CHAPTER 35: CHAPTER 35 :I’M GONNA CRUSH BOULDERS AND MAKE ZERO9 BLOW UP

Outside the Crown Hotel, traffic pulsed through the drop-off loop. Doormen in sharp black suits opened doors with practiced ease, guiding guests toward the gleaming glass entrance.

Ryan stepped out, his palm brushing against his thigh—just once—to wipe away the sweat.

"Relax," Eddie muttered as they moved through the revolving doors. "Smile, shake hands, pretend to read the damn papers. Easy."

Ryan nodded, but his pulse didn’t get the memo.

He straightened his back and walked in, entering the long hallway that led to the ballroom. Overhead, crystal chandeliers spilled warm light that danced off the gilded metal inlays. At the corridor’s end stood a black-and-gold placard stamped with the Zero9 logo in sleek, modern type.

Inside, the ballroom was dressed head to toe in Zero9’s signature palette: matte black, gold trim, and subtle streaks of electric blue.

Onstage, a twenty-foot backdrop dominated the space—Ryan mid-dunk in his Roares jersey, frozen in motion, surrounded by Zero9’s five flavor variants.

Bold serif lettering, large and centered, proclaimed:

Zero9 x Ryan Carter | Official Endorsement Signing Ceremony

At center stage: a long table covered in crimson velvet, and atop it, a contract bound in crimson leather, its gold embossing catching the light like a provocation.

The media area was already a battlefield of tripods and telephoto lenses. PR handlers wove between journalists, handing out sleek press kits and quietly coordinating the photo sequence.

His gaze swept through the crowd until—

There she stood by the champagne tower, clad in a sharply tailored deep burgundy evening gown with a high slit, minimalist gold hoops catching the light. Chloe Palmer.

She was exchanging words with a Zero9 executive, her crimson lips curved in amusement as she balanced a flute between manicured fingers. The overhead spotlights gilded her collarbones like some modern-day Midas touch.

Then she noticed him.

Her perfume arrived first—an arctic blend of cedar and bergamot cutting through the corporate musk.

"Hey." That voice, all smoke and velvet.

"When I said ’We’ll see each other again. Soon.’ I wasn’t lying."

Ryan’s mouth went dry. "Figured you meant at the arena. Not..." He gestured at the Zero9 banners.

She smiled, glancing at her watch. "The ceremony’s about to start. I was just starting to worry you’d be late."

"Sorry, got held up with the lookbook shoot for the clothing brand."

"Mm." She flicked her fingers toward the stage. "Lets’s go, busy man."

Ryan followed Chloe up to the stage and took his seat behind the long table. Camera flashes and bright lights flickered relentlessly.

The emcee stepped up to the podium, working the crowd with practiced charm before handing the mic to Chloe.

"Ryan embodies what Zero9 stands for," she declared, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "Raw talent, relentless drive—and yes, that lucky number zero on his jersey doesn’t hurt." Polite laughter rippled through the room. "He’s the future. And so are we."

Applause. Camera flashes.

Then it was Ryan’s turn. He delivered Eddie’s pre-written lines flawlessly—honored, humbled, committed to taking Zero9 to new heights—the usual corporate hymn. The words tasted like cardboard, but he sold it with a grin.

The emcee then officially declared the signing ceremony open.

Ryan unfolded the crimson leather contract with gold embossing and flipped to the first page. It was just a copy. He pretended to read carefully. The second page was blank. So was the third.

Christ. They didn’t even bother.

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, turned a few more virgin pages for the cameras, then grabbed the pen waiting on the table. With exaggerated care, he scrawled his name on three separate blank sheets—performance art, really—while the crowd ate it up.

The emcee pumped up the crowd: "From this moment on, Ryan Carter is officially the face of Zero9!"

More applause. Ryan stood, shaking Chloe’s hand first.

Jesus. Her hand—so slender, so smooth.

Then, because PR demanded it, they leaned in for the obligatory shoulder-hug photo op. Her perfume—sharp, expensive, with a hint of danger—hit him.

Ryan held up the crimson leather contract between them as camera flashes detonated in rapid succession.

The signing ceremony wrapped in under thirty minutes—efficient, maybe even rushed. As the last flash popped and the crowd began to scatter, Ryan stepped off the stage and joined Eddie and Jamal, who were lingering near the front row.

Before they could make their escape, Chloe appeared, heels clicking softly against the marble floor.

"Sky Lounge. We’re having a little celebration."

Ryan opened his mouth to respond, but Eddie cut in with a quick smile.

"He’s got a game tomorrow."

Chloe glanced at her watch. "It’s just pass nine. Come up, have a bite, sit for a bit."

"Food? Thank God—we skipped dinner," Jamal blurted.

Eddie gave him a look. Ryan mirrored it.

Jamal cleared his throat and mumbled something inaudible, realizing how loud he’d been.

Chloe only laughed. "Come on, all of you."

——

The Sky Lounge was dimly lit, all low leather sofas and sweeping city views through floor-to-ceiling glass. Jazz trickled in from hidden speakers, and the air smelled faintly of citrus and aged wood. Waitstaff in crisp uniforms moved gracefully between clusters of guests, refilling glasses and clearing plates with barely a whisper.

Chloe turned to them with a smile. "Help yourselves, I’ll just be a minute."

Ryan nodded. "Go ahead, we’re good."

It wasn’t a sit-down dinner, but the buffet was generous: grilled scallops on porcelain spoons, miniature sliders, truffle arancini, smoked duck canapés. Champagne flowed freely. A dessert cart glided through the room like something out of a dream, stacked with bite-sized tarts, chocolate domes, and gold-dusted macarons.

Eddie snatched a handful of macarons—gold-dusted, no less—and popped two into his mouth before vanishing into the crowd, already fishing out business cards. Chloe’s guest list read like a who’s who of the city’s power players; if luck held, a few might turn into endorsement deals for Ryan.

Jamal had made a beeline for the buffet and was now enthusiastically piling his plate with an architect’s precision.

Ryan took a small selection—some duck, an arancini or two—and drifted back to his seat, quietly digging in.

Just then, a small group of musicians made their way to the stage. The Sky Lounge shifted gears—no longer piped-in music, but live performance now filling the space.

The piano struck its first notes, smooth as melted butter, and a slow waltz unfolded across the room in soft, three-beat waves. Even the chandeliers seemed to glow warmer, gentler. One by one, guests paired off and glided onto the dance floor, the women’s gowns sweeping in elegant arcs.

"Do you dance?" Chloe’s voice cut through his focus on the buffet. Ryan looked up to find her depositing her champagne flute on a passing tray, fingertips still glistening.

He gave a sheepish shrug, mouth twitching. "I... only know basketball."

"It’s easier than a crossover," she said, already pulling him to his feet. "I’ll teach you."

Half-curious, half-embarrassed, he let himself be led toward the floor. He’d never danced before.

Ryan stood awkwardly, unsure of where to put his hands.

She took his left hand in her right, drawing it up to shoulder height. Her thumb brushed across his palm in a light, grounding circle.

"This one stays up," she said gently.

Then she reached for his other hand, placing it firmly at the spot just beneath her left shoulder blade. The moment his fingers met the warmth of her back, something punched through his chest—his heart pounding harder than any game buzzer.

"Foxtrot," she murmured, left hand settling on his right shoulder.

"You lead. Forward," she coaxed. "Walk, walk, side, close."

"That’s it. Now you back up—don’t panic—it’s even easier than retreating on defense. Go: back, back, side, close."

He blinked. "You sure?"

"Positive. Okay. Walk, wa—ow!"

He froze. He’d stepped on her foot.

"Shit—sorry!" He went to pull away.

"Relax," she chuckled, fingers tightening against his. "No foul called. Again." Her hips swayed gently, guiding him through the rhythm until he found the beat.

Something clicked. Ryan found a hint of rhythm.

Between steps, her confession slipped out casually: "Zero9’s my first venture after leaving Dad’s empire." A graceful spin.

"I need to prove to the world I’m not just a rich girl riding on daddy’s name."

Ryan was finally starting to move with more confidence. "So... why pick me for the campaign?"

"Because my father’s a Roares superfan," she laughed, and somehow the music got a little brighter. "If I picked a rival team’s player, he might’ve disowned me."

Ryan chuckled—almost too hard—and narrowly missed her toe.

"Your team wasn’t exactly full of Zero9-worthy faces," she spun them, elegant and effortless, "but then—"

"—I showed up?" he offered.

Their eyes met. Both of them grinned.

Chloe’s lashes cast soft shadows in the chandelier light. "It’s all on you now. Honestly, Zero9’s only been on the market six months, but sales are... underwhelming.

I’ve sunk a lot of money into this."

A ripple of tension stirred in Ryan’s chest. "I..."

The orchestra chose that moment to surge into a dramatic tempo change—

The pianist’s fingers climbed from the bass register, hovered on a diminished seventh—then slammed down a cluster of dominant ninths. The first violin slashed in, bow drawn tight, gut string howling with a metallic edge—

like a matador’s cape brushing the horns in that last, taunting instant.

"Tango?" Ryan’s feet tangled. Color drained from his face. "I can’t—" He released Chloe, turning to flee the floor.

"Don’t move."

The voice cracked like a whip.

He froze.

Turned—

Chloe stood alone beneath the spotlight.

Except she wasn’t the same Chloe. Not anymore.

She didn’t chase him. She simply lifted her chin, one inch at a time, and stepped forward—

her right foot brushing the floor in a slow arc, circling him with a motion sharp and wide,

like a hawk spreading wings for the kill.

Then—contact.

One arm coiled around Ryan’s nape.

Her thigh—bare from the high slit of her dress—rose and curled against his hip.

"Hold."

Ryan’s fingers trembled against her stocking.

"Backstep."

He staggered backward, her leg still slung over him.

"Freeze. Now support me."

Chloe arched backward, golden hair waterfalling toward the floor.

Then she rose again, fluid and precise—

released his hand, spun on her heels in perfect time with the music,

heels tapping like castanets on marble—

and returned to him, hand sliding back into his.

And just like that—

Ryan followed.

Not because he knew the steps,

but because her gravity left no room for anything else. He was now an accessory in her performance.

The music slowed to a breathless crawl. Chloe’s fingers trailed up Ryan’s spine—over the damp fabric of his shirt, along the tense cords of his neck. She spun around him once more, the world narrowing to the circle they made, before settling back into his gaze as the final note faded.

Ryan drew in a long breath, steadying himself.

"Tomorrow night, I’m gonna crush Boulders and make Zero9 blow up."