Chapter 5: The Interruption
The word "now" cracked in the air like ice. Liv didn’t wait for agreement. Her hand, surprisingly strong, closed around Whitney’s forearm above the elbow. It wasn’t painful, but it was inescapable, a firm guide rather than a request. Liv steered her past their booth, past Joe who stood rigid, expression shuttered, his knuckles white where he gripped his crutches. The untouched cheesecake, its creamy surface flawless under the flickering candle, seemed to mock Whitney as she was propelled towards the rear of the bistro, towards a dimly lit service corridor marked ‘Staff Only’.
Liv pushed the swinging door open, revealing a narrow passage smelling faintly of onions and disinfectant. Shelves stacked with pasta boxes and canned tomatoes lined one wall. The distant clatter of the kitchen was muffled here. Liv released her arm but positioned herself squarely in front of Whitney, blocking the way back to the dining room. The cozy ambiance was gone, replaced by sterile utility lighting and the chill of concrete floor seeping through Whitney’s thin sandals.
“Okay,” Whitney breathed, forcing steadiness into her voice, rubbing the spot on her arm where Liv’s fingers had been. The phantom warmth of Joe’s knee against hers felt like a distant dream. “Talk. What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait ten minutes? What can’t ‘happen’?”
Liv’s gaze, sharp as shattered glass, scanned Whitney’s face. There was no hostility, just a terrifying pragmatism. “That,” Liv stated, jabbing a thumb towards the dining room door. “Whatever that little moment was brewing back there. It ends. Now.”
Whitney’s confusion curdled into indignation. “What moment? We were having dinner. Talking. He asked me about the stars.” The intimacy of his words, his touch, felt cheapened saying it aloud to Liv. Her cheeks burned.
“Stars,” Liv repeated flatly, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “Cute. Look, Whitney. I like you. Your project? Admirable. Genuinely. Kid got grit. But Joe…” She paused, choosing her words with surgical precision. “Joe is standing on a knife-edge. Turf toe’s healing, but slowly. The city’s breathing down his neck. Every practice rep, every interview, every damn photo op is scrutinized. His focus has to be absolute. Ironclad. Anything, any distraction, especially one with… emotional variables… is a liability he cannot afford.”
“A distraction?” Whitney felt the word lodge like a splinter. “Is that what I am?”
“Right now?” Liv didn’t flinch. “Yes. Potential PR quicksand. Picture it: ‘Bengals QB Entangled with LDS College Student While Rehabbing.’ The optics? At best, messy. At worst? The vultures start circling. ‘Is Burrow distracted?’ ‘Is his head in the game?’ ‘Who is this mystery woman? What’s her angle?’ They’ll dig, Whitney. They’ll find your background, your town, your church… and twist it. Make it weird. Or worse, make him look exploitative. Or unstable. Believe me, I’ve seen careers implode over less.”
The mention of her faith hit like a physical blow. That was the unspoken thing. The ‘Mormon thing’. The thing Liv had probably Googled after Whitney mentioned Tropic. Whitney straightened her spine, the emerald silk rustling softly in the quiet corridor. “My church isn’t a scandal.”
“It doesn’t have to be one for them to make it one,” Liv countered swiftly, her voice low and intense. “It’s different. It’s interesting. And ‘interesting’ in the NFL spotlight is usually code for ‘problem’. Joe needs clean, simple focus. Football. Rehab. End of story. He doesn’t need… complications.” Her gaze flickered over Whitney again, not unkindly, but with devastating clarity. “He doesn’t need you complicating things.”
The words landed with brutal finality. Whitney’s mind raced. The intensity in the booth, the way Joe had looked at her, the heat of his touch… had it just been a fleeting distraction for him? A bit of fun while he was sidelined? Was she just another variable Liv had to manage?
“Did he ask you to tell me this?” Whitney asked, her voice barely above a whisper, afraid of the answer.
Liv hesitated, a fraction of a second. “He doesn’t always know what’s best for him. Especially not with…” She gestured vaguely, encompassing the almost-kiss, the stolen moments. “He feels things deeply. Gets invested. Right now, investment needs to be in that foot and that playbook. Not in…” She trailed off, leaving the 'not in you' hanging unspoken but deafening.
Whitney leaned back against the cool metal shelving, the ridges digging into her shoulder blades. The small-town girl who’d dared to walk into an NFL quarterback’s world suddenly felt impossibly naive. Fiercely independent but craves genuine connection. The description mocked her. Had she misread everything? Been swept up in the impossible glow of Joe Burrow’s attention?
“So,” she said, pushing away from the shelf, forcing her voice level despite the tremor underneath. “What’s the play, Agent Mancini? I vanish? Pretend tonight never happened? Forget the reading program was ever pitched?”
Liv met her gaze squarely. “The program is separate. We can still explore that. It’s a good idea. But the personal stuff? Yeah. It needs to stop. Cool off. Give him space to heal. Give the season a chance to stabilize.” She softened her tone, a hint of the mentor she could be peeking through. “Look, it’s nothing against you, Whitney. This is about protecting him. Protecting his future. His legacy.”
His legacy. The weight of those words pressed down. Whitney pictured the stadiums, the roaring crowds, the intense pressure Joe carried. Could she really be a crack in that foundation? Liv made it sound inevitable.
“He’s a grown man,” Whitney pointed out, a final flicker of defiance.
“He’s a brand,” Liv corrected, not unkindly, but with chilling certainty. “And right now, that brand is fragile. It needs safeguarding. From well-meaning distractions included.”
The service door swung open, startling them both. A waiter balancing a tray piled high with dirty dishes froze, eyes wide. “Uh, sorry, ladies. Just need to get through to the dish pit.”
Liv stepped aside smoothly. “No problem.” She turned back to Whitney, the moment broken. “Think about it, Whit. Really think. About what’s best for him. Not just… for right now.” She gave Whitney’s arm a brief, almost sisterly squeeze, a jarring contrast to her earlier grip and her devastating words. “I’ll handle things out there.”
Liv pushed the door open and disappeared back into the warm murmur of the bistro, leaving Whitney alone in the stark, cold corridor. The scent of onions and disinfectant was overwhelming. She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to erase the image of Joe’s intense gaze before Liv’s call, the softness of his thumb on her hand. Trying to reconcile it with Liv’s clinical assessment: distraction, complication, liability.
The waiter reappeared, empty-handed now, offering a hesitant nod as he passed. Whitney took a deep, shaky breath, the air tasting metallic. Walking back into the dining room felt like stepping onto a stage.
Joe was back at the booth, his profile tense as he stared down at his untouched branzino. Liv stood beside the table, speaking to him in a low, urgent murmur. He wasn’t looking at her; his gaze was fixed on the red-checked tablecloth, jaw clenched. As Whitney approached, he flinched, his eyes snapping up to meet hers. The intensity was still there, but fractured now, shadowed by a confusion that mirrored her own, tangled with something that looked suspiciously like guilt.
Liv stopped talking, turning to Whitney with a carefully neutral expression. “Everything alright?”
Whitney ignored her. Her focus was entirely on Joe. The connection that had felt electric moments ago now felt like a live wire dangling dangerously. Liv’s words echoed: distraction, complication, liability. She saw the weight on his shoulders, the frustration in the set of his mouth, the crutches leaning against the wall like an accusation.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of hurt and disillusionment. The vibrant spirit, the ambitious drive – they felt buried under an avalanche of unwelcome reality. She wouldn’t be managed. She wouldn’t be someone’s inconvenient complication.
She reached the table, her fingers brushing the cool, smooth surface. She didn’t sit. “Liv explained the situation,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm, carrying just enough to reach Joe clearly over the murmur of the restaurant. She kept her eyes locked on his, refusing to acknowledge Liv beside him. “I understand the… priorities.”
Joe shifted, opening his mouth. “Whit, wait—”
“My project proposal,” Whitney continued, cutting him off gently but firmly. She pulled a plain business card – her name, email, university affiliation – from her small clutch and placed it deliberately on the table, halfway between his plate and hers. “The details are on the website listed there. Mancini can contact me if the Bengals Foundation remains interested in pursuing it. Sans distractions.” She let the phrase hang, heavy and pointed.
She didn’t look at Liv. She gave Joe one last, long look. She saw the flicker of protest warring with the ingrained responsibility, the burden Liv had just reinforced. She saw the man who’d spoken of Utah’s stars, and the quarterback trapped by the spotlight.
“Enjoy your cheesecake,” she said quietly. Then she turned and walked away, weaving through the tables, past the warm glow of candles and the scent of garlic that now felt cloying, out into the cool Cincinnati night, leaving the tension crackling in the little booth like static, the untouched desserts a silent testament to what was, and what Liv insisted could never be. The cracks Liv warned about weren't just in Joe's career path; they were splintering right through the fragile warmth Whitney had begun to feel.
The Cincinnati night air hit Whitney’s flushed cheeks like a slap, sharp and cool after the bistro’s garlic-scented warmth. She didn’t look back. Her heels clicked a rapid, uneven rhythm on the damp alley pavement, echoing the frantic beat of her heart. Liv’s words ricocheted inside her skull: Distraction. Complication. Liability. Each one landed like a physical blow, stripping away the fragile intimacy of Joe’s touch, his murmured words about her eyes brighter than stars.
The memory of his knee pressing against hers under the table flared, hot and sudden, followed instantly by the cold dread Liv had injected. Had it meant anything? Or was she just convenient scenery while he healed? The emerald silk of her dress, bought with such hopeful excitement, now felt like a ridiculous costume. She tugged her thin cardigan tighter, wishing it could shield her from the humiliation coiling in her stomach.
Headlights swept the alley entrance as she stumbled onto the marginally brighter street. Rain, just a fine mist, began to kiss her skin. She fumbled in her clutch, fingers numb, pulling out her phone. The screen lit up with frantic texts from Em: ? How’s it going?? Did he kiss you yet? Details, woman!
Whitney stared at the glowing rectangle. How could she possibly explain this? Agent intervened. Apparently I’m career kryptonite. She deleted it. Typed again: Disaster. Liv showed up. Pulled me aside. Her thumb hovered. Said I’m a distraction Joe can’t afford. She hit send before she could overthink it, the words feeling both too dramatic and utterly insufficient.
She started walking, directionless, just needing distance from the bistro, from Liv’s pragmatic devastation, from Joe’s conflicted gaze. The mist thickened into a light rain, plastering strands of dark hair to her temples. Cincinnati’s downtown lights blurred through the wet windshield of passing cars, smears of neon against the wet asphalt. She thought of the vast, silent skies over Tropic, the pinprick clarity of stars unobscured by city glow or the suffocating weight of expectation. Stars Joe would never see.
Her phone buzzed violently in her hand. Em calling. Whitney hesitated, the vibration matching the tremor in her limbs. She answered, lifting the phone to her ear. “Em?”
“What the actual hell?” Em’s voice crackled down the line, sharp with protective fury. “Liv showed up? At your date? And said what? Distraction? Like you’re some groupie trying to sabotage his precious toe?”
The raw outrage in Em’s voice was a lifeline. Whitney sagged against the damp brick wall of a closed bookstore, the rough surface scraping her shoulder through the silk. “Pretty much. Laid it out. Turf toe, city pressure, fragile image. Apparently, ‘Bengals QB Entangled with LDS College Student’ is headline poison.” She tried to mimic Liv’s clipped delivery, but her voice cracked on ‘entangled’.
“Oh, screw her optics!” Em exploded. “Entangled? You were having dinner! Did Joe say anything? Did he just sit there while she pulled that crap?”
Whitney closed her eyes, seeing Joe’s rigid posture, the white-knuckled grip on his crutches, the guilt warring with something else in his eyes. “He tried… started to say something. But Liv steamrolled. Said he doesn’t always know what’s best.” The phantom warmth of his thumb circling her hand flared again, instantly extinguished by the memory of his retreat. “I left. Just… walked out. Left my card for the project. Told them to contact me ‘sans distractions’.”
A low whistle came from Em’s end. “Damn, Whit. Cold. But honestly? Good. You don’t need that mess.” A pause. “Where are you? You sound soaked.”
Whitney blinked rain from her lashes, realizing her dress was clinging damply. “Just… walking. Downtown somewhere. Near Vine, I think.”
“Okay, stop walking,” Em commanded. “Get an Uber. Come straight home. Right now. Screw the library. Bring your soggy, pissed-off self here. We have emergency ice cream. And possibly tequila.”
The offer was a warm blanket against the chill. “Em, I…”
“No arguments,” Em cut in firmly. “You’re not sitting alone in some study room replaying Liv Mancini’s corporate buzzword assassination. Get in a car. Text me when you’re en route.” Her voice softened slightly. “And Whit? Screw ‘distraction’. You’re a force. Remember the glitter explosion kid? The one who cried because he finally read the whole page? That’s you. That spark is real. Don’t let some power-suit agent dim it.”
The lump in Whitney’s throat tightened. She remembered the boy’s wide, triumphant eyes, the sheer joy radiating from him. That feeling, that purpose, felt miles away from the cold alley and Liv’s calculated warnings. “Thanks, Em,” she managed, her voice thick.
“Uber. Now. Text me.” Em hung up.
Whitney stared at her phone screen, rain blurring Em’s contact photo – a silly selfie from a campus fair. She opened the ride-share app, her fingers stiff with cold. As she typed the dorms address, a sleek black SUV, windows tinted opaque, glided silently past the alley entrance where The Hidden Bistro lurked. It paused for a moment, idling at the curb, before accelerating smoothly away into the wet night. Whitney watched its tail lights vanish, a strange sense of finality settling over her. She tapped ‘confirm ride’. The car was three minutes away. She pushed off the damp wall, stepping back into the rain, heading towards the pinprick glow of her phone screen, away from the dim warmth of the bistro and the complicated silence she’d left behind. The spark Em mentioned felt buried deep, but it hadn't gone out. Not yet. She just needed to find dry ground. And maybe that tequila.