“Agreed.” I finish off my tea in one gulp.
Olympics should’ve been a time to celebrate Sulli’s athletic achievements. The entire fucking time, the media latched onto her shaving and waxing habits. Weeks before the summer games, they photographed Sulli with stubble and hair by her bikini line.
The image went viral.
85% of the questions reporters asked at the Olympics centered on her hair—and she answered all of them with a definitive fuck you.
That also went viral.
“Does the topic go deeper than the Olympics?” Jack asks. I tense.
“What do you mean?” Sulli scoops a piece of waffle.
“He means when you were younger,” I explain. “Did you deal with anything like that growing up?” Her forest-green eyes that match my hue just drown against me—because I was there. I grew up with Sulli. I saw her hit puberty earlier than most girls. Her hair is dark and grows fast.
I saw the boys after swim meets jeer at the hair on her arms. I shoved two in a pool when they started making gorilla noises. And then I hugged Sulli in the locker room, and we collectively said, fuck them.
Fuck them.
“Do I have to talk about that right now?” she whispers to me.
“No.” I give Jack a serious look like work your production magic and pivot this topic. Now.
“Maybe you and Moffy can have a segment swimming or racing one another.” Thank you.
I almost smile. “You mean a segment where she kicks my ass.”
Sulli’s lips curve, and she knocks her shoulder to mine. “I’ll go easy on you.”
“No you won’t.” I rotate to Jack. “I’ll only do it if you agree to get your ass beat by her too.”
Quinn coughs in his fist. What’d I say?
Farrow cracks his neck, silently gesturing to Akara. Who looks murderous. Not at me. At Jack.
I suggested swimming not fucking.
Jack wouldn’t overstep the production-talent boundary. I would tear him limb from limb.
He knows that.
Sullivan swings her head to the exec. “You swim?” Her eyes light up. The list of people she can race on her free time is short.
“Four years at Penn.” He gives her a smile and then flips a page in his notes. “Can I get personal with you for a second?”
Sulli uncaps a water. “Sure.”
“Would you want to discuss your virginity on the show?”
The room cuts in a tense silence. Sulli has shared pretty much a bucket of nothing with the public concerning dating or sex. She’s been private, and so everyone assumes she’s a virgin.
Their assumption is correct. For once.
“Um…” Sulli mulls it over.
“No pressure,” Jack says. “Since a lot of people talk about sex on the show, I have to ask.” He pauses. “Have you watched any episodes of the series?”
“Not really.” Sulli rests her hand on her squared jaw. “It’s kinda weird seeing your family on TV.” She’s not the only one who chooses to skip it.
Her best friend Beckett Cobalt hasn’t seen a single episode.
Sulli leans into Janie. “Do you talk about sex?”
Jane touches her chest. “Personally, I have to talk about sex. If another guy tries to chokehold me in bed, I will lose it.”
“That’s never happening again,” Akara says, side-eyeing me because he knows I’ll actually kill the person. I’ll commit murder.
Farrow wasn’t around Jane during that incident. One of the worst nights of my life—where I woke to a lamp crashing. Jane’s old bodyguard started knocking down her locked door. Standing guard because she brought someone over. I charged in her bedroom before security inched inside—and I tore a guy twice her size off her body.
I was all rage. My mind blared three notes: you’re killing her, you’re killing her, you’re going to die. My bodyguard had to restrain me.
Just to be clear, I’m not proud of that.
“Can I ask you something?” Sulli says to Jack. “What exactly would I say about sex? I’ve never had sex, the end. There’s nothing more.”
Jack closes his notepad. “Are you waiting to have sex until marriage or to fall in love—”
“I’ve been so focused on swimming. I just never made time for anything else, including sex or dating, and I’d do it all over again. I don’t regret it.”
“Have you ever been attracted to someone? Have you ever thought about hooking up?”
I swear they’re acting like they’re the only two in the room. They’ve blocked us out.
Sulli nods a couple times. “Definitely. A few…okay, several guys on the team were really fucking hot, but I wouldn’t let that get in my way. My mom always said she regretted not waiting for someone who made her feel comfortable and loved. Like my dad. And I want that too.”
He smiles. “Okay. Have you been kissed?”
She bites her lip. “No.”
Wait.
I didn’t know that.
I glance at Akara. And I just read his protective features really well, and I nod to myself, he knew.
Jack smiles more warmly. “So truth: that’ll be a thing. It’ll cause a lot of press, but it’s up to you whether you want to share. The good: I can see a lot of girls relating. The bad: a lot of guys will…”
“Be fuckwads?”
“Yeah.”
More bluntly, Farrow interjects, “Perverted fuckwads.”
Sulli holds her bent leg to her chest. “It shouldn’t be such a big fucking deal. So what? I haven’t been kissed and I’m nineteen. Who cares?”
“So make it less of a big deal,” Jack says. “Make it ordinary. Make it normal. You have that power. And it’s all up to you.”
30
MAXIMOFF HALE
Board meetings at eight in the morning are like an average human’s ten-minute sprint. Come prepared to my table—then we’ll be back in our individual offices by 8:10.
Fifteen other people sit in leather chairs. At twenty-two, I head the table. It’s not just hard work that put me here. Clearly nepotism plays a vital role.
I don’t ever forget that.
“We have three grant applications that look promising,” Yara says, a longtime board member and also the COO of Cobalt Inc.
Outside of our own projects, H.M.C. Philanthropies funds local and regional nonprofit organizations, but with the amount of requests we receive every year, we need to be selective in where the money is allocated.
“Are those the ones you emailed me last night?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Approve them all,” I tell her. My eyes lift to the clock on the wall. 8:05.
Farrow will pick me up at 8:10 on the dot. I’m scheduled to drop by the local animal shelter and talk about future fundraising events.
Just as I start wrapping up the meeting—the damn door blows open. Heads swing.
People freeze. Coffee cups to lips and pens raised midair. Silence invades the room like an airborne virus.
What the fuck is he doing here?
Charlie Cobalt stands in the doorway, all six-foot-three of him looks like he just fucked someone. No shit. White collar popped on his button-down, half-tucked into black pants. His sandy brown hair sticks up in odd places. Artfully messed.