Page 2 of He Has Charm

“You never did say if we’d be sharing—”

“No. No sharing. I’ll be in the room next to yours at the hotel. With a locked door between us. You may as well start thinking of me as your jailer. Handler is a bad word. I don’t know why they use the term. I’m your prison guard, Maddox Knight. Get used to that.”

He grins and I want to slap him, but I purse my lips and walk ahead of him out of the building and into the waiting car, closing the door on him as he follows. I lower the window.

“Get your own car home. And be ready on time.”

Two

Maddox

My grin defies logic and I’m not sure if the quick thudding of my heart is because I’m being fucked—metaphorically speaking—by one sexy, if ballsy, woman, or if I’m finally giving myself that heart attack that my family’s always promised would be my doom.

By which I mean either my family’s genetic promise, since my dad died at thirty-seven from a faulty ticker, or their verbal promises—more like constant warnings by my overly worried mom and two sisters. Those warnings have played in the background of my life ever since I started playing hockey. But I’m determined to make the most of life, which was Dad’s last advice to me on his deathbed.

The street is crowded, mostly with the worker bees you never see in NOLA when you come for the fun. I’d visited before playing here and never stepped a foot near the business district where I stand now, taking a deep breath. A saxophone plays somewhere and the sound calms me.

Raising a hand, I hail a cab and get inside. “Take me home,” I say absently, wondering if I have one anymore. I feel rootless since Mom moved to Myrtle Beach to live near her sister after each of my two sisters got married one after the other. I paid for all three life events, and was glad to do it. The cabbie gives me a puzzled look in the rearview and I rattle off the address of my soon-to-be-up-for-sale condo in the French Quarter.

It’s been an expensive couple of years, not helped by the fact that I lost a major endorsement for athletic clothing when the sex video went viral three days ago. Settling back in my seat with my legs stretched diagonally, at least I’m no longer cringing at the thought that everyone I know—except my mom and sisters—has seen me. I made my sister Katy promised me they wouldn’t look at the video when the shitstorm hit. Seeing me naked I could handle, but the rest, not so much. It was the action part of the video that caused the riot among all those powers that be controlling the purse strings of my future.

Now I have a feeling that the road ends here—or in Boston with the Brawlers to be precise. A one-time chance according to my agent, Hamish Jett, Ms. Sugar Buns’ boss. He tried to shop me everywhere and there were no other takers. Living large has a price tag and I can’t afford to blow this last opportunity.

So it doesn’t matter if they keep me in a cage at night with a rabid dog watching me, I need to go along with it.

The fact that my rabid dog is a hottie named Harper St. John curls my lips. Don’t go there, you fucking idiot. The last thing I need is an accusation of sexual harassment to round out my folly.

Besides, harassing women is the exact opposite of who I am. I love women, everything about them. Always have. I love nothing better than to please them and I get a kick when I find out exactly what it is that will please each and every woman I meet. No matter if it’s a box of candy for the widowed cleaning lady or a single rose attached to a gift certificate to a grocery store for the hardworking waitress at the dinette down the street who has three kids at home.

When the cab pulls up to the building with my top-floor condo—which was a mistake to buy as it turns out now that I need to leave—I toss a fifty to the cab driver and he widens his eyes in disbelief.

“Thanks, man.” He does a double take. “Hey, aren’t you the guy—”

“Probably,” I say as I get out and close the door on that conversation. Fuck. That video and story are going to follow me around for a long time unless I can change the narrative. I go up the stairs to my third-floor penthouse in the old building and let myself in the double doors. The converted space is wide-open and high ceilinged and has served me well.

Saluting farewell to the great room, I pass through to my bedroom, grab my team duffel, and stuff as many of my clothes and personal belongings as I can into it. Fuck. This is messed up. I check my phone for the time and I only have an hour. Grabbing a bottle of water from the open kitchen on my way to the door, my stomach growls. But I don’t have time to eat and no way can I afford to be late, so I leave my home of the past two years without a backward glance.

There were a lot of good times had in that penthouse—it’s one of those if walls could talk kind of places—but I’m turning over a new leaf. I’m changing from the Madman to Maddox, the boring guy who stays home by himself every night. Or maybe not. Maybe staying home every night with Harper St. John won’t be so boring. She has spunk. And she’s one gorgeous picture to look at. Making her smile is about to become one of those challenging pleasures of my life.

As soon as I get to the sidewalk out front of my building my phone buzzes and I drop my bag to answer it, hoping it’s Harper. Why? I can’t say.

But it’s not—it’s my sister and I grin as I answer her call.

“Hey Katy. You caught me on my way out,” I say.

“Where you going? It’s early. I thought your game wasn’t until tonight.”

“It would be if I were still playing for NOLA.” She sucks in a breath. “I got traded. I’m headed for Boston.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she says. “After that unfortunate video. On the bright side you’ll practically be down the street from where I live in Connecticut. So we’ll get to see you play.”

“That’s a very bright side. You have to promise you’ll come to all the games.”

“Promise you’ll get me tickets to all the games and I’ll be there.” She takes a deep breath as I grin with the relief of nearby family to look forward to. “Until the baby comes.”

“The tickets are yours… Wait—what? Did you say baby?”

“Yes, I did. Surprised?”