Chapter 2: The Golden Boy

The morning air outside the hotel smelled of wet asphalt and diesel exhaust.

I pulled my sleeves over my knuckles, wiping the cold mist from my face as I joined the pre-dawn foot traffic in downtown Ashwood Bay. Commuters moved past in dark coats, their heels clicking against the wet pavement without a sideways glance.

Back in our trailer, the lot rent was four days past the final notice, the dispensary didn't dispense maintenance inhalers for bruised pride, and Jonah had cardboard wedged into the split soles of his sneakers.

I reached Marnie's place on the east edge of town fifteen minutes before seven.

She opened the front door with an infant balanced against her hip, taking in my unwashed hair and the gray smudges under my eyes before stepping aside into the hallway. "Frey," she said softly. "You look worn out."

"Walked from the transit depot," I told her, heading straight for the mop bucket behind the pantry.

In the open kitchen, her two-year-old was busy smearing green vegetable puree across the island. Marnie caught the child's wrist with a tired sigh, reaching for a towel, but her free hand slid a heavy card across the counter toward me.

Embossed lettering caught the overhead light: Daphne Kensington, Managing Director.

"The residential placement opened up again," Marnie said, keeping her voice low. "The girl walked out yesterday morning."

I dipped the mop into the pine solution, working it over the floor. "That's four in six weeks, Marnie. Whoever lives out there belongs in an institution."

"Daphne is selective," Marnie countered, watching me scrub. "And the client requires absolute confidentiality. But the agency pays direct."

I wrung the mop head out over the sink. "What's the pay?"

"Five grand base, plus another thousand a month for expenses," she said. "You get the private casita, full room and board—so you clear six grand, pure profit."

Six thousand dollars.

The dirty water trickled from the mop strings into the drain, the rhythmic drip loud in the quiet kitchen. Six grand meant continuous oxygen delivery without begging the county health board. It meant Jonah’s winter boots, real groceries, and a cleared ledger.

"Why does nobody stay?" I asked.

"He's difficult," Marnie admitted plainly. "Hostile. Reclusive. But the deposit wires the morning you sign."

I dried my hands on my jeans, slid the thick card deep into my front pocket, and went back to the baseboards.

By seven that evening, I was clocking in at Rust Creek Tavern.

The air hung dense with the smell of fryer grease, spilled bourbon, and stale draft beer. The Ashwood Bay Tritons were tied in the ninth inning of game five, and every television mounted above the shelves was tuned to the broadcast.

Griffin’s face covered every screen.

Men in replica jerseys pounded their open palms on the tables, roaring at the monitors every time the camera cut to the dugout.

"Frey! Four more drafts on table six!" Dane shouted over the noise, sliding two frosty pitchers across the bar rail. He tossed a rag over his shoulder, squinting at me. "You look like hell tonight. Thought you loved the game."

"I have tables to clear," I said, hoisting the loaded tray onto my shoulder and pushing through the crowd.

Bottom of the ninth. The score was locked at six.

The entire room went dead quiet as Griffin stepped into the batter's box on the central display. He adjusted his batting gloves with deliberate, camera-ready calm, knowing thirty thousand lenses were tracking the angle of his face.

The pitcher went into the windup.

The crack of the bat echoed through the ceiling speakers with brutal clarity.

The ball arced high into the night sky, clearing the center-field wall and disappearing into the second tier of bleachers.

The tavern detonated.

Beer sloshed over cups, splashing across the floor as men collided in drunken celebration. A patron slammed into my side, nearly knocking the tray from my grip, but I caught the edge against a booth, my sneakers sliding on the wet floor.

On screen, the broadcast cut straight to the dirt behind home plate. Griffin stood beneath the stadium floodlights, a network microphone held inches from his mouth. Sweat cut pale tracks through the chalk dust on his face, his white home jersey spotless.

"Incredible walk-off, Griffin," the reporter shouted over the din. "Rumor has it there's someone special watching from the owner's box tonight."

Griffin smiled into the camera—that broad, practiced grin that had looked down at me from billboards all summer.

"Yeah," he said, waving toward the private suites above third base. "There definitely is."

The feed switched cameras, zooming in on the luxury mezzanine.

A woman stood against the railing in an emerald blouse, diamond studs catching the floodlights. Her blonde waves were styled to perfection as she pressed her fingers together into a heart, mouthing three words straight down the lens: I love you.

"Blair Vance," the reporter teased. "The general manager's daughter. How long has this been official?"

Griffin looked dead down the lens, his voice untroubled over the roar of forty thousand fans.

"Three months," Griffin answered. "I love you too, Blair."

The tavern shook with another deafening cheer, but the sound seemed to drop through a thick pane of glass.

Three months.

Ninety days.

That was the third week of July. That was the night he pulled his hamstring in Scranton and called me at two in the morning, begging me to take a bus to a cheap highway motel because he couldn't walk across the room. I had spent six hours kneeling on frayed carpet, pressing bags of crushed ice against his leg until my palms were numb, listening to him whisper that I was the only person who kept him grounded.

He had kissed my knuckles before dawn, swearing he’d make it up to me.

He had already been walking the general manager’s daughter into private clubs.

The non-disclosure agreement wasn't about team policy or keeping rookie-year distractions to a minimum. It was about clearing away the dirty laundry before society announcements went to print. I was just a trailer girl who needed to be legally erased so his clean-cut fairy tale could make the front pages.

The heavy tray slipped from my numb fingers, shattering across an empty booth in a spray of draft beer and broken glass. I didn't stop to clean it. I shoved through the kitchen doors, practically blind as I moved down the hallway, and ducked into the employee restroom.

The deadbolt clicked into place with a sharp twist. Bracing both hands against the basin, I leaned over the sink and stared into the spotted mirror.

Stringy hair, dark hollows under my eyes, a dried streak of baby food on my shoulder. A girl who scrubbed other people's floors, stupid enough to believe an athlete when he said he needed her.

Through the drywall, the bass vibrated, carrying the continuous chant of Griffin’s name from the bar floor.

My phone buzzed against my leg.

A sharp, relentless vibration.

I pulled it from my apron. The cracked glass lit up in the dim light: JONAH.

My brother never called during shift. Dane docked twenty dollars from our pay if he caught personal screens behind the bar.

I swiped the icon and pressed the receiver to my ear. "Jonah?"

A wet, choked rasp answered.

"Frey..."

The noise from the tavern vanished. "Talk to me. What happened?"

"It's Mom," Jonah sobbed, his voice breaking into ragged pieces over the line. "She collapsed in the kitchen, Frey. I came home and she was on the floor... she isn't breathing."