I'd nearly forgotten I was holding coffee, so I tried to cover it up with a smart response, "Unless you’ve given up drinking black coffee and stress-eating sugar bombs."
One corner of his mouth lifted. Just barely.
He stepped aside, and I walked in.
For a second, we both stood there in the doorway. Just looking at each other.
I was momentarily distracted by his blue eyes.
Coffee. Sugar rush. Talk. Right.
What would be neutral ground?
I cleared my throat. "Where's the kitchen?"
"Just down the hall."
I set the tray on the counter and peeled the lid off his coffee, mostly to buy myself a second to breathe.
I handed it over without looking up. "I figured you could use caffeine more than a lecture."
He took it, his fingers brushing mine for half a second. "Thanks."
I turned toward him, leaning back against the counter. "So. Want to tell me what happened?"
He braced himself against the counter across from mine and let out a breath—more of a sigh than a groan—and rubbed the back of his neck. "I thought maybe Vanessa was going for a redemption story. She was... different this time. Not sweet, exactly, but less sharp. We were having an actual conversation."
I waited.
He glanced at the cinnamon bun, then back at me. "She said people were noticing the change. That I was showing up, doing the work. I guess I wanted to believe it. That maybe she'd give me a shot at a new narrative."
My jaw tightened, but I said nothing.
"She slipped in a question about my dad—something about how complicated it must be. I didn’t even think. I just said what I felt. That the town would be better off without him messing with it."
He looked back down at the cinnamon bun. After a beat, he looked at me. "I swear, Riley, I wasn’t trying to start a fire. I didn’t even think I said anything that bad. I thought... I don’t know. Maybe honesty would count for something."
Of course, he thought that. That stubborn hope. It was endearing. And exactly the kind of thing someone like Vanessa would weaponize.
I took a slow breath, collecting my thoughts before I said the wrong thing. He was trying. That mattered. But trying didn’t make the fallout any less real.
I grabbed my coffee, testing to see if it was cool enough to drink. I also felt the sudden need to keep my hands busy. "What would your PR team have told you to do?"
His shoulders tensed. "I know, okay?" he snapped, sharper than I expected. Then he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "Sorry. I just—yeah. I know. I threw every piece of PR advice I ever got straight out the window."
His voice cracked just slightly on the last word, and he blinked slower than normal, like he needed an extra second to pull himself back together.
Deep breath, Riley.
"Your PR people. When you were in the league, if they were coaching you, and Vanessa cornered you like that—what would they have told you to do?"
He looked down. "They’d tell me not to engage. Not unless I controlled the setting. They’d say to deflect, give a neutral quote, smile, and walk away."
I nodded. "Then that’s what we do next time. You and I—we prep. You learn who to trust and when. I’m not here to rub it in, Colton. I’m here to help you figure out how to be the guy you’re trying to be."
His mouth opened like he wanted to argue, but then he closed it again. He stared at the coffee cup in his hands. "You’re still backing me up?"
"Of course I am," I said, softer now. "I’m not blind, Colton. Sure, you messed up. You handed her a headline. But I see how hard you’ve been trying. That counts. It still counts."
