Potato chips?
He doesn’t even eat junk food.
“My body is a temple and should be treated as such.”
Once again, I internally roll my eyes, recalling a line Will has regurgitated so many times around the dinner table. I’d happilyshove a brownie down his throat just so I didn’t have to hear it again.
“So, yeah”—Colton ends the call and picks up his previous thread—“right now, the priority is curating his image into something approachable and humble.”
How I don’t snicker I’ve no idea.
“Sure,” I say with a sweet smile, tucking my laptop under one arm before I stand.
“I’m certain you’re already aware of this, Drew. But I want you to make Will your top client. And if that means relinquishing some of your smaller clients for the benefit of this relationship, then I don’t want you to hesitate in coming to me.”
I nod once and make for the door, ready to start work the second I reach my desk.
With my hand on the door handle, I turn around to face my boss. While I might be the obvious choice to represent Will, considering our history, the risk Colton’s taking isn’t lost on me—I’m good at my job, but I’ve also been a full-time publicist for just over a year, and compared to a lot of my colleagues, I’m very inexperienced.
“I really appreciate this chance,” I tell the man who has believed in me from the second I walked through his doors. “And I won’t let you down.”
2
. . .
Will
“Will, you got a second?”
Dressed in gray sweats and a black Dri-FIT, Jessie Callaghan—and now my coach—stops me before entering the gym.
After the meeting I just had with him, my agent, the team owners, general manager, and the in-house PR team, I need to blow off some steam. I’ll be honest, when I’m this pissed at something, it’s hard for me to remain professional. I’m hotheaded, like the rest of my family. Call it a classic Jones trait.
Add in the fact that I see Jessie as more of an uncle than a coach, and I’m fighting even harder to keep my cool.
My silence when we lock eyes causes him to wince as he thumbs behind him to a door.
The Rogues’ arena in Belltown is state-of-the-art, with an underground players’ gym and multiple briefing rooms. When the US-based consortium had this place designed, they wanted to keep everything under one roof—from where we played and practiced to individual conditioning programs the players would undertake in the preseason.
Great idea in principle, but when I’m in this kind of mood, I’d do anything for a bit of goddamn privacy.
They want to introduce special fucking PR measures because I cannot be trusted to run my own social media.
And to add insult to injury, Drew Callaghan has been assigned to represent me now that she works for some hotshot PR company called First Line, or whatever the hell it is.
Taking orders is hard enough for me at the best of times, and now I’m receiving them from two people with the same last name.
“I need some time to think about what happened in there.” I point down the hallway toward the room where I was summoned an hour ago. “Because me being put under surveillance came straight out of left field.”
Coach’s brows pull together, and he turns on his heel, depressing the handle and opening the door. “Maybe we should have this conversation away from any potential eavesdroppers.”
I scoff and nod my head, walking into the meeting room and dumping myself down on a black leather desk chair.
This place is a corporate dream, every single room adorning the green-white-and-gold Rogues’ logo.
It makes me want to throw up. Where are the trophies and pictures from former players lifting the Cup?
Oh, right. Yeah, they don’t exist.
