Page 24 of Cut Off
“Fine,” I concede, because itisa great deal. “But I want a contract. Something that specifies my duties and compensation.”
“Already texted my lawyer.” Jonah holds up his phone. “He’ll have something for us by tonight.”
Of course he will. Because when you’re Jonah Holt, the world rearranges itself to accommodate you.
I stare at him, still wondering if he’s serious. “You really want me to do this? You don’t know me all that well.”
Jonah stops at a red light and turns to look at me. “I know you quit your job rather than run a story that would hurt my son. I know you helped me get ahead of the narrative when you could have broken the story yourself. You’re my sister’s best friend in the world, and I know Eli seemed comfortable with you, which is more than I can say for how he feels about me.” He shrugs. “Seems like enough to go on.”
Put like that, I can’t really argue. The light turns green, and he focuses back on the road.
“So, you’ll do it?” He’s trying to sound casual but not pulling it off.
I take a deep breath. This is wild. Completely off-the-wall bonkers. I’m about to uproot my entire life to move in with my best friend’s grumpy hockey star brother and his newly discovered son.
But then I think about my crappy apartment and the uncomfortable feeling I get at night when I don’t know who’s downstairs, banging around.
I think about crawling back to KBVR, begging for my job back, saving Donny Dexter and his inflated ego.
And then I think about Eli—that lost little boy with anger in his eyes and grief in his heart. About Jonah, trying so hard to be a father with no roadmap to follow. They need help.
And I need a fresh start.
But I remember something. “If we do this, we have to tell Sydney together. In person. Before she finds out from someone else.”
A flicker of—guilt? anxiety?—crosses his face. “Right. We’ll call her together and make sure, okay?”
“Okay,” I hear myself say, “but I have one last condition.”
Jonah raises an eyebrow.
“You can’t fall for me.” I shrug. “It’ll be tempting.”
Jonah bursts out laughing, which is not the reaction I was expecting. A small chuckle, yes, but he found that just a littletoofunny. His laugh echoes through the SUV, all deep and rumbly. “That won’t be a problem. No offense, Lane, but you’re not exactly my type.”
Ouch. Even though I made the joke, his response stings more than it should. I mean, it’s what I wanted him to say, I don’t want any romantic complications, but did he have to laugh so hard? Like, the very idea of falling for me is hilarious?
“Good.” My voice comes out a little sharp. “I just wanted that clear.”
“Crystal clear.” He pulls up to my apartment, still looking way too amused. “I don’t do relationships—not now, not when I need to focus on my son, and definitely not with my sister’s best friend.”
“Exactly,” I say, though my pride still smarts a bit. “So, we’re agreed. Strictly professional. I help with Eli, look for a job, and we all get what we need without anyone catching feelings.”
“Deal.” He extends his right hand while keeping his left on the wheel, and I shake it, trying to ignore the warmth of his palm against mine.
Great. Perfect. This isexactlywhat I wanted.
So why does my chest feel hollow?
8
Mind Game
JONAH
The face-off circle feels like my own personal hell. Brooks crouches across from Zach O’Keefe—the hotshot center who replaced me in Denver. My gloved hands grip my stick so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in half. Sweat trickles down my spine, and all I can think about is how that should be me taking that face-off. Because that’s what I do, and somewhere out there, my nine-year-old son could be watching me.
The ref drops the puck, and white ice sprays as sticks clash. Brooks wins it, knocking it back to McDavid, and we’re in motion, a blur of blue and gray jerseys streaking across the ice. I push off hard, finding my lane, trying to clear my head of everything except the game.
