Waiting for Coach to take a seat on the opposite side of the table, I know he doesn’t deserve my bratty attitude. There’s no way he had a hand in my fate, even if I’ll be his daughter’s new client.
Coach pulls on the bill of his green cap and exhales a long breath. “I don’t think assigning you an external publicist is totally left field. All the guys on the team have representation of some kind.”
I slump down in my seat and fold my arms across my chest. “How many rookies have been hauled into a meeting room before they’ve played one game for the team and told that theyneed to be monitored to avoid ending up at the center of a PR crisis?”
Coach clears his throat.
“I mean, take your career, for example.” I hold my hand out. “You went through your fair share of shit, but did you ever have that happen?”
He just smiles, although it’s too dark to be friendly. “No. I got kicked off the team and traded to the other side of the country instead.”
I fall quiet because that’s exactly what happened. Coach’s early career wasn’t unlike my own—while I haven’t fallen for his daughter like he did his GM’s, I am a rookie with the weight of fans’ expectations on my shoulders.
“I’m not a liability, Coach,” I tell him.
He quirks a brow and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out his cell and scrolling. “So, your Instagram was hacked when your handle responded to a comment underneath a post about your new fancy car, saying,Since I’m stuck playing for the worst team in the league, I used my fat signing bonus to lessen the pain.”
I roll my lips together, trying to suppress an inappropriate smirk. I forgot about that reply.
Coach taps his phone screen a couple of times. “Or how about the blonde you’re pictured with here?”
He turns the phone around so I can see the supermodel hanging off my arm in a nightclub last week. It was posted to my stories, so he must’ve taken a screenshot and kept it as evidence.
“At least I’ll be scoring somewhere in Seattle. The girls in this city are fiiine,” Coach reads the caption I posted to go with the image of the girl whose name I can’t remember. Although we did bang that night in her hotel. She was on a bachelorette weekend, and I don’t have a list of girls to hit up in Seattle. Yet.
He shakes his head and repockets his phone.
“It’s not like you have alcohol to blame, Will. You hardly ever drink, and I’m proud of you for that.”
I puff out my chest a little. “Very rarely.”
With the way he’s looking at me right now, you’d never believe that we’re practically family. Damn, this guy has professionalism down to a fine art. I see where his daughter gets it from.
After a few beats of nothing, Coach releases a sigh. “You have an amazing career ahead of you, and it’s a true privilege to be coaching you.” He pauses for a moment, bright blue eyes that remind me of Drew’s fixing me in place. “But you have a lot of learning to do. Pro hockey is nothing like the NCAA. Here, you have a team paying you extortionate wages, and they expect nothing but your best.”
I nod my head. “I’m committed to the game—you know I am.”
He doesn’t argue with my statement. “On the ice, you’re one of the hardest-working rookies I’ve seen. Off the ice, you’re …” He swallows. “Well, you’re a fucking nightmare.”
My mouth hangs open.
So, Coachdidhave a hand in the meeting earlier today.
“Was First Line PR and Drew your idea?” I ask, voice laced with contempt. It’s ill-advised for me to get mad with the guy who calls the shots over my fate, but I’m done playing around.
“Jessie,” I demand, knowing that I’m overstepping player-coach boundaries.
Lips pursed, he palms the desk separating us. “It’s Coach to you, Will. And since you asked, no, I didn’t have a clue that Drew was going to represent you. First Line PR got the contract, and all other decisions were made without my knowledge.” He leans back in his chair. “Believe it or not, my concerns center around what goes oninsidethe rink.”
Our gazes are trained on each other as neither of us speaks for several seconds.
“You wanted to see me, Coach?” A male voice I don’t recognize filters through the door.
Coach turns to face it, voice adopting a much softer edge as he says, “Yeah, sure, come in, Silas.”
Silas Stanton—light-brown hair, dark blue eyes, a defenseman and the Rogues one and only captain since they first formed—waltzes into the room.
With a tip of his chin, he acknowledges Coach and immediately holds out his hand for me to shake.
