Page 11 of He Has Charm (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“Settle down. I know what you mean.” He pauses. “Truth?” I eye Maddox as he glances around at several drivers holding signs identifying their passengers. “No one else was available after Collins refused. You were my last and only choice.”
“So you were desperate and now you’re counting on me?”
“Yeah. Pretty much. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think you can do it. It only means that I didn’t intentionally put you in this situation with a guy like Knight.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m an ex-hockey player, remember? I can handle Knight.”
“I know you can do it. It’s only for four months. All you have to do is keep him out of trouble, and that means especially out of anyone’s bed—including your own. Keep him focused on hockey.”
“You can count on me.” I should feel ashamed that all I see is dollar signs and that helps a lot to ignore all the other signs that this is going to be one tough assignment. But not because I can’t handle the likes of a hockey bad-boy. No, because I also need to handle myself and the stupid secret crush I’ve been harboring about this particular bad boy. I have no idea why, but there’s something vulnerable and boyish about him that calls to me more than his looks or his light-hearted charm. And whatever it is, I need to shut it down. Hard and fast.
“I’ll leave it to you, but I know you can find plenty of wholesome activities—maybe some hands-on charitable work or something—to keep him out of trouble.”
“You know, Jett, maybe we’re both underestimating Mr. Knight. Maybe he can keep himself out of trouble.”
“You’re probably right, but we made a deal with the Brawlers that says we’re babysitting him. We need to make sure we’re making the effort whether we need to or not. And by we, I mean you. Clear?”
“Crystal.” We end the call and I go back to Maddox’s side, a new and strangely familiar place.
“There’s our driver,” he says, lifting that manly chin of his in the direction of a short man in a black cap holding a sign emblazoned with JETT, our agency’s name. Maddox lifts both our bags and I follow him. Feeling like his elderly aunt more than his escort or whatever the hell I am, when we finally get inside the car, I’m relieved.
Opening up my tablet, I angle it to carve out extra space between us. “What do your friends call you? Maddox?”
“My family calls me Mad. My teammates call me Knight. Or they used to.” He shrugs, but I see the shadow of sadness cross his features and realize he’s lost all his friends from the team in one fell swoop and I doubt he even had a chance to say goodbye. I know it happens all the time in professional sports, but that doesn’t make it any less of an adjustment to lose your friends and your home and start over.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure your new teammates will catch on.” My hand reaches out and pats his knee. The gesture of comfort is automatic and it’s so ingrained that I don’t realize I’m touching him until the heat of his bare flesh scalds my hand. His eyes meet mine in surprise and he smiles with appreciation, not one of those innuendo-implying smirks. But I snatch my hand back and look away too fast to deserve any credit for his appreciation.
As I busy myself with emails, the sparkle of my spike sandals made for evening wear catches my eye. The strappy glitter is so not appropriate with this business suit. Shit.
“Killer shoes,” he says.
“They’re all wrong, but my sneakers would be even more wrong—or maybe—”
“No. I veto the sneakers. One of us wearing sneakers is all we can get away with for a press conference. We can’t have the reporters thinking I’m repped by a gym teacher, can we?” I suppress a smile.
“You’re keeping the broken shoes?” he continues.
“They were my favorites. Eventually I’ll get them fixed.”
“Do they still have shoe cobblers around? Might be tough to find a new heel like that.”
“I’ll figure it out. Least of our problems.” I get myself back to business, feeling only slightly off wearing the glittery shoes with my business suit. I pull a sheet of paper from my bag to go over.
“Here are your talking points for the press conference.” I hand it to him. “Study it and don’t stray off topic, don’t ad lib, and do not ramble. Fewer words are better.”
“Got it.” He looks at me askance. “You know I’ve done this before, right?”
“You’ve faced down a scandal at a press conference to save your career before?” I arch a brow.
“Touché. Not exactly. But I’ve never had a problem handling the press.”
“Until now. They’ll be out for blood today, to use you and any scintillating details they can wring out. You’re big, juicy, salacious story, a ticket to a payday for them. You’re no longer Maddox Knight, hockey player. You are Maddox Knight, hot scandal. Remember that and do your best not to give them anything, of course while being cooperative and pleasant.”
“Well, fuck,” he says. “How long do you suppose the press conference will run? I’m not sure I can take the torture more than a few minutes before they pull a full confession out of me.”
“Ha ha. Take this seriously. Please.”
“Don’t worry, St. John. I’ll follow your lead.”
“I won’t be saying a thing. You’re on your own.”
“Exactly. I can handle it.” He stares at me with a strange combination of amusement and seriousness wavering on his face and my heart speeds up. I’m counting on him and I hope he’s right.
“Yes, you can.” I decide I need to believe in him or drive myself crazy. And I’m already crazy enough just breathing him in.
