MILLION VIEWS

Julio’s POV:

“It was tactical. Purely tactical."

The mirror doesn’t argue. It just reflects a guy with bedhair and a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, who has watched a one-minute clip of himself kissing his fake girlfriend a number of times I’m choosing not to disclose, even to myself.

“It was a strategic, defensive maneuver in a high-pressure environment.” I spit, rinse, and try again with more conviction, because the first take sounded like I was being held hostage. “She was in danger, I took action, end of story.”

My phone buzzes against the marble for roughly the nine-hundredth time since I woke up. The lock screen says 14.2 million views and 3,811 unread messages, which has to be some kind of goddamn medical condition.

“Tactical,” I tell the mirror again, and the guy in it clearly isn’t buying a word.

The worst part is that it isn’t even the kiss I keep replaying. I could handle the kiss, I could stuff the kiss in a locker and sit on it. It’s the sentence she said at the coat check, in that cool, polished voice

"I’m a professional at anything I’m paid to do."

Cool. Great. That's totally FINE. Love that for me.

I turn on the cold tap and put my whole head under it.

***

Two days ago Vance’s office felt like a firing squad, today it has a giant fruit basket. The irony is not lost on me.

“JULIO!” He’s standing behind his desk with both arms spread like a game show host, his tie crooked. “Sit! Eat a mango!”

“Why is there even a mango?”

“Because Northline Energy sent it! The same Northline Energy that pulled its offer on Wednesday sent a basket with a card that says, and I quote, ‘We never doubted you.’”

I chuckle, no mirth behind it. “I'm quite certain they absolutely did.”

“They did!” Vance beams like it’s the best news of his life. “And now they’d like to know if you and the girl would be open to holding a protein bar together.”

“What? A protein bar? Together?”

“For an ad! One bar, two hands each, very wholesome. Vantage reopened talks at nine this morning. Minnesota just put you back on the board, and two scouts called to say they’d ‘always believed in your character.’”

“Didnt they hang up on you on Wednesday?”

“Which is why I’m not thanking them, Julio, I’m just letting them live.” He plops into his chair.

“Look, about the kiss. It was tactical...”

“No. No, no, Julio. What are you doing? Trying to kill an old man. I don't want to hear the word tactical or I will eat this entire fruit basket and die on this carpet.”

“Vance, I...Sierra...”

“Sierra is the best thing that’s happened to your career, and she hates your guts. Keep both of those in your head at once.” He pauses, and the glee drains out of his face. “Which brings me to the bad news.”

My stomach does the old familiar anxious thing. “The video fixed it, no?. You said the video fixed it.”

“The video fixed the fans. The league’s conduct panel convenes in twenty-one days, and they don’t care about views, Julio, they care about paperwork. Sierra’s compliance reports are the paperwork.”

“So she’s basically my parole officer.”

“She’s your parole officer with a binder and a very legitimate reason to ruin you.” He rubs his eyes. “She texted me at 2:14 this morning. ‘Please remove me from this contract.’”

Everything in me goes quiet. “She did?”

“And then at 2:31: ‘Disregard. Sleep deprivation.’”

It shouldn’t make me feel better, but it does, in a stupid, disgusting way, like I just won a face-off I didn’t know I’d entered. I clear my throat. “Vance. The guy in the trench coat. Scar on his jaw. He knew her name and her major. Who is he?”

“Foundation security.” The answer comes so fast it practically trips on itself. “The Heritage people hire half the retired military in the country. Don’t borrow trouble.”

"I don't think that's regular security, he said her research.”

“Her major is public record.”

“Is it?”

“Probably.” Vance picks up a mango and starts examining it. “Also, your father’s office called. He wants you at Sunday, six p.m., at the estate. You’re to bring the girl.”

“Her name is Sierra.”

“His words, not mine.” He doesn’t look up from the mango. “Eat something, you look terrible.”

***

The locker room goes quiet when I walk in, and then it goes extremely loud.

“THE CAPTAIN HAS ARRIVED!”

Dax Ramirez, my alternate captain and the person I’d least like to be trapped with in a burning building, is sitting on the bench with his phone propped on his knee. Toby is next to him in sunglasses.

“Cap! We’re breaking down film!”

“What film?”

“Yours.” Dax holds up the phone. It’s the clip, paused on the exact second my hand slides from her neck to her jaw, and somebody has drawn a yellow arrow on it. “Look at that left hand migration, CHEF'S KISS.”

“Where did you get a telestrator?”

“It’s the app Coach uses for power plays,” Toby says. “I borrowed it.”

“Well, delete it.”

“It’s educational!”

“Real question, Cap,” Dax says, leaning in. “Was that on the whiteboard or did you improvise?”

“It was...tactical.”

“Buddy, you pulled a hamstring in your face.” He pauses. “Also, everybody’s calling her Hotbrain. There’s a fan account. It already has eleven thousand followers and... the bio just says ‘Leave Hotbrain alone.’”

“Why would anyone bother her?”

“Nobody’s bothering her. It’s preemptive.”

Toby pushes his sunglasses up. “She didn’t punch you afterward, Cap. I think that’s love.”

“That’s not what love looks like, Toby.”

“Then what does?”

***

There’s a courier waiting at the rink entrance when I come out, hair still wet, bag over one shoulder, knees feeling like Jell-O.

“Julio Hayes? Sign here, please.”

The envelope is thick and cream-colored, with little red tabs sticking out of the edge, stamped across the front in bold letters: PRIVILEGED & CONFIDENTIAL — ADDENDUM A — RE: THE INCIDENT.

I rip it open right there in the parking lot. There’s a cover sheet, and on the cover sheet, in neat type, one line.

Section 1. For all purposes, the Incident did not occur.

I read it twice. Then I flip to the next page.

Section 2. In the event the Incident is discovered to have occurred, it was tactical.

I stare at the word.

I’ve been saying that word for eleven hours, and she went and drafted it into a binding legal document.

This should be a relief. It is, objectively, exactly what I wanted her to say.

So why am I standing in a parking lot with wet hair, feeling like I just lost a game nobody told me we were playing?