Confessions of a Twenty-Something City Girl

Blurred Lines

"Welcome to Sports Digest, Mr. Ford. I'm Noah Westbrook," Noah introduces himself, extending a firm hand toward Breaker with a welcoming smile.

"Mr. Westbrook, thank you for having me," Breaker replies, shaking Noah's hand confidently.

The handshake is strong, yet there's an undeniable edge to it—an unspoken tension lingers between them. Though they've never officially met, the awkward vibe from their last encounter at Club Rain is still hanging in the air. The subtle standoffishness is loud. They're both putting on a respectful front, but it's clear there's some rivalry simmering just under the surface.

Noah continues, "We have a brilliant team of sportswriters for you to shadow next week. Conrad Crimson, our editor, will walk you through the assignments and help determine which ones are the best fit."

"Thank you. I'm looking forward to it," Breaker's thick English accent flows effortlessly with natural charm. "Yes, Conrad and I have spoken. I'm excited to meet the rest of the team," his face lighting up as he locks eyes with me. "But I already know this sportswriter!"

Breaker strolls over to me in what seems to be his signature look: an all-black ensemble that effortlessly blends laid-back with edgy. His loose-fitting t-shirt is a blank canvas against the intricate tattoos that adorn his forearms. Below, he sports baggy cargo pants with graphic text and utility pockets. His messy cocoa-brown hair peeks from beneath a black beanie, framing his perfectly symmetrical face. As he draws closer, his striking green eyes catch the light, offering a sparkling gaze that's both mesmerizing and impossible to ignore.

"Welcome, Breaker! It's great to see you," I say with a professional smile, extending my hand.

Breaker bypasses my extended hand and pulls me into a warm bear hug, lifting me off the ground. He carries the same spicy, woody scent from the other night—a sharp contrast to Noah's clean, fresh aroma. As Breaker sets me down, he leans in and murmurs, "We shared a dance; I think we're closer than a handshake."

Oh, fuck. Breaker, you really shouldn't have done that. My eyes go wide in shock, and I quickly glance over at Noah—his jaw is clenched tight. Despite his attempt to maintain composure, his eyes flash with anger. I swiftly pull away from Breaker's embrace, feeling the tension in the room.

"Jamie! Tyson, Wyatt!" I call over, "I want you to come meet Breaker Ford, he'll be shadowing us next week. Breaker, these are our other wildly talented sportswriters."

The group exchanges introductions and small talk while I fidget, waiting for a chance to slip away and speak with Noah. From across the room, our eyes meet, conveying so much without saying a word.

Just as I'm about to intervene, an imposing redhead with an air of ominous authority storms in— it's Meredith. She heads straight for Noah and whispers something into his ear. His body language stiffens, clearly showing his irritation and disinterest, which only seems to fuel his anger further.

"Good morning, everyone," Meredith announces, sauntering to the front of the room in her Christian Louboutin red bottom heels. Dressed to the nines in a sleek, black form-fitting dress, she oozes confidence. As murmurs ripple through the office, heads turn to take in her commanding presence. "Please quiet down, I have something to share!" She continues, her voice smooth and captivating, holding everyone's attention.

The room falls silent, curiosity piqued as everyone wonders what Noah's soon-to-be ex-wife is doing here. I lower my head, trying to blend in with the other sportswriters, hoping Meredith doesn't spot me.

"Mr. Westbrook, please come up here," she commands. His eyes widen in surprise, then darken with annoyance before softening as he realizes his employees are watching. He approaches Meredith, casting her a look that clearly says, what the hell are you doing?