His lie annoys me. He can’t stand me almost as much as I can’t stand him. And the fact that he pretends to be this perfect, pleasant guy makes me even more angry.
Something behind him catches my attention—a child’s drawing. It’s not very good, but even I can tell that it’s him and his daughter with a bunch of stars in the sky.
“Nice art project.”
He glances over his shoulder, and when he turns back to me, his eyes change. They go... happier. More affectionate. His whole body relaxes, shoulders inching down and mouth going soft.
“I have a nine-year-old. Bea.”
Bea. So that’s her name. He says it likeBee-ah.“Pretty.”
“It meansgift,” he says. “Beatrice. But we call her Bea.”
Who’s we, I want to ask. Her mother? Are they together? I don’t think so. Georgia maintains that he’s single.
Not that I care.
He clears his throat, and the moment is over. “Here’s your laptop and phone.” He slides them across his desk to me. “Your business credit card will arrive by the end of the week, and your office should be ready by this afternoon.”
“Where did you stick me?” I give him a wry smile. “The supply closet?”
“The old GM’s office.” He nudges his chin toward the sprawling office across the hall, and I’m filled with discomfort.
I would actually prefer a cramped supply closet. I definitely do not deserve to sit in there.
“That way I can keep an eye on you,” he adds. “Make sure you don’t cause too much chaos.”
That ugly, ashamed feeling washes through me again. I thought about it all night, as I hid in my room while the cat had the rest of the apartment to herself.
He doesn’t want me here. No surprise there.
“Let’s get one thing straight,Coach.”
“Please.” He sits back, lacing his fingers together and folding them over his flat stomach. God, I can’t stand him.
“I find you extremely annoying.”
He looks like he wants to smile. No, heissmiling now. “See?” I gesture at his stupid handsome face. “Annoying.”
“What exactly about me do you find annoying?” It doesn’t even bother him, that I’m sitting here, insulting him. He’s that secure. He knows I have so little to work with.
“You have this wise, high-handed, all-knowing thing going on. Youstudypeople. Who do you think you are, Gandalf?”
His mouth quirks up.
“Stop smiling.”
“Am I smiling? I didn’t realize.”
“You can cut thatnice guyshit with me, too.”
“Treating people with basic decency and respect isn’tnice guyshit,Jordan. Do you need a coffee? You’re more abrasive than normal.” His eyebrows lift. “Or maybe you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
Of course I am. I’m a wreck. The Stanley Cup. That’s what my dad wants. How am I—? I can’t. Tate said it himself—they’d never hire someone like me for management.
I don’t belong here.
