After my meeting with Mr. Mahler, all I wanted to do was hide from the world. And also go back in time and say no to doing this event for him.

But as luck would have it, I couldn’t do either.

Surprise, surprise.

Quinton and I already had plans to meet with Patricia and Bill Masterson from Pro Players for Equal Treatment to discuss what they’re doing to fight for pension parity for retired players, and since the kissing happened, I can’t even avoid him.

If it weren’t for this stupid Glenn Chandler cloud hanging over my head, I would be really excited. Even though I’ve seen how passionate Quinton is about equality in the League for current and retired players, I’m still not exactly sure what all it entails. I’ve been looking forward to this meeting for a while. Working with Quinton has opened my eyes to issues I didn’t know existed, and I’ve loved learning about them.

Because of the uptick in negative attention thanks to Chandler—who by the way, is just as greasy in person as he seems on TV—we moved the meeting from a restaurant to Quinton’s house. He was worried we’d be interrupted and Patricia and Bill wouldn’t feel comfortable enough to talk openly about the issues they’re facing.

My hands are filled with groceries and I just manage to grab the doorknob without having to put down a bag. Yes, sure I parked in his driveway and could’ve just taken two easy trips, but I’d rather lose all feeling in my hands from bags on my wrists and arms than take multiple trips.

“You know, you really need to start locking your door!” I yell as I walk in.

“But then you wouldn’t be able to just come and go when you want.” His voice bounces off his empty walls, but he’s nowhere to be found.

I start unloading all of the bags that I brought. I wasn’t exactly sure what to bring, but I make killer charcuterie boards and they always look fancy as fuck. I figured it was a safe bet that there’d be at least one thing for everyone and the Mastersons would see that we put effort into the meeting.

“Damn, that’s a lot of stuff.”

Quinton comes up behind me and rests his hands on my hips before dropping a quick kiss on my cheek. His touch feels so right, but now, underneath it is this thread of guilt because of the fundraiser. All I want is to fully enjoy something . . . someone without feeling like impending doom isn’t unavoidable. Is that too much to ask?

Ugh. My hate for Mahler and Chandler skyrockets by the minute.