Page 46 of He Has Charm (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“It’s sugar buns.”
Shelly cackles in my ear. “Whatever. I think it’s adorable and I can’t for the life of me figure why he’s so out of bounds. No one’s going to know what you do behind closed doors in that fabulous Beacon Hill townhouse. You really scored big staying there for the next few months. You’re going to be spoiled for when you return to your New York closet you call an apartment.”
“You have no idea how spoiled,” I say half to myself. But I shove the future aside because there’s a lot I need to do between now and the end of the season. First and foremost is to survive my time with Maddox Knight, lady killer extraordinaire, the man with too much charm formyown good. How do I explain to Shelly that there’s even more at stake than my job and that what we do behind closed doors at our townhouse could lose me my heart?
“So you’ll go out? I know a place where you can meet plenty of guys. Me too.”
“Fine, I’ll go out to watch the game. But we have to go somewhere we can find a business-suit type, not a gym shorts or sweatpants kind of guy. I don’t want to substitute one jock for another. I need to get my head away from athletes. Especially professional ones. Attention is too easy for them. Money is too easy. Everything is too easy. Easy come, easy go.”
“Since when are you anti-jock? Isn’t the reason you got into the sports agent profession because you’re a diehard jock yourself and a certified jock lover? And you don’t believe a word of that shit you just spouted off about easy come, easy go. You of all people know how hard professional athletes work. You and I worked hard just to stay competitive at the college level in women’s hockey, for crap’s sake. What’s with you?”
“I told you. I’m obsessed and I’m trying to figure out how to get un-obsessed.” I pause. “Know a good exorcist?” She cracks up and I breathe in a huge gulp of her welcome laughter.
“Never mind. Just wear your sexiest outfit tonight and we’ll get you exorcised somehow. You need to find someone else to take your mind off Mr. Hot and Untouchable.” She laughs again and we make a plan to meet at Smith & Wolensky’s bar on Atlantic Wharf at eight p.m. She’ll get there early to hold us a table and I’m hoping I can make it in time for the puck drop.
***
Later in the afternoon, I’m out for a power walk through the hilly neighborhood, carefully navigating the uneven brick sidewalks, when my phone pings. It’s Delaney calling me back. Pulling my glove off with my teeth, I tap on the call button with one hand and lift my earmuffs with the other, then press the phone to my ear. I’ve been checking the Brawlers’ social media accounts and googling Knight to assess any changes in his cyber reputation. To me the streams don’t look bad. No crazy commentary and no viral videos or IG posts or Tweets. I point this out to her.
“True, but we can’t afford another close call like what happened in the restaurant again. We were lucky to manage the photos Nora Olak posted on social media. Management doesn’t want any media kerfuffle distracting the team as we make our cup run. You need to avoid any further random photos in the future at all costs. No more appearing in public with Knight.” My first reaction is to tell her I don’t work for her, but that would be splitting hairs. Technically our agency works for Maddox, but we all get paid by the Brawlers, so… I need to pay attention to the ballbuster. Shit. Now I really get her nickname.
“According to the contract,” I say, officially in my element, “where he goes, I go, with the only exception being away games.”
“Fine, but you don’t need to sit at the same table with him next time. Keep an eye on him from a distance if he has to go out.” Her words feel like a medicine ball to my chest, like I’ve been demoted from warden to pet sitter, like I’m not good enough to share the same space with the likes of Maddox Knight, hockey star. Technically she didn’t mean it that way, but that’s how her words hit me.
“I’ll do my best,” I say attempting to keep my voice even. “We won’t be going out in public much I suspect anyway except for charitable events.”
“Great. Keep him busy and off the street. But while you’re keeping him busy and out of trouble with puck bunnies, you watch out for yourself too, Harper. I have it on good authority that Knight really is a player of epic proportions.” She surprises me, because I think she’s seriously worried.
“Thank you for your concern, but he’s really not that bad. He’s naturally going to attract ladies’ attention because he’s so good-looking, but he’s really harmless. Maybe even misunderstood.” I slow down my ramble because I realize going overboard to defend him isn’t a good look. “He has hobbies. Did you know he likes cooking? Well, he does and we’re going to focus on that in his spare time—if he even has any because he stays late at practice you know. And—”
“I get the picture. Sounds like you have him under control.” Her voice is so skeptical it sounds like she means the exact opposite—thathehasmeunder control. Or maybe that’s my guilty conscience talking. But it’s not true. It can’t be. I won’t let it be. There’s far too much at stake.
“Just do me a favor,” she says, “and keep a watch out for Nora. I don’t think she’s finished with her angle. That photo of you and Knight could have been killer if we didn’t counter it with our own. She’s a wily old reporter and she’s got it in her head that you’re his handler—which is true enough—but she seems to want to create another scandal. I would have thought that kind of thing was beneath her, so I’m not sure how far she’ll go.” She lets out a breath.
“Yes, you’re right. I’ll watch out for Nora. On the other hand, I thought Maddox handled her very well when she—”
“He did all right. I give him a C+ at best. He needs to stop smiling so much. Tell him to frown and growl like a real hockey player, would ya?” My eyes widen and I’m not sure if she’s serious, but I hear no signs of amusement at all.
“Right. You’re right. I agree. He needs to be more serious about hockey to instill confidence in the fans and the management. Good news is I think the players understand—”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. If he could score a hat trick tonight or tomorrow night that would help everyone’s confidence that he’s serious about hockey.” I agree, but it’s a tall order. The Brawlers are playing one of their toughest competitors in the league, and those Devils are gunning for us, especially with our home ice advantage two nights in a row.
“I’ll give him your message. And your vote of confidence.” She snorts and barely says, “Later,” before the line goes dead.Okaaay. I don’t know whether I should admire her or be afraid of her—or afraid of becoming like her. If Shelly is right, I’m headed straight for becoming Delaney’s double. Old and alone and with nothing to live for but my job. On the other hand, she’s successful, has plenty of money, and she’s well-respected—more like feared as the ballbuster, but same thing, right?
Jogging the rest of the way home, I laugh at myself. I’m only twenty-seven and far too young to be worried about ending up like Delaney. Also, my more immediate concern is all those bills and responsibilities that come way before my love life. As soon as I get out from under my debt—which will be as soon as this season ends and I collect my bonus and my raise—then I’ll take a breather and think about romance.
But by then I’ll be back in New York City and Maddox will be out of the picture. So what? I can’t think of him romantically at the end of the season any more than I can now because he’ll still be a client. And what the hell am I thinking? He’s so not my type. And more importantly, I’m so nothistype.
The only reason he’s flirting with me now is because I’m conveniently available. By the end of the season he’ll have his pick of hordes of female admirers, so many gorgeous successful women to choose from that I’ll be forgotten as a footnote in his little black book—or the virtual equivalent—and we’ll be back to business acquaintances with our only contact being via email and an occasional phone call.
Resisting the wistful pull, when I let myself in the front door, I look around the entry with boxes still stacked among the formal furniture at various stages between packed and unpacked. Welcoming the need to work, after I shower, I attack the job of unpacking with gusto. By the time I’m finished, my stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten much today in spite of all the talk about cooking. Of course we have no groceries in the house besides the breakfast things I bought this morning and, like an addict, I happily pile grocery shopping onto my mental stack of things to do.
For now, I’ll need take out. I pick up my phone for the Uber Eats app and notice I have a text from Maddox.
It’s a photo of an enormous juicy steak captioned, “thinking of U.”
Why do I find steak so sexy all of a sudden? I wipe the grin from my face but I can’t exactly stop the yearning in my sad neglected lady parts so easily. Tonight’s outing can’t come soon enough. A surge of guilt rises fast, slamming me in the conscience like I’m cheating on Maddox. Holy shit, that’s so unfair of my conscience. Heaving a breath, I get a grip and text him back.
