Page 25 of Heartless As Puck

“I think it’s bullshit that choosing the captain could be about anything other than hockey,” I grumbled.

Gus sighed, and I could easily picture him pinching the bridge of his nose as he often did when he was exasperated with me.

“Austin, I’ll be real with you: Once you reach a certain level of success, advancement is almost always political. If you’ve got a pool of candidates who each have the skills and talents required to be able to do the job, then political positioning can be the deciding factor. It’s just how it is.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Yes, you’ve made your opinion clear, but that doesn’t change the facts of the matter. If you don’t think you can talk Jane into it, then have a think about whether anyone else might fit the role. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“All right. Talk later.”

“Good night.” Gus ended the call.

I dug my fingers into my hair and tugged, a growl of frustration tearing from my chest. Where, exactly, did Gus think I was going to magic up this perfect fake girlfriend from? I hardly talked to anyone other than the guys on the team.

I flinched at a crash somewhere else in the house. It didn’t sound like anything had broken, more that something had been knocked over and hit the floor. I flopped back onto the sofa and strained my ears, hoping to hear further clues. Sure enough, a few more bumps and bashes followed.

My feet itched to carry me to Jane, but I pressed my soles to the floor and didn’t budge. Yes, I wanted to apologize again, and yes, time was running out, but Jane had made it clear that she didn’t want to interact with me right now and pushing her would only make her resist harder.

Nevertheless, a sense of urgency crackled through me like electricity, urging me to find her immediately and do whatever it took to make it right. I knew my motives weren’t pure. I hoped, deep down, that apologizing would get me what I wanted. I was a selfish asshole, and because of that, I didn’t let myself seek her out. I stayed exactly where I was.

When the noise dissipated, I finally padded out of my suite and made my way through the house to the kitchen.

Jane had cleaned up. I looked around, wondering what she’d knocked over. Nothing looked out of place. I glanced over at the dining table and froze. A large book sat on one of the chairs. I knew Jane liked reading. I’d seen her reading on her tablet before. But I’d never seen her with an actual book—at least, not that I could remember.

Feeling like a stalker, I approached the book. It was face down. After a short debate between the angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other, I turned it over.

I cocked my head, surprised. While the book was large, I’d assumed it was fiction. Instead, the front cover declared it to be a textbook on the pathology of speech disorders.

Intrigued, I picked it up, sat down, and flipped it open. There was absolutely no denying that this was a textbook. While it had some images to break up the chunks of text, the few paragraphs I scanned were dry and academic.

Why did Jane have this textbook?

My eyebrows knitted together as I recalled the way she’d stuttered earlier, tripping slightly over her words. It had happened once or twice before, but the same could be true of many people, so I’d never given it much thought. Did Jane have a speech disorder?

I continued flipping and reached a section where there were tiny notes in Jane’s familiar scrawl in the margins. I read them like a voyeur, entranced. She hadn’t just been reading this book, she had been studying it. Perhaps she didn’t have a speech disorder but instead was taking a course on the subject.

I should know.

If my assistant—who lived above my garage—either had a speech disorder or was undergoing a course of study, I ought to be aware of it. The fact that I wasn’t made me even more of an asshole.

Sure, I’d seen her reading and making notes on her tablet, but I’d always assumed it was either work-related or some kind of hobby. It had crossed my mind that she might be working on a novel. With how quiet and intelligent she was, she seemed the type. I’d never asked because I didn’t want to make her self-conscious, and she’d never volunteered the information.

I closed the book, my conscience getting the better of me. I shouldn’t read it. It wasn’t mine. Not only that but doing so would breach Jane’s privacy. She clearly hadn’t meant to leave it out here. But I wanted answers. I gripped it tightly, unsure of what to do. Take it to her and demand to know why she had it, or pretend I’d never seen the book and let it go?

EIGHT

JANE

I stared at my packed bag. Last night, I’d been certain that my emotions were going to remain a wreck if I spent another night under the same roof as Austin and that I needed space to think over my situation. I’d booked a couple of nights at a hotel to clear my mind, but now, looking at my bag, I couldn’t help but think I might have been a little too hasty.

I’d gotten myself worked up. Things weren’t that dire. If I left—even temporarily—it might make Austin rethink my employment, and was it worth giving up what had, until now, been an excellent job because of one assholeish offer and a few days of awkwardness?

I worried that Austin might cross another line, but our working relationship had always been smooth, so perhaps this unpleasant situation was just a blip caused by the changing team dynamic.

If I stood my ground, we could get back to the same easy interactions we’d had before.

Maybe.