It’s being dismissed. Talked over. Written off before I even get a chance to do the job I was hired to do.
“Duly noted. I’ll have your back if need be, of course.”
He says that as if the statement should be obvious, but I don’t take Ezra’s loyalty for granted. The one time a job blew up in my face, when a client self-sabotaged his own imagemakeover by having a friend sneak pills into his hotel room, Ezra yanked me from the job without a moment’s hesitation and told the client’s team in no uncertain terms that I couldn’t be expected to do my job if he couldn’t keep his shit together. Our firm’s contracts are ironclad.
My reasons for balking on this job are personal, though I do my best to keep my work and personal life compartmentalized. I dated a hockey player in college. I should have noticed the red flags right away, but in my defense: thosethighs.Thatass.The sex was incredible.
The apology texts weren’t. The slammed doors weren’t. The way I started second-guessing every word out of my own mouth just to keep the peace definitely wasn’t.
And the emotional blowouts? No bueno. Big egos, short fuses, and physical prowess are a terrible combination. He never laid a hand on me, but after he put his fist all the way through the hollow-core door of my shitty college apartment, I swore off the whole breed.
But this is work. I don’t have to date him; I just have to tell him how to unfuck his image, manage this crisis and any future crises, and in that, I excel.
“His name’s Rourke?” I ask.
This is the kind of assignment people build careers on—or lose them over. There’s no middle ground here.
Ezra beams. He knows I’m going to take this job. Icouldsay no, but I’d be shooting myself in the foot, career-wise. A high-profile case like this is a career-maker. And a tiny, petty part of me likes the idea of putting a troll like this goalie in his place.
“OwenRourke,” Ezra replies. “And believe it or not, he’s from Boston, too. You’ll have something in common.”
Something tells me that we’re not going to bond over that, or much of anything else. Which is fine. I don’t need to bond with him. I need to do my job and get out. The sooner the better.
“Fantastic!” I lay on the enthusiasm thick as molasses. “So, when do I start?”
Ezra smiles like he’s in on a secret, and that should probably worry me more than it does.
Chapter Three
Owen
Shutout pants at my feet, tongue lolling. He knows I’m a sucker for that goofy grin. I never used to let him beg, but now that he’s older, I enjoy sneaking him bits of dog-safe food while I cook.
“Hoping for some of these broccoli stems?” I ask.
Shutout mouth-breathes on my ankles. He’s too lazy to stand for long, so mostly he flops around on the cool tile of my condo’s kitchen floor. His old bones appreciate the relief from the heat.
“You don’t even pay rent, but you expect handouts? Such a mooch.” I flick a broccoli floret off the cutting board. It lands between Shutout’s paws, prompting him to go full piranha mode. He might look old and harmless, but woe betide the fool who gets between him and his food. I’m told that’s because he’s got a little black lab in him, but Shutout’s the kind of Heinz 57 mix that makes it hard to attribute any of his behaviors to his breed. I did a DNA test on him a few years ago, and the list of breed traits came back a mile long. Allegedly, he’s fifteen percent chihuahua. Go figure.
Unlike my mutt’s over-functioning DNA profile, cooking is simple. Heat, timing, a little attention, and things turn out the way they’re supposed to. I know what the end result will be before I even start, and if something goes wrong, I can fix it. Out there, it doesn’t work like that. People don’t follow instructions. Situations don’t stay contained. Lately, it feels like everything I touch outside this kitchen has a way of slipping just far enough out of my control that I can’t get it back.
I’ve got everything prepped and ready to cook when my phone rings. Mom’s photo pops up on the screen. It’s an oldphoto, one that a friend snapped of us at my high school graduation. I look like a total dork, but she looks perfect. Carefree. I didn’t get to see her smile like that when I was growing up. I’m never going to take her joy for granted.
“Hey, Ma.” I pinch the phone between my shoulder and my ear. “How’s your roof holding up?”
“My roof is fine. It’s my son that has me worried.”
I lower my tuna steaks into the sizzling cast-iron. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Mm. That’s not what the talking heads on ESPN are saying.”
They’re calling it a pattern, which is news to me. Slow-motion breakdowns, arrows drawn across the screen like they can diagram intent from a single frame. Words like “undisciplined” and “volatile” get tossed around as facts instead of guesses. There’s already talk of the League reviewing it, of whether supplemental discipline is warranted, like I’m one more clip away from turning into a headline instead of a player.
There are few things I hate more than disappointing my mother. The poor woman has already had a lifetime of that. “It’s fine, Ma. You know how hockey is.”
“I do,” she says, “but that’s not how I raised you, baby.”
She might as well have cursed a blue streak. The metal spatula slips from my hands and lands on the floor with a clatter loud enough to startle Shutout into leaping to his feet. His nails skitter on the tile as he tries to escape the danger-spatula, Three Stooges style.
