The Golden Boy

I scrubbed the dampness from my cheeks and stepped out into the biting, unforgiving morning air of Ashwood Bay. The bustling city was just waking up around me, a chaotic symphony of delivery trucks and distant sirens that forced my mind to bury the fresh, bleeding pain of Griffin dumping me. There was simply no time to stand on a sidewalk and nurse a broken heart. Not for a broke girl drowning in relentless debt. My mounting pile of past-due bills demanded I keep moving forward, one agonizing step after another. I tightened my grip on the frayed edges of my thin hoodie and pushed through the wind. Show up, or lose the job. That was the only rule I lived by.

There was a brutal war waging between my chest and my head as I walked. My heart refused to accept that Griffin would just pull the rug out from under our relationship. We had been good. I had felt it in the gentle weight of his hands, tasted it in his kisses, heard it in the soft cadence of his voice late at night. But my head knew better. Reality had slapped me awake inside that lavish hotel room. He made it crystal clear I didn't belong in his glittering world. My mind begged my chest to shut up and accept the truth.

I arrived at Marnie’s house thirty minutes ahead of schedule. Between waiting tables late into the night and scrubbing toilets at the crack of dawn, my life was an endless loop of exhaustion. A girl had to hustle if she wanted to keep the lights on and put food on the table.

Marnie pulled her front door open, her brow furrowing the second her eyes landed on my face. "Frey, you're here early." She paused, her gaze sweeping over my disheveled state. "Are you okay?"

Was it that obvious? I hadn't bothered with makeup in days, and my hair was a messy knot at the base of my neck. I forced a bright, plastic smile and smoothed down my stray hairs. "Missed the bus. Figured I'd just walk."

It was a pathetic excuse, but Marnie possessed enough grace not to push it. "We're right in the middle of breakfast. Come have a bite before you start the deep clean."

"Thanks." I followed her into the warm, cinnamon-scented kitchen.

Her two-year-old daughter, Chloe, sat in her high chair like a tiny dictator, smacking a plastic spoon into a bowl of bright green puree.

"Chloe, no!" Marnie gasped, darting forward with a wet rag. "What a mess."

Chloe shrieked with laughter, waving her spoon in the air and sending little green splatters across the pristine white counter and the oak floor.

Marnie shot me an apologetic grimace. "Goodness, I'm so sorry, Frey."

"Don't worry about it," I said, stepping closer to ruffle the toddler’s wild blonde curls. "Someone woke up with a lot of energy today, huh?"

"Yay... feya!" Chloe giggled, swatting her spoon in my direction and leaving a distinct green streak across the sleeve of my hoodie.

"Oh, Frey, I almost forgot," Marnie murmured, her tone shifting. She turned to the kitchen island and picked up a sleek, black calling card, sliding it across the marble surface toward me. "Remember that housekeeping gig I mentioned? One of my flower shop customers. It's open again."

I stared down at the heavy cardstock. Crisp silver lettering spelled out a single name and phone number. *Daphne Kensington.* This was the fourth time in as many weeks Marnie had shoved this specific card in my face.

"Isn’t this the exact same house-help gig you tried to give me two weeks ago?" I frowned, making no move to pick it up.

Marnie sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Yeah. I don't really know what the deal is, but no one seems to last more than a few days there."

"Must be a psycho," I muttered. Anyone going through cleaners that fast had to be a nightmare to deal with.

Marnie let out a soft laugh. "I doubt it. I know Daphne. She’s a good person, very polite. She wouldn’t associate with a psycho."

You can never tell someone's true colors. Just look at Griffin. I thought we were reading from the exact same script, and then he tossed me aside like garbage, looking down at me as if I were a smudge of dirt on his expensive sneakers.

I shook the dark thought away and snatched the card off the counter, shoving it deep into the pocket of my jeans. I’d toss it in the trash later. I had zero intention of taking a sketchy job that required me to be away from Mom and Jonah. Plus, a new opening every other week screamed trouble.

But a nagging curiosity clawed at my throat. "Just out of curiosity... what are they paying?"

Marnie turned her back to wipe down Chloe's sticky chin. "Five thousand dollars."

The breath punched out of my lungs. My eyes widened, locking onto Marnie's back. "Five thousand?"

"Mhm," Marnie hummed, tossing the dirty rag into the sink. "That's just the basic pay. Honestly, if I didn't have Chloe to look after, I would have applied for it myself."

"Basic?" The word echoed in my ears. Now she had my undivided attention.

"There's an additional thousand-dollar allowance on top of it," she explained, turning back to face me. "And all your living essentials are covered. Room, board, the basics."

My jaw practically hit the floor. "Wait. You mean I could take home six grand... clean?"

"Yup." She popped the 'p', flashing a sympathetic smile.

Six grand. The staggering, life-altering amount haunted my thoughts for the rest of the day. It dangled just out of reach like a glowing lifeline thrown into my sea of financial ruin. That money could wipe out the looming threat of eviction. It could pay for Mom’s mounting medical bills and the specialized physical therapy she desperately needed. It could buy Jonah new winter boots that didn't let the snow seep through the worn-out soles. Why would anyone walk away from that kind of cash? What could possibly be wrong with the Kensington house?

I scrubbed two more massive houses across town before my morning shift ended. By the time I dragged myself back to our cramped apartment, physical exhaustion was seeping into my bones. I managed a pathetic four-hour nap before my alarm blared, signaling the start of my night shift at the Rust Creek Tavern.

The dim, stale-smelling bar was a madhouse. Even for a Monday, the place was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with rowdy, beer-spilling locals. The air was thick with the scent of fried grease, cheap cologne, and spilled alcohol. The baseball playoffs were blasting on every massive screen lining the walls. For the first time in two decades, the Ashwood Bay Tritons were tearing through the brackets, and the entire town was losing their minds.

I couldn't escape the deafening noise. Worse, I couldn't escape Griffin.

The undisputed golden boy of the Tritons was plastered across every television screen. Customers wore his jersey. They screamed his name. If he hadn't ripped my heart out of my chest this morning, I would have been right there cheering with them.

"What's so great about baseball anyway?" I grumbled, slapping a damp, beer-stained order ticket onto the wooden counter.

Dane, the head bartender, paused his frantic mixing and shot me an amused look. "I thought you loved baseball," he yelled over the booming roar of the crowd. He deftly popped the caps off three beer bottles, lining them up on my serving tray.

"Nope," I lied through my teeth. "Hate it. Why don't they just give everyone on the field their own bat and ball?"

A couple of regulars slouched over the bar barked out a laugh.

"That wouldn't be a game, sweetheart," one of them slurred.

Dane leaned in close across the sticky mahogany counter, his dark eyes narrowing. "Aren't you with the golden boy?"

I froze. The tray rattled in my grip. I stared at him, my pulse spiking. Dane had asked me out for coffee half a dozen times, and I had turned him down every single time. Once Griffin and I started seeing each other, Dane finally backed off. I had never breathed a word about my relationship to a single soul. Griffin and his teammates rarely drank here. Yet, Dane was looking at me like he knew exactly what was going on.

"I mean, the whole town is with him right now, yeah?" Dane quickly corrected, leaning back to wipe down the taps when I didn't answer.

"Not everyone," I muttered. I hoisted the heavy tray onto my shoulder and dove back into the suffocating crowd.

Carrying a tray stacked with six glass pitchers of IPA while navigating a sea of rowdy, swaying sports fans was an Olympic sport in itself. My arms ached, my feet throbbed inside my cheap sneakers, and my head pounded in time with the roaring televisions. The relentless pace of the shift kept my mind occupied, but dodging drunk patrons couldn't shield me from the climax of the game.

The score was tied at 6-6. Bottom of the ninth. The tavern collectively held its breath as Griffin stepped up to the plate. The tension in the room was electric.

*Crack.*

The sharp sound of the bat connecting with the ball echoed through the speakers. The ball soared high into the stadium lights, clearing the back fence by a mile. It was a game-winning home run.

The Rust Creek Tavern erupted. Men screamed, spilling beer over each other. Strangers hugged. The sheer volume was enough to blow the roof off the building. The Tritons won.

I stood frozen near the back booths, my chest tightening as the broadcast transitioned to the post-game interview. I didn't want to look. I wanted to walk away, to hide in the back room, but my eyes were glued to the massive high-definition screen above the bar.

Griffin stood on the dirt field, a microphone shoved in his face. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead. His jersey was streaked with dirt. But his signature, camera-ready smile was blinding.

The sports anchor laughed, slapping Griffin on the shoulder. "You were playing away from home tonight, Griffin, but word on the street is there's someone special in the crowd who's been your real home lately."

Griffin chuckled, the sound sending a sickening jolt straight down to my toes. He rubbed the back of his neck, his icy blue eyes scanning the bleachers. "Yeah. I do have someone special here tonight."

On cue, the camera panned away from the field, zooming into the VIP box. A stunning woman stood near the railing. She had a flawless blowout of soft blonde hair and a dazzling, magazine-cover smile. She was wearing a custom Tritons jersey with Griffin's number on the back. As the camera focused on her, she raised her hands, forming a perfect heart with her fingers.

She winked directly into the lens and mouthed three silent words. *I love you.*

"Oh man," the anchor teased as the camera cut back to Griffin. "Isn't that Blair? Neil Vance's daughter? You're dating the team manager's kid?"

Griffin laughed again, looking proud. "Yeah. I'm probably going to be unemployed by tomorrow morning."

"I doubt it," the anchor grinned. "Neil loves you. And I'm pretty sure Blair just told the whole country she loves you too."

*Blair.*

That was her name.

Griffin stared directly into the camera, his expression softening into something I foolishly used to think belonged only to me. "I love you, Blair."

The words echoed through the bar. They hit me like a physical blow to the stomach. The crushing, suffocating truth locked around my throat like a steel vice. My fingernails bit so hard into the plastic edge of my serving tray that my knuckles turned stark white.

*This* was the reason.

This orchestrated, flawless public debut was the exact reason he had coldly dumped me like a piece of disposable trash just hours prior. It was why his pristine legal team forced me to sign a non-disclosure agreement and a liability waiver. I wasn't just a breakup. I was a liability. A dirty, meaningless little secret from the trailer park that needed to be swept under the rug so he could parade his real, camera-approved, upper-class girlfriend to the world.

The crowd around me was still cheering, toasting to the team's victory and their star player's public romance.

Nausea ripped through my gut. My vision swam, the neon signs of the bar blurring into streaks of harsh light. My legs turned to liquid. A massive wave of shock and pure revulsion crashed over me. I dropped my tray onto the nearest empty table, ignoring the clatter of glass, and bolted.

I shoved through the dense crowd, ignoring the annoyed shouts of customers as I bumped into their shoulders. I reached the narrow back hallway, threw my weight against the heavy wooden door of the employee bathroom, and slammed it shut.

My trembling fingers twisted the lock just in time. I dropped to my knees on the grimy, sticky floor, gripped the edges of the porcelain bowl, and emptied the meager contents of my stomach. Bitter, acidic coffee burned my throat. I gagged, tears streaming down my face as my body rejected the betrayal.

The music pulsating from the bar floor vibrated through the thin bathroom walls, a mocking soundtrack to my breakdown. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the burning tears to stop. I stayed on the floor for a long time, my forehead pressed against the freezing cold tile of the bathroom wall. My chest heaved with shallow, ragged breaths. I dragged the back of my hand across my mouth, wiping away the sour taste of bile.

I was an idiot. A stupid, naive idiot.

My jeans pocket vibrated.

The buzzing made me jump. I pulled my phone out with a shaking hand. The harsh glare of the screen illuminated the dark stall. The caller ID flashed on the cracked glass.

*Jonah.*

My blood ran cold. The lingering heartbreak vanished, replaced by a sharp, spiking terror. My fourteen-year-old brother knew the strict rule. We had drilled it into his head. He was never, ever allowed to call me during my shifts unless it was a true, life-or-death emergency.

I scrambled to my feet, clearing my raw throat. I swiped the green button and pressed the phone tight against my ear.

"Hello?"

"Frey..."

The sound of his voice sent a shockwave of dread straight down my spine. It was shaking over the static of the line. Jonah never cried. He was the tough one.

"Jonah," I said, my pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "What's wrong?"

A muffled sob broke through the speaker. "It's Mom..."