He shifts deeper into the couch, and I’m not sure where we stand. Whenever I felt unstable with Dalton, I rushed into repair mode, and I’m forcing myself not to do it now. What’s happened between us so far isn’t my mess to repair. Alex and my dad created the hole in expectations, not me.
“Make a plan,” he says, finally. “I’ll give you a month. In the meantime, I’ll have my agent and manager trying to secure someone else, in case this doesn’t work. Worst case, I pay two people while we’re in transition.”
“If you don’t like my work,” I say, and I catch myself keeping my voice even—a practiced skill—rather than letting my irritation show, “you don’t need to pay me.”
He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t have to work,” I clarify. “But I needed my life to have purpose, and I loved learning the human body, so…” I trail off, unsure how to finish. At various points, my family’s wealth has been a source of discomfort. Poor me, right? Sometimes I wish I was ignorant of my privilege like Ava and could just let the opinions of the world wash over me.
“Right,” he says, rubbing his face. “The Tucker billions. Not a circumstance I’m familiar with.”
“No?” I ask hesitantly.Mostpeople aren’t in the billions category, but the way he says it makes me think wealth in general is an uncomfortable thought.
“I make good money now, obviously. My life’s all over the internet.” His voice is gruff. “If you’re curious, it’s quite a read.”
I sense that it must have also been quite a thing to live, but since we’ve inched into an agreement that at least gives me a chance to prove myself, I’m not opening his old wounds. Not on purpose, anyway.
“When did you start playing hockey?”
“Thirteen. Late by most standards. Lots of people call it a miracle or raw talent or whatever they want to pin my success on. I got lucky, and I worked really fucking hard when luck came my way.”
Unlike him, I neverhadto work to get ahead. I started in that position. Inherited wealth put me head and shoulders above most people on the island. I’ve been an asset to others just through proximity several times in my life—someone’s my friend, my boyfriend, a friend of a friend, the head of a charity or company or government organization, trying to make a deal where the Tucker name has currency, legitimizes something that might otherwise be illegitimate.
The last thought sours my stomach again, and I smooth my hair out of my face, trying to brush away my discomfort with it.
“I bet you’ve never had to rely on luck,” he says.
“I think my privilege is more that I’ve never had to think about it at all.” When we make eye contact, his gaze is assessing. There’s a good chance he resents the fact that I have money, but I’d rather have that than someone who covets it, who’s seeking the clout the name and money bring.
He breaks eye contact to check his watch that’s just beeped. “I have practice, and I need to eat. You can see yourself out?”
The abrupt shift in his tone and the conversation is unnerving, but I press my hands along my thighs and stand up. He’s already in the kitchen area opening the freezer. “We’ll need to do a preliminary assessment as soon as possible,” I say. “You’ll send me your schedule?”
“Someone will,” he calls over his shoulder. He mutters something about the chef as he roots around before popping out a ready-made meal and slotting it into the microwave. “Once the season starts, all I think about is hockey.”
I would have thought I’d be part of that “hockey” thought process, given that I’m supposed to be the lead on his injury prevention. But I get the feeling that Logan Bishop has spent a lot of time compartmentalizing all the aspects of his life. Probably a much better strategy than the mess I made of mine by letting too many things interweave.
“I’ll see you soon, I guess,” I say, heading toward the door.
“It’ll be tomorrow,” he says as the microwave beeps, and he takes out a steaming container. “I have one rest day a week, but otherwise, I’m training, practicing, or playing a game.”
Is that too much? One rest day a week doesn’t seem like enough recovery time when the season is in full swing. Tomorrow during the assessment, I’ll ask more questions. I can already tell I’ve lost him by the thousand-yard stare he has toward the ocean view.
“See you tomorrow.”
Then, as I drive back to my office, I call the head of physiotherapy for Northern University. I haven’t spoken to her in years, but if I’m going to walk into the assessment with Logan Bishop tomorrow feeling prepared, I need a refresher on what I should be looking for and what research I have to be doing in the next twenty-four hours to feel ready.
The last thing I want is to feel out of my depth the first day he gives me a real chance at proving my worth. No matter what, some guy isn’t determining my self-worth ever again. The only person who determines that isme.
Chapter Six
Logan
After practice, I’m exiting the building, headed toward the car waiting for me when I hear someone call my name behind me. My steps stutter, and I consider ignoring the male voice. It’s not familiar to me, and I’m not in the mood for fan shit.
“I’m part of the Advisory Council,” the man calls out, and while I can’t remember exactly what that means, I think it’s some government job. Maybe advises the king or something.
I’m already at my car, the driver waiting patiently, and I open the back door, pausing for the dark-haired man to catch up. He’s shorter than me and lean. Older by a lot. Looks like a typical politician. Smooth in all the ways I’d never want to be.
