabe’s apartment isn’t super appealing. What if I wake him up and he answers the door in his underwear?
Okay, that’s a little appealing. And sort of a nice payback.
“I’ll send a car to pick you up. See you in an hour.”
And that’s how I find myself standing outside Gabriel Fortunato’s apartment door. I smooth my dress—a blue-and-white pin-striped A-line with a boat neck collar and cinched-in waist—over my hips, mostly to wipe my clammy hands.
I start with a soft tap-tap-tap, wait for a short eternity, and tap-tap-tap again. There’s no answer. I check my phone, praying there’s a text message from Em saying, “Just kidding, he’s here. Come back!” No such luck.
I knock again, a little harder this time, and the door opens a tiny crack.
A squinting eye peers at me from below the chain. “Yes?” a feminine voice whisper-growls.
My eyes flick to the number on the door. Yep, right place. I’d mentally prepared to find Gabe in his underwear, but this is so much worse. Who is this girl? Is this his significant other? Hookup? There was nothing in his file about a girlfriend.
“Um, hi. I’m Maddie. From Velocity Marketing?” I fumble for my ID badge and hold it toward the crack in the door like a cop in a rerun of Law & Order. “I’m here to pick Gabe up for some social media videos we’re working on today? About him?” Obviously. I give a nervous-sounding laugh. “Anyway, umm, is he here?”
She huffs an angry breath. “Yes.” She fumbles with the chain for a second, then flings the door open. She’s wearing a Fortunato jersey, and probably nothing else. I don’t recognize her face from any of the tabloids, but even sleep-mussed and grouchy, she’s beautiful.
“Come in,” she says.
As she retreats, I get my first clue at her identity. Her legs are long and shapely, just like the girl in the silver dress from the bar fight.
I step into the dark entryway, half-closing the door behind me. Curtains block out some of the light from the huge windows, but I can still see a bit of Navy Pier and the lake beyond it. To my right, there’s a good-size kitchen with four barstools tucked under a white-and-silver-speckled granite countertop. A grand piano fills the space where a kitchen table should be, and a leather couch forms a barrier to the rest of the living space. Blanket-covered feet hang over the armrest.