pinky promise - jamie tartt

‟ WHERE IT REALLY HURTS „

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New Message from Keeley Jones:

Red alert. Rupert is here.

Tate read the text three times before she realized she was biting her lower lip so tightly she might've drawn blood.

It was nearing halftime in the match against Chelsea, and Tate had already felt a whirlwind of emotions. It started when Roy took his place on the pitch causing the stadium, his old team, to start cheering for him. It had been a bittersweet moment, one she was certain made Roy feel a little twisted up inside.

But then the chants changed to Zava, and she had admittedly grown a little annoyed, though that might have been because of Jamie's influence. He hadn't stopped talking about how bad of a move it would be to bring Zava to Richmond, and Tate had started to have his arguments memorized.

And then Keeley's text.

Message sent to Keeley Jones:

I'll keep an eye out. I'm going to the locker room at halftime, anyways.

Because Rupert wouldn't be allowed down there, so she knew she would be safe from his bullshit.

The cheering in the stadium grew louder, and instinct had Tate recognizing the sound as a reaction to a good play. Her attention focused on the pitch, finding Chelsea in control of the ball and quickly moving in on Zoreaux. They shot, and to her horror, the ball went in.

By the time she updated the score, one-nil Chelsea, on the team's socials, it was halftime.

She had been in the process of shoving her laptop into her bag to take with her to the locker room when the door to the press box opened behind her. She hadn't thought anything of it, with her back turned, assuming it was another press manager entering or leaving.

"Right this way, Mr. Mannion."

Tate's whole body locked up, frozen in her place while rearranging her bag on the table she had previously been working on.

"Thank you, I'll be able to manage from here." Rupert's charming voice assured the security guard that had shown him the way. Tate shoved the last of her things into her bag, suddenly aware of the fact that there was only one other person in the press box; some male journalist type, his head buried in whatever he was typing on his laptop.

She was, essentially, alone with Rupert Mannion.

"Tate, I've been meaning to speak with you." He tried, and though she knew he was able to trick nearly everyone he kept at arm's length that he was a good and noble man, the sound of his voice made her skin crawl and her chest tighten with worry. "Won't you sit with me?"

"I've got to meet the boys in the locker room." Her voice was even, though strained, and her stare was fixed on the floor beneath her feet. As if she could make herself so small that Rupert wouldn't see her as interesting enough to bother.

"Oh, you see them enough as is. How long has it been since you and I have had a proper chat?"

"We've never had a proper chat." She replied flatly. Besides her interview for the position, when he had owned AFC Richmond, Tate couldn't recall ever speaking to Rupert beyond his too-frequent visits to her office. "Don't you have a wife and child?"

"I don't see why any of that would keep me from talking to an old friend." He answered her question smoothly, far too smug for her liking as he settled into the chair next to where she stood.

"I didn't know you had friends," Tate rolled her eyes and picked up her bag, prepared to leave. Except, she only got as far as turning in her spot before Rupert's hand was latched onto her wrist, tugging slightly to keep her in place before him. She was reminded of the night of the charity gala, two seasons previously, when Jamie had still been a prick but had realized that something was wrong between her and Rupert.