Owen reads my card, pinching it between two fingers. After a long moment, he lifts his head, and grits out a word as if every syllable costs him money. “Great.”
Yeah, right. This is going to be a nightmare. The problem is, I don’t think he’s the only one who feels that way.
Chapter Five
Owen
A couple of days after my first meeting with the Nightmare from North Shore, Dante’s driver picks me up at my place. Remy is already waiting in the back seat.
She looks like she belongs there, like this whole setup was her idea and the rest of us are catching up. It’s the confidence that does it more than anything else. Not loud, not showy. Just… settled. I don’t trust it.
I do a double-take even before I’m fully through the door. “What are you wearing?” I demand.
It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. It’s just a jersey. Team colors. Branding. But seeing her in it—like she’s part of this now, part of my mess—sets my teeth on edge.
She lifts an eyebrow and gestures to her torso. “I would have thought you’d be familiar with your team’s colors.”
Aaaand, there we are, off to a shitty start already. Of course, I know the Venom’s colors; I just wasn’t expecting myhandlerto be wearing a Vegas Venom jersey when she picked me up for the first stop on my apology tour. I drag myself into the back seat and slam the door behind me. From the house, I can barely hear Shutout’s resulting howl. The old guy has strong feelings about intruders in his driveway.
Like owner, like pet, I guess.
“Didn’t know you were a fan,” I say to Remy as I fumble with my seatbelt. Of course, I manage to be a total klutz as the seatbelt gets stuck no less than three times in the process of settling in. Her attention makes me nervous, and I’m unreasonably worried about fucking up in front of her. I maynot like her, but I don’t want her to think that the version of me she saw in that video is the real Owen Rourke.
Which is ridiculous. I’ve played in front of twenty thousand people without blinking. I’ve taken slapshots to the mask and kept going. But one woman sitting three feet away, watching me like she’s already figured me out? That’s enough to throw me off.
She’s not special. I don't want anyone to think that. But unlike most people, I actually have to look this woman in the eye for the next few weeks or months, or however long she’s assigned to me.
And those eyes are—
No. Not going there.
I shove the thought down hard. She’s wearing Venom colors that somehow make her look both flexible and—
Stop.
This is exactly the kind of distraction I don’t need. She’s here to help me not fall apart in public. That’s it. The fact that she’s attractive is irrelevant. The fact that I noticed is a problem I’m going to ignore until it goes away.
“Believe me, I’m not a fan,” she deadpans.
I frown down at my shoes. The car backs out of the drive before I can decide whether to launch myself back out and run for the house.
To my surprise, Remy sighs and adds in a softer voice, “Of sports. I’m not a fan ofsports.And hockey has never been my thing, so if I ask questions that you think should be obvious, I’m not trying to wind you up. I’m trying to understand what happened, so that I can figure out the best way to move forward.”
That’s new. Not what I expected from her. I glance at her again, sharper this time, like I might have missed something the first time around.
“Fix him,”Dante said. At least Remy didn’t say that she’s trying to figure out how to fix me, just my image.
I scratch the nape of my neck and shoot her a sidelong glance. I already knew she was pretty, with high cheekbones, a button nose, and tons of freckles. She’s a ginger, though her hair is dark enough that it might be mistaken for brown in poor lighting. Today, it’s pulled back in a loose braid, and she’s added a touch of green to her makeup to match the jersey she’s wearing over black leggings.
It’s not just that, though. It’s the way she holds herself. She’s not waiting for permission to be here. She expects to be listened to. That kind of confidence usually comes with an attitude I don’t have the patience for.
I’m surprised by the effort. She’s actually gone out of her way to resemble a fan, rather than slapping the jersey on over whatever generic blouse she happened to have on this morning.
“Okay,” I say, though I can’t quite disguise my wariness. “Ask away.”
She twists around so that she can face me more directly. “Alright. Tell me what happened in the crease.”
Straight to it. No warm-up, no easing into it. Just drop the puck and watch what happens. I should respect that. Instead, it makes me want to shut down.
