In Deep: Chase & Emma (All In Book 1) (26 page)

The headline? Chase Got
Scoop’d! The article took delight in its tongue-in-cheek reporting,
cautioning readers, “Shh, don’t tell. Chase doesn’t know.”
How rich, the famous athlete who hated the press, falling for a
reporter! They’d plastered photos of us all over their website, the
same shot but from all different angles. How happy we’d been in
that moment. My stomach lurched with a wave of nausea.

The article claimed
that Emma had been anonymously writing for the blog for years now.
Then, to get her big break, she’d posed as a physical therapist.
That was how she’d secured her chance to get in good with the
elusive Chase Carter. It described how I’d become famous for
swatting reporters out of my way like an angry bear. But a physical
therapist? Apparently I’d let her in and given her access. That was
how she’d worked it, using that excuse to get close to me. All to
get the story.

Chase doesn’t know.
The words leapt out at me from the article, catching me around the
neck in a tight chokehold. I didn’t want to believe it. The website
that broke the story was none other than The Rio Rapsheet, the exact
same blog had published a fake story on me only a few days ago. What
was to stop them from doing the same with Emma?

But it had the ring of
truth to it. A sickening, nagging, persistent ring of truth. Unable
to stop myself, needing to see, I clicked on the link to the blog,
the one that was apparently Emma’s.

It popped right up.
Scoop’d, all hot pink font and photos of celebrities and athletes.
It was swarming with hot pics, plus gossipy dirt. Who was hooking up
with who? Who’d gone out hard the night before?

Some of it looked
harmless. There was a whole, active discussion critiquing team
uniforms. Our Speedo swimsuits got four out of five stars. Jamaica
won runner up, for being most colorful and fun, but the UK got first
prize because Stella McCartney!!! It seemed she was a famous clothing
designer. There was a section of the blog devoted to the best
souvenirs from the games, including lots of photos devoted to
commemorative shot glasses with images like the Olympic rings and
Christ the Redeemer.

But the bulk of the
content was devoted to gossip. I scrolled through and found so many
pictures, some of which were re-published from other sources but many
looked candid and shot in person in Rio. In clubs, in bedrooms, in
various states of undress.

Polls ranked the
hotness of the male athletes participating in the games, and the
top-rated ones had their own pages with countless photos and facts.
“Top ten things you didn’t know about—” fill-in-the-blank. I
saw a bunch of my teammates. And then, there I was. My own page, with
photo upon photo, but no text. Yet.

Across the top there
was a big “COMING SOON” announcement, in all caps. “Stay tuned
for the scoop on Chase Carter,” it advertised. “Everything you’ve
always wanted to know. What you’ve been waiting for. Want to know
the mystery behind this hunk? All his deepest secrets?”

Then it promised,
“We’ve got it covered. We’ve gone undercover, behind the scenes
to bring you the story everyone wants. Only on Scoop’d.”

My phone rang. It was
Liam. This time I picked up.

“Hey, man, how you
doing?”

“Not great.” My
eyes traveled over the page in front of me, seeing but still not
fully able to believe.

“Did you know she was
a blogger?”

His words that hit me
like a lead pipe over the head. Liam had decided it was true. Emma
was a blogger. “No.” My word sounded wooden.

“I’m sorry, Chase.
She really seemed cool.” You knew the topic of conversation was
serious when Liam actually used my real name. No Chevy or man or
dude, just Chase.

“Listen, I’m
supposed to catch a plane in a couple hours. I was trying to reach
you this morning, but you didn’t pick up.”

“Yeah.” I didn’t
offer any explanation. I felt too sick.

“But I can change my
flight. We can hang out, hit some clubs in Rio. Plenty of
distractions are waiting for you, big man. You could even wear one of
your many gold medals. It would be like a golden magnet.”

Liam almost always knew
what to say to lift my spirits, but not this time. This time I felt a
heavy, oppressive blanket over my chest and no amount of joking
around was going to take it away. Nor would a night out on the town
with hot Brazilian women, so you knew I was feeling bad.

Plus, I knew he was
just being nice. He had to get back to the firehouse. Getting this
many days off in the middle of their busiest season of the year had
been hard enough.

“No, you head out.
I’m fine,” I assured him as we said our good-byes.

I was not fine, but I
was fine enough for Liam to get on a plane. I might feel like I was
drowning, but I wasn’t. I was on dry land, legs underneath me. I
might feel like I was choking and suffocating, but I’d manage to
carry on, put one foot in front of the other. Even if I felt like I
couldn’t.

What I most wanted was
to bail and get on the next plane I possibly could to head out of
there. Where I ended up, I didn’t particularly care. I knew some of
the guys on my team were headed on vacation. I couldn’t remember
where at the moment, but it didn’t matter. It would be somewhere I
could sit in a chair, drink, and not have to talk much to anyone
about anything important. They’d already invited me along. All I
had to do was tell them I was in.

But before I did that,
before I ducked out, I had to talk with Emma. I dreaded it. I’d
rather head into dental surgery for the next 15 hours, or have lunch
with my mom which, shit, I realized I was supposed to be doing. Which
meant leaving the rental house, where there were sure to be reporters
with cameras. Fuck.

My phone rang again. It
was Emma. I clicked over to talk, but words didn’t come out of my
mouth. Words tumbled and streamed out of hers, though.

“Chase! Chase, are
you there? I have to talk to you.”

“I’m here.” But
even as I said it, I felt disembodied, like all of this was happening
to someone else. How had I not seen any of it? She’d seemed too
good to be true, like a gift coming into my life at exactly the right
moment. I guess I’d fooled myself into believing it. Maybe there’d
been a bunch of signs along the way and I’d been too busy lusting
after her, even falling in love with her to see them.

“Don’t go online!”
she pleaded, a guilty request if ever I’d heard one.

“I’ve already seen
it.”

I could hear her crying
on the other end of the phone, swearing. She sounded nearly
hysterical.

“Is it true?” My
words hung out there and I could almost picture them, drifting
overhead in a cartoon speech bubble. I did not like feeling like I
was a character in a melodramatic book.

She paused. It was a
deadly, incriminating silence. And then she offered, lamely, “I can
explain. Let me come over and talk to you. I can be there in 20
minutes.”

Let me explain. So
there was something she needed to explain. And she hadn’t denied
that she was a blogger. There it was, the truth.

My voice sounded flat
and dull. “See you soon.”

I’d have to ask my
mom if we could meet up later. I had to take care of something first.
Because it turned out that the woman I’d fallen for was actually a
blogger after my story. I felt cold and sick with shock. I’d kept
quiet about the accident for 12 years. Then who did I tell the whole
story to? Someone intending to publish every word.

Emma and I would have
it out. We had to. I’d listen to whatever she had to say. I’d
hear out to her excuses, because I’d always wonder if I didn’t.
But there was no going back from this. I could never trust her again.

Emma

I don’t even remember
the ride over to my condo. I sat on the tram, probably with a
dumbass, blissed-out smile on my stupid face. I thought everything
was going great. Nothing but smooth water ahead.

Then the storm had hit,
full force. I walked into the condo and, surprise surprise, Tori was
there. She looked shaken.

“Emma, there’s
something you should see.”

She’d turned her
laptop to face me. As I read the screen I had to sit down. My knees
literally buckled. My hand up over my mouth, I gasped and swore but
that didn’t change the fact that an article had been published
revealing me as a blogger. And not just any old blogger, one tricking
Chase Carter into dating her so she could get the scoop on his
backstory.

“Oh shit, shit,
shit.” I couldn’t think straight. How had it happened? Had Chase
seen it? I had to stop him from seeing it. At least until after we’d
talked and I explained everything.

“I’m so sorry,
Emma.” Tori looked ashen with guilt.

“What did you do?”
I knew instantly she’d had something to do with it. But she
couldn’t be responsible for leaking this story. Could she?

“I didn’t mean to,
but I was so upset after we talked the other day. I met up with Paulo
and told him everything. How we’d been dreaming about this for
years, and you pulled the rug out from under us.”

“Are you fucking
kidding me?”

“Emma, I didn’t
mean for this to happen!”

“You told Paulo I was
pretending to be a physical therapist to get to Chase’s secrets?”

“No! No, of course
not. But when I told him, I think some other people might have heard.
And they might have gotten the wrong impression.”

“Where did you tell
him?”

“At a bar.”

I swore, picturing the
whole scene, Tori storming in there, furious with me, venting and
yelling. I was sure lots and lots of people had heard the story. And
one of them had made sure The Rio Rapsheet had heard about it, too. I
wondered if they’d made money off of it.

“Jesus, you’ve
really fucked things up this time, Tori.”

“This whole thing was
your idea!” she fired back at me, suddenly not so apologetic. “I
wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you.”

“What are you talking
about?”

She gave me a bunch of
bullshit about how I was the one who’d hatched the idea in the
first place, realizing I had the perfect in with my physical therapy
license. That wasn’t how I remembered it at all, but now wasn’t
the time to debate the finer points of how the mess had started in
the first place. Now was the time for massive, whole-scale clean up
in Hazmat suits. I had a nuclear meltdown on my hands. I couldn’t
spend time figuring out who was responsible—even though I had a
pretty clear idea and she was standing right in front of me in cutoff
jean shorts and a tank top. I needed to focus on containment of the
disaster.

I called Chase. He’d
already seen the article. Panic set in quick, and I could barely
talk. But at least he agreed to see me. I flew out the door to go
talk to him at the rental house.

The guys there glared
at me like I was the enemy when they let me in. Gone was the
friendly, “you’re one of the team” vibe. In its place was a
frosty, “he’s in his bedroom.” Subtext: “you’re a stone
cold bitch.”

Chase was sitting on
his bed, laptop by his side, arms across his chest. He looked up and
those ice blue eyes I’d swooned over so many times looked cold and
hard.

“Chase, can I…?”
I approached him, so nervous I barely knew what to say.

“Why don’t you
close the door behind you.” He nodded to the doorway and I saw I’d
left it open when I rushed in. He was right, we needed privacy for
this conversation. I went over and closed the door.

“Are you a blogger,
Emma?”

I closed my eyes at the
harsh tone in his voice. And at the pain I felt in answering him
honestly.

“Seven years ago,
back when I was in high school, I started a blog with Tori.”

“You are a blogger.”
He said it quiet, damning. Blogging wasn’t a crime. It wasn’t the
same as robbing a bank. But I pushed aside my defensiveness. This
wasn’t the time or place.

“I was. Until this
week. I quit the blog.” I explained it to him, in a torrent of
words and emotion and tears. I had taken the job because I was
excited to work with him, be a part of his Olympic team as his
physical therapist. And I’d hoped to get to know him so I could
tell his story. But not in a cruel way, not so I could write an
exposé. Because he was fascinating, overcoming such a traumatic
event, conquering his fears to become the best swimmer in the world.

“People want to know
your story because they think you’re amazing,” I tried to
explain. “They’re not all sharks scenting blood, circling the
water. I like writing stories that feature the best in people.”

“Like the top ten
reasons the Italian soccer team is as good off the field as on?”
His sarcastic question made me wince.

“I didn’t write
that!” I could feel my cheeks flushing, the blood rushing to the
surface as I battled panic, embarrassment, and the overwhelming
impulse to just cry and throw myself down on the bed and beg for
forgiveness. I had to be an adult, explain, make him understand.

“Tori is the one who
writes the gossipy stuff, gets the dirt on people.”

“And this is your
best friend? Your business partner?”

“Chase, I’m not
saying I’m proud of everything that’s on the blog. That’s part
of why I quit working on it.”

“Part?”

“Yes, the main reason
was I refused to write anything about you. I’d never do that to
you. I would never betray your trust like that.”

He listened, but he
didn’t throw his arms around me. He didn’t say everything was OK.
Instead, he asked a direct question. “Did you take this job with
the goal of scooping the story about the accident?”

I gulped. That was such
a boiled-down question. I’d taken the job for many reasons. I’d
been a fan of the Olympics all my life. It was a once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity to be a part of the excitement and help make history. He
was an amazing athlete and any sports therapist would jump at the
chance to be part of his team. All of those reasons had been there
when I’d taken the job, and now I realized they were the most
important ones, the ones that really mattered to me.