Page 29 of Revenge Puck

Allison clicks the remote again, and the slide changes.

Big, bold letters:

ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIPS IN THE WORKPLACE

My spine straightens and suddenly, she has my full, undivided attention.

“Now,” Allison continues. “The purpose of the No Fraternization Policy is to maintain a professional environment for everyone. For you, for our coaches, for our players—andthe entire staff. No Fraternizing can include the following, but is not limited to…” The slide moves again. “‘No romantic or sexual relationships, i.e.: dating. In this digital age we also discourage…’” She glances at the screen, then around the room, looking everyone in the eye. “‘Sliding into DMs on the Wolves network, or on social media.’”

A few people chuckle as if the idea were absurd.

I do not.

Not only did I fraternize, I orgasmed.

Oh god, what happens if I get caught?

Embarrassment heats up my entire body as the next slide appears:

CONSEQUENCES

“‘All violations will be taken seriously, especially if not reported to HR through the appropriate channel,’” Allison continues, unaware that I am internally drafting my own professional obituary.

Juliette Kennedy. Dropped dead from fraternizing. Former new hire with good hair and an even better attitude. Brings her lunch in reusable containers with environmentally friendly plastic. Propositioned player number 8 outside a bar, and seduced him at her apartment, after spreading her legs and letting him lick her dry.

“‘…will result in termination.’”

Termination!

I reach for a bagel for emotional support and pull it apart, jamming one chunk into my mouth.

It’s stale.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

Allison moves on, outlining more policies and procedures. The dress code. Explains confidentiality, workplace safety, and other communication expectations. The drug and alcohol policy. Social media and time-off requests, but the only thing I can think about is Aaron Bishop walking out of my apartment.

The look in his eyes when he slid across the couch to kiss me.

Touch me.

Career suicide, apparently.

I swallow and fixate my attention on a new chart about email privacy protections, while my brain replays everything I’ve officially labeled a terminable offense.

Allison keeps talking.

The slides keep changing.

Two more hours pass in a blur of policies, bullet points, and the realization that my shiny new career may already be on thin ice—no pun intended!—held together by an HR handbook, a stale bagel, and the desperate hope that Aaron Bishop knows how to keep his mouth shut.

Back in the hallway, my boss Whitney is waiting for me.

She’s tall.

Polished.

Smells like expensive shampoo, expensive perfume, and gives off a quiet authority I quite admire, and am a bit terrified of.