I wasn't about to let the opponent see my anticipation for their team to lose. Granted, yes, this was supposed to be a collaboration for the photoshoot—but we all knew the slimy, greasy ways Nylon Skins operated. Their writer was lurking somewhere on these grounds, just waiting to feed the tabloids a story.
So when Marcie dove for the volleyball after that giant of a man smashed it like no one could possibly return it—I couldn't help but applaud.
"Looks like someone has a crush," Grant whispered, smirk plastered across his face behind those ridiculous little sunglasses.
"Can I not applaud my team?"
"You're only applauding for her."
"Whatever," I muttered, stepping deeper into the shade of the tree.
Across the field, the owner of Nylon Skins leaned toward his cronies, pointing not-so-discreetly at my players preparing for the next volley. Their fat mouths kept laughing at something they'd seen on my side. What the hell was so funny? I narrowed in, trying to read their body language—only for some hairy caveman in bland blue sports gear to wander right across my line of vision and start talking to Marcie through the net.
What does he think he's doing . . . crossing lines like that? Is he harassing my player?
"Ennio, chill out. Can they not ta—"
"Stop talking to the opponent!" I shouted.
And then, immediately, I looked the other way.
"She's staring at you," Grant murmured. "Yep. Doesn't look too happy with you ruining her potential new date. He kinda looks like the normal guy she's been searching for."
"Phh. There's nothing normal about that face. He looks like a stand-in for what humans used to look like in the Stone Age."
I turned back toward Nylon—only to snap my head around at a female scream.
"It's Cherry!" Grant exclaimed. "Oh no! I think she's really hurt."
We started forward, but my players reached her first. Moments later, she was carried off by one of my designers.
"Guess it's a tie. One-one."
Grant and I settled on a nearby bench to wait for the photographers' next instructions. I turned my back for one second and—of course—
"Aw, look at them. Young love."
"Shut up, Grant," I barked, watching that goat of a photographer direct Marcie and the caveman into some ridiculous pose.
The Nylon executives approached. The big man himself, Mr. Murphy—with his dyed black beard and bald head—stepped forward.
"Good morning! My apologies for your redhead over there."
"Her name is Cherry Stanz, and she's my lead designer."
"Well, again—my apologies. I also heard your secretary was leaving."
My nose wrinkled as I caught Grant sit up straighter beside me.
"Leaving? How do you know she's—"
"Heard she applied for Style Sphere. But at least she'll be in good company with your brother," Murphy said, winking as he strolled off, laughter rumbling behind him.
Just like that, they were gone. Messy as usual. He knew my history with Style Sphere—specifically, the events no one else knew about, not even my secretary. That fat man with the dye job was a scummy ex–family friend. The only reason he owned Nylon was because of the designs he stole from my mother in her prime. She swore he hadn't—despite the evidence I showed her. But she had always been like that, refusing to see the worst in people. My mom is the only reason why we're still doing these stupid collaborations and it feels like a true kick of dirt to my face.
I wanted Murphy to turn back and catch me glaring daggers at him.
"Stop staring, Ennio. Cameras everywhere," Grant muttered, slouching again.
I leaned back on the bench but glanced left. Marcie and Caveman were now posing with their shoes touching like a high-five, leaning back on their hands—and laughing.
"Maybe the photographer will let you join in."
"For the last time, shut up," I said, turning away toward the rest of my team enjoying their shoots.
Then a scream interrupted the air. My head snapped back around just in time to see Caveman sprawled on top of Marcie.
"That's harassment," I yelled out to Grant.
"They fell. I saw the whole thing. Why don't you—"
Grant's words were cut off because I was already on my feet, striding toward Goatee, Caveman, and my secretary—who, apparently, thought it was all hilarious.
"Enjoying the photoshoot?" I asked as Caveman scrambled up.
"Sorry, my balance is really bad," he said, eyes locked on Marcie as she rose, still smiling.
"No, it's fine. I'm pretty sure my weight pulled you down."
"Why don't we try running together, hands held—symbolizing the collaboration between the two companies," Goatee suggested.
"Like full-on running or jogging, or—" Marcie started, trying to pose mid-sentence.
"Something like this to showcase the shoes," Goatee said, jogging off with exaggerated form.
"Why don't we take a break," I tried to add. But no one looked at me. They were all fixed on Goatee as if I hadn't spoken at all.
Then the two of them jogged off, leaving me standing alone. I turned just enough to catch Grant's stupid smirk.
Whatever.
Why did it feel like I was losing some kind of game? There wasn't supposed to be a competition. But here I was, caught between sitting back down with Grant (which felt like defeat) or chasing after the group (which, somehow, felt embarrassing).
I didn't like it. I didn't like any of these feelings. Whatever they were.
I'd need to talk to Marcie later about her—flirtatious actions toward a Nylon member. Extremely inappropriate. And more importantly, her application with Style Sphere.