“Years of sabotage and stalking my life. Why?”
Magnolia’s eyes flick down to her glass. “He told me he grew up with nothing. That everything he had in life, he had to claw for. Said you had it all handed to you and the final straw was you taking his job.”
“We were teammates once. He was my mentor. Everything was cool between us.”
“You’ve never told me that.”
“It didn’t last long.” And it was a million years ago.
Tyson was the starter. I was second string. The rookie. Green and hungry. And he took me under his wing. Or at least, that’s what I thought.
He gave me tips on positioning, ran extra drills with me after practice. Told the coaches I had potential. I figured he was just a good bloke. A leader. Someone who saw something in me and wanted to help sharpen it.
He was always around—encouraging, helpful, always showing up with advice or a pat on the back when I got it right. I thought he was looking out for me.
But now I wonder if it was something else. Not mentorship. Not even kindness.
Control.
Like if he could stay close enough, he could shape me into what he wanted—or keep me small enough that I’d never outshine him.
And when I didn’t stay small, when I stepped up and took the spot he thought was his forever, was when things shifted. That’s when the smiles started feeling strained. When the silence between us got heavier.
I didn’t stay in the mold he carved out for me––second place.
I let out a sharp breath. “Fine. So he’s bitter. So he thinks I had it easy. But none of that explains this level of obsession. None of that explains blackmailing Celeste, stalking you, threatening people I care about.” I meet her eyes. “This isn’t anger. This is something else. Something disturbing.”
The private dining room door eases open. Chloe sweeps in with Frederick behind her, both of them carrying trays with the first course.
“Well, well,” Chloe says, arching a brow at me. “Big Al finally shows up.”
I lift a hand, half a grin forming. “Blame the coaches. Practice went long.”
She smirks. “As long as you didn’t show up still dripping sweat, we’re good.”
“I showered. You’d have kicked me out of here if I hadn’t.”
She laughs and sets the plate down in front of me with a little shake of her head.
“No worries,” she says. “Just glad you made it.”
Frederick moves behind her, placing Magnolia’s dish in front of her with a quiet smile before stepping back.
Chloe stands near the table, posture easy, hands settled one atop the other at her waist. “All right, lovebirds. We’re starting with a compressed watermelon and feta salad dressed in a basil-lime vinaigrette, finished with a dusting of candied macadamia and micro mint. It’s bright, summery, and not too fussy. Perfect for an early evening garden reception.”
She says it like poetry. And knowing Chloe, it kind of is.
“We’ve paired it with a citrus-forward riesling that’ll show up again with the third course, if you like it. Let me know what lands—and what doesn’t. Nothing’s locked in.”
“Looks delicious as usual,” Magnolia says.
She lingers a beat, eyes flicking to Magnolia’s, then mine. “I’ll give you a few minutes to try it and check back in before the mains.”
She slips out with Frederick, the door clicking shut behind them.
I stare at the salad in front of me, but my appetite’s gone flat. And that’s saying something—because I’m not a man who turns down food. Especially not Chloe’s.
“There has to be more,” I say, pushing my fork into the edge of the watermelon but not lifting it. “Something we’re missing.”
