I’m sitting alone in the room, trying to focus on the beauty surrounding me and not letting my mind drift off to the place where worst-case scenarios live. I mean, it’s a fundraiser . . . at the Fitz! How bad could it be?

The door opens and Mr. Mahler strides into the room. The look on his face makes my stomach twist and my palms sweat as my nerves go into overdrive. He’s watching me closely, measuring my every move. The sadistic smile pulling on his lips makes me wish Elizabeth never left my side.

“I know you’ve been wondering when you’d get all of the details for this fundraiser and I’ve been a little . . . well, stingy with the details.” This is an understatement. He hasn’t told me anything other than the details I forced out of him. “Truth be told, I had to watch how you’ve handled the Howard boy before I could decide if I could trust you. But I saw the way he hesitated at the game this weekend and I appreciate how you’ve taken the narrative off my organization and onto him.”

Something about the way he calls Quinton a boy rubs me the wrong way, and for once I can see why Donny didn’t trust me. Also, if he saw the way I handled Quinton last night, I’m not sure Mahler would trust me at all.

“I’m glad you can see how hard I’m working to maintain both the organization and its players’ integrity.” I don’t mention that I haven’t ever discussed telling Quinton not to kneel and don’t plan to.

Voices drift into the room from the hallway behind Mr. Mahler. The door opens and Mr. Carlin walks in, his unmistakable chuckle filling the room like my least favorite song. He’s looking behind him at a man who looks so familiar. Someone I’ve been watching a lot of YouTube videos of lately.

Glenn Chandler.

The trash politician who has been dragging Quinton and just about every ethnic group through the mud.

And I’m planning a fundraiser for him.

“You must be the proud American working to get me elected.” He extends his hand to shake mine.

Mr. Mahler is still watching me and I’m beginning to think this wasn’t a job opportunity but a test of my loyalty. Everything in me wants to turn and run, but this is my job. It’s what I’ve worked years to master. My personal feelings don’t count. I just can’t believe Mr. Mahler would support the man who has taken every chance he’s gotten to disparage his starting quarterback.

I shake his hand and disgust makes it hard for me not to recoil at his touch. How am I going to do this? And what is Quinton going to think when he finds out?

Fuck.

I’m going to be sick.

Twenty-nine