Boone: Except mom. Love you, mom!
I slip in behind a guy shaking snow off his overpriced coat like it personally offended him. “Fucking hate the snow. So goddamn pointless,” he mutters, loud enough for anyone within earshot to hear.
A few people around him grunt in agreement. I hold my tongue because, honestly, if he hates snow, New York is the wrong place to set up shop.
A few minutes later, I’m sliding in the elevator, riding up to the twelfth floor like Caleb told me.
When the doors open, I almost stop in my tracks.
The law office of Prescott and Associates is next level. I’m talking velvet furniture, rose gold light fixtures, and a marble floor so shiny it’s like staring into a mirror.
The place practically oozes money and feels like a billionaire villains fever dream. And all I can think about is how much this is all going to cost me.
I step up to the front desk, where a woman with a razor-sharp bob and a manicure that could cut glass is typing away without looking up.
“Hi,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m Boone Tremblay. Here to meet with my new lawyer. My team owner should be here any minute.”
She finally glances up, flashing me a smile so fake it’s almost impressive. “Have a seat. We’ll call you when your lawyer is ready to meet with you.”
“Sure,” I mumble, turning toward one of the velvet chairs that look more like art pieces than furniture. I sit, knowing I’m going to soak this with snowflakes, and try not to fidget, but it’s hard to ignore how out of place and nervous I feel right now.
Thankfully, it’s not long before Caleb steps off the elevator, brushing snow off his coat and looking awfully dapper.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, striding over.
“Doesn’t look like it mattered. The lawyer isn't ready,” I reply, jerking my thumb toward the receptionist, who’s now looking at Caleb like he’s someone worth acknowledging.
I swear there are hearts in her eyes, and she batted her lashes.
Where was all that when I walked in? I mean, the guy’s good looking, but he’s not big, hockey player good-looking.
“Cain Prescott’s ready for you two now. I’ll show you to the boardroom.”
The receptionist steps out from behind the gold-plated desk, leaving it unattended for about two seconds before another woman—basically her clone—glides into position.
It’s seamless, and honestly, a little unnerving how out of place I feel here.
As we follow her down the hall, I can’t help but take in the rows of cubicles filled with people who look like they haven’t slept in days. People with signs tacked that say paralegals, interns, junior associates—they’re all flipping through stacks of papers, juggling phone calls, and radiating stress.
Yeah, working here would be my worst nightmare. Give me a rowdy locker room, some sweaty bros who swear and drink too much and the chaos of a hockey rink any day.
Finally, we round a corner to an all-glass conference room. The frosted windows make it impossible to see who’s inside, and I feel the first twinge of nerves clawing at my chest.
Caleb stops short, turning to me with that no-nonsense expression I’ve come to recognize as his game face.
“Let me handle the talking unless they ask you something directly,” he says, his tone sharp but calm. “And keep your questions relevant. These people are here to help you so don’t piss them off—this is about fixing your brand and turning thingsaround. You’re already a standout on the ice. Let’s make sure your reputation off the ice matches that so you don’t lose any of your sponsorships.”
I nod, a little surprised. That might be the nicest thing Caleb’s ever said to me, or at least the most words he’s strung together in one go that don't include yelling and telling me that I’m embarrassing his club.
He pushes open the frosted glass doors and we step inside. There are two men already seated at the conference table.
One is older, tall and burly, with piercing eyes that feel like they can see right through me. The other is younger, with dark brown hair and equally dark eyes, exuding a kind of cool confidence that tells me he’s probably Cain, my new, young lawyer who's supposed to be in touch with his clientele and eager to work with athletes.
“Maxwell Prescott,” the older man says, standing and extending a hand.
I shake it firmly. “Boone Tremblay. Nice to meet you, sir.”
Maxwell nods, then gestures to the younger guy, who steps forward.
