The Asshole Whisperer
Gisele
People think a town like me runs on routine—coffee at the diner, gossip at the salon, wings at the Power Play. But what they don’t see is the fault lines underneath it all. The pressure. The pride. The way we hold each other together until something finallygives. And today, something’s about to crack right down the middle of Main Street.
Playlist: “Little Lion Man” by Mumford & Sons
The thing about running a salon in a small town is that you become the unofficial therapist, relationship counselor, and gossip clearinghouse whether you signed up for the job or not. By nine in the morning, I’ve already heard about Martha Miller’s daughter’s engagement (to the wrong twin, apparently), the new menu at Power Play that Beth is testing (brisket nachos—controversial), and exactly how badly the Slammers lost last night.
That last one I already knew. I watched the game on my phone while restocking product, alone in my apartment above the salon because I’m a glutton for punishment, and Bennett Foster has been slowly killing me for years without ever laying a hand on me.
“—and then he just skated off. Didn’t even stay for the handshake line.” Ida Montgomery shakes her head while I section her silver hair for highlights. “That boy’s wound tighter than my grandmother’s girdle, and that’s saying something because Nana could crack walnuts with her—”
“Got it. Thanks for that visual.” I squeeze the foil closed and move to the next section, grateful for the excuse to focus on something other than the knot in my chest that formed around the second period and hasn’t loosened since.
The Slammers are struggling. Everyone knows it. And we’re running out of games to pretend it’s not a problem. The whole town’s been holding its breath since the season started, watching Bennett try to hold together a team that’s been underfunded and overlooked for years. He’s doing it the only way he knows how—by white-knuckling every practice, every game, every interaction until something cracks. Franklin’s already warned him once this week—get it together or lose the room. Maybe worse.
I’m just waiting to see if it’s the team or him.
“You should talk to him.” Ida meets my eyes in the mirror with that knowing look old ladies in small towns have perfected into an art form. “Everyone knows he listens to you.”
“Bennett doesn’t listen to anyone.” I keep my voice light, easy. “That’s kind of his whole thing.”
“Mmm.” Ida’s not buying it, but she’s polite enough to let it drop.
I just keep working, keep moving, keep my hands busy so they can’t betray me by doing something stupid like reaching for my phone to text him.
The salon hums with its usual morning energy—Dua Lipa crooning through the speakers, the chemical-sweet smell of developer mixing with the lavender diffuser I run to keep things civilized, the low hum of conversation punctuated by hair dryers and laughter. This is my kingdom. My space. The one thing in my life I built from nothing and control completely.
Except the part where I can’t stop thinking about a man who won’t let me in. Not that I’m chasing him anymore. I retired from that job the moment he became insufferable.
The front door flies open so hard the bell jangles like it’s having a full-on panic attack. Shep Sawyer skids inside, coat half-zipped, face flushed, breathing harder than an Olympic sprinter.
“Gis! Gis! Emergency! Code Red! Code Grumpy! Code we have a prob-lem-o!”
The blow dryer dies in my hand. The entire salon goes pin-drop quiet.
I don’t miss a beat. “Shep, if this is another one of your ‘I accidentally ordered two hundred custom WOOOOO shirts’ emergencies—”
“No, no, no.” He slaps both hands on the desk. “It’s Bennett. He’s… he’s just sitting there. In the middle of Main Street. Statuesque. Cars are going around him. He won’t move. Won’t talk. Just… sitting.”
My stomach drops.
Shep swallows, tries again, gestures vaguely like words are failing him in real time. “Since you’re the… uh… asshole whisperer. I mean—” he winces, “dickhead whisperer. I mean—”
He drags a hand down his face.
“The grumpy-captain-whisperer… we’ve got one. In the street. About to become road kill. And nobody wants to see that.”
Silence.
I set the blow dryer down. “Everyone stay put. I’ve got this.”
My chest tightens. This isn’t like him. Bennett’s control is legendary—it’s the thing that holds him together, the armor he’s worn so long I don’t think he remembers what’s underneath it anymore.
If that armor’s cracking in public, we’ve got a bigger problem than traffic.
“Stay here,” I tell Shep. “Keep everyone calm. I’ll handle it.”
