c0wb0ylikemia

[c0wb0ylikemia]

ladies and gents, when i tell you a joel miller fic is coming, istg it IS coming

[c0wb0ylikemia]

damage control ᯓ caitvi ᯓ masterlist

Violet "Vi" Lanes is the hottest name on the track - and a walking PR disaster. With a string of viral outbursts and a reputation for wrecking interviews, she's one scandal away from losing it all. Enter Caitlyn Kiramman, a cool-headed, no-nonsense manager brought in to save Vi's career before it crashes and burns. But Caitlyn wasn't expecting a client who flirts as fast as she runs, and Vi wasn't expecting her new manager to be so... infuriatingly irresistible. With an upcoming championship, the spotlight burning brighter, and the pressure mounting, the two are forced into each other's orbit.

Read on your preferred site!: AO3 & Wattpad

Chapters ᯓ

1 ᯓ violet ᯓ welcome to the playground

2 ᯓ caitlyn ᯓ happy progress day!

[c0wb0ylikemia]

damage control ᯓ caitvi

2 ᯓ caitlyn ᯓ happy progress day!

read on your preferred site!: AO3 & Wattpad

The clock on the wall ticked past 2:10PM. I folded my hands neatly on the conference table, crossed one ankle over the other, and waited.

Patience was a practiced skill - like marksmanship, or PR strategy, or surviving another drop in from one Jayce Talis. Violet Lanes was late, of course. No surprise. I had read the reports.

Across from me, Jayce sat half-perched on the table’s edge, sleeves rolled, tie loose, grinning like this was all entertainment.

“She’ll show,” he said casually, nudging a folder toward me with his foot. “Eventually.”

“I’m aware of her habits.” I flipped open the folder, eyes skimming the press clippings, sponsorship notes, and a thick wad of disciplinary reports. “Punctuality isn’t one of them.”

Jayce let out a low whistle. “You’re nervous.”

I arched a brow. “I’m prepared.”

“Same thing, Kiramman.”

He flashed that winning, annoyingly good-natured grin. Jayce had been my boss for two years and my friend for nearly a decade, ever since we met as interns and spent a summer chasing down runaway clients at music festivals. He’d always had a knack for charm, and was the one person that I could tolerate my parents choosing to promote instead of me. Today, however, I was tempted to throw the nearest pen at his head.

“She’s a handful,” Jayce went on. “But she’s electric. Fans love her. Brands will love her - once you sand off the rough edges.”

I glanced up from the file. “Is that why you sent her to me?”

His grin softened. “I sent her to you because you don’t flinch. And because Vander asked.”

I raised an eyebrow at him.

Jayce nodded, folding his arms. “Showed up at my office in person. Said she needed someone steady. Someone smart. Someone who wouldn’t give up on her when she mouths-off to reporters and sets Twitter on fire.” His mouth curved wryly. “Sound like anyone you know.”

I let out a slow breath. Vander. I’d only met him once - broad-shouldered, weathered, quiet as a mountain. The kind of man who looked at you and saw you. It was clear he saw Violet. That made me want to help her.

“She should be here soon,” Jayce murmured, pushing off the table. “Try not to kill each other.”

Alone, I straightened the notes, smoothed my skirt, and checked the clock again.

2:30PM.

I had read the headlines. I knew Violet would be the type of person to be late. But by half an hour?

“Track Star or Tabloid Catastrophe?” “Violet Lanes: Fastest Woman on the Field, Slowest Leaner Off It.” “Public Meltdown or Media Setup? What’s Really Behind Vi’s Outbursts.” The list of headlines went on.

Beneath the chaos and PR disasters was a runner with ferocious talent. And if you squinted, there was something magnetic in her defiance. She just hadn’t learned to control it yet.

A knock sounded - sharp, quick, almost impatient.

Before I could say “come in.” the door swung open.

She leaned against the frame, hands stuffed in the pockets of a threadbare bomber jacket, pink hair half-tamed, a cocky half-grin on her face.

“Hey,” Violet said, voice low and rough around the edges, like she’d been yelling at someone half an hour ago. “Sorry I’m late.”

I rose smoothly. “Miss Lanes.”

“Vi,” she corrected, stepping inside, eyes sweeping over me with undisguised curiosity. “And you’re Caitlyn.”

“I am.” I held out my hand for her to shake, instead watching how she ignored me, dropped down into the nearest chair, and raised an eyebrow at me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jayce walk past the door. He peered through the glass and snickered to himself. I took a deep breath. He was so buying me dinner later.

[c0wb0ylikemia]

damage control ᯓ caitvi

1 ᯓ violet ᯓ welcome to the playground

read on your preferred site!: AO3 & Wattpad

The headline hit before I even made it back to the locker room.

“Olympic Hopeful, Violet Lanes, Caught On Camera In Heated Exchange With Reporter.”

It was a blurry freeze-frame of me, eyes blazing, teeth bared in what looked way more like a snarl than the snappy comeback I remembered. Typical.

I shoved open the locker room door with my shoulder and kicked it shut behind me. My t-shirt peeled off of my damp skin, landing on the floor in a sorry heap. The place was mostly empty now, just the echo of feet on tile, the sharp smell of disinfectant, and the soft shake of a protein bottle.

Powder was cross-legged on the bench, shaking her neon-blue bottle like she was trying to stir up a cyclone inside. Her shoes were half untied, and her hoodie sleeves bunched at her elbows, a little smear of something green on her cheek from a smoothie she was halfway through inhaling.

“You’re trending,” she said, eyes glued to her phone. “#ViLanes, #TrackBrat, #PressMeltdown. You’re the trifecta.”

I groaned, flopping onto the bench beside her. “They get my good side?”

She flipped the screen toward me. I squinted. Mid-eye rolls. Sweaty hair. Practically feral. “No.” Powder said bluntly.

“Let me guess,” I scrubbed both hands over my face, breathing out through my fingers, “Coach’s already called?”

“Three missed calls. Vander too.”

That made me pause.

Vander wasn’t usually a caller. He was a “show up on your doorstep with groceries and a lecture” kind of guy. When he did ring, it meant something was burning down.

Powder leaned into me, shoulder to shoulder. “They’ll calm down. You were defending me.”

I shrugged one shoulder. The reporter had said something stupid about me needing a better nutritionist and I lost it. “ Doesn’t matter. They see ‘unhinged athlete,’ not ‘protective big sister,’ Pow.”

“Don’t want you blowing up your life for me.” She muttered.

“What else am I good at?”

My phone buzzed in my bag like an angry mosquito. Reluctantly, I dug it out. One message, along with the many missed calls.

Vander: Call me. I’m sorting this.

I grimaced. “He’s sorting it.”

Powder raised one blue eyebrow. “That fast?”

“The man has connections.” I huffed out a laugh.

Vander had been in my corner since I was twelve and turning schoolyard fights into a personal hobby. Ex-bouncer, bar owner, occasional substitute dad for every stray kid in the neighbourhood. He’d pulled me out of more fires than I could count. If Vander said he was sorting it out, it meant something was already in motion.

We stopped by his place that night - the bar half lit, chairs upended on tables, the smell of lemon oil and old whiskey hanging in the air. Vander was behind the bar, arms folded, talking into his phone in that low, careful voice he used when he was trying not to punch a wall.

When he saw us, he waved Powder over with a wink and handed her a Dr Pepper from under the counter. For me? Just a raised brow and a quiet, “sit tight, kid. I’ve got someone lined up.”

“Vander, I don’t need-” I tried before he cut me off.

“Sit tight.” And that was that.

By the next afternoon, Powder and I were sprawled across the couch in our shared apartment, eating takeaway Chinese straight from the box and watching old race footage on the TV.

“You’re faster in the last hundred now,” Powder said, pointing at the screen with her chopsticks. “Like, by a lot.”

“Thanks, coach.” I laughed around a mouthful of noodles.

She grinned, tipping sideways until her head found my shoulder. “Just don’t tell your real coach you skip cooldowns.”

“Snitch,” I managed to say before she poked me in the ribs and I let out a pitiful yelp.

A knock at the door interrupted what I predicted would quickly turn into a play fight and I jumped up, already halfway to the door when the knock sounded again.

On the other side of the door stood a tall man in a sharp suit, smiling like this was just a normal occurrence. “Violet Lanes?” He asked in a somehow serious and also upbeat voice.

“Who’s asking?” I asked skeptically.

“I’m from Kiramman & Co. Management. Vander set this up.” He handed me a folder, sleek and glossy, with a logo stamped in silver across the front. “Your new manager is expecting you tomorrow.”

I flipped the folder open. A name was printed neatly across the top.

Caitlyn Kiramman.

[c0wb0ylikemia]

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damage control ᯓ caitvi