“Glad you see it that way.” He clears his throat. “To keep things short, I told her she could have one semester off to prove to me that she could handle making a life for herself as a graphic artist. If she can’t make a life for herself, she must return to school. The caveat is that I’ve cut her off completely, but I told her I’d offer her a job that she’d probably have to take as a graphic artist to pay the bills. She agreed, which leads me back to you. You are the job. You will pay her minimum wage, and you will be demanding.”
“Uh, what now?” I ask, blinking a few times.
“As your assistant, I require you to make her run around town, do illogical tasks, and work at all hours of the day. I want you to make her life a living hell, Posey. Show her that finishing school would be better than being a struggling artist.”
“Wow, that sounds great. Quite the lesson to be learned,” I say, trying to hide the sarcasm from my voice. “But I have to say, I’m not that high-maintenance.”
“Then find a way to be high-maintenance. Have her clean your apartment. Make you meals. Do your shopping, your laundry. For fuck’s sake, make her feed you your dinner because you’re saving your energy for your games. Be respectful, as this is my daughter, but make her life hell.”
“Uh-huh, I see where you’re going with this, and wow, what a great plan.” I slowly clap for him. “But I’m slightly hesitant because I do have a reputation and—”
“I already have an NDA for her to sign.”
I nod, trying to come up with another reason as to why I don’t want to be an asshole to my coach’s daughter.
“What if I upset her?” I ask. “I don’t want her going to you, and you getting pissed at me.”
“If you upset her, I’ll give you a goddamn bonus. I’ll cover any fines you might incur through the season. I’m asking you to upset her.”
“Yup, I hear that.” I point at my ear. “Just feel uneasy about that aspect of it. I’m a pretty nice dude. Not one to hurt someone’s feelings.”
“Jesus Christ, Posey,” Coach yells. “You beat men up on the ice for a living. I’m asking you to be a little demanding with my daughter. Is that something you really can’t fucking handle?”
I quiver from the anger in his voice.
“No, I can.” I swallow hard. “For sure I can, but you know, there’s also the aspect of paying her. I tend to invest my money, so I’m not sure I can afford—”
“If you can’t afford to pay my daughter minimum wage for a semester, then we need to talk about your spending habits.”
“Quite right, quite right.” I nod, starting to come up short with excuses. I snap my finger and point at him. “You know, I actually enjoy the mundane tasks of life, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to give them up. Nothing gives me more joy than picking up a pack of batteries from the corner store because I forgot to write them down on my grocery list. So you know—”
“For fuck’s sake, Posey. Are you trying to tell me you can’t do me this little favor?” His eyes bore into me, like lasers trying to blow my head off my neck. “Because I would hate to see what happens if you can’t.”
And this is why I should stop sleeping around. This very reason.
Because people hold it against you at the most inopportune time.
Also, I’m pretty sure Coach Wood doesn’t really understand the definition of a favor. It’s a simple ask like, oh hey, can you help me move? Or heck, I have an itch on my back, can you get that for me? Or egad, I forgot my underwear, mind if I grab a pair of yours?
Those are favors. This is . . . this is a chore.
This is a task.
This is an objective.
A mission.
A secret operative.
A goddamn developing nightmare that I want nothing to do with.
But that doesn’t seem like an option for me.
“Uh, no,” I say, tacking on a smile. “I can help you. This won’t be a problem at all.”
“Good.” He picks up a piece of paper and hands it to me.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Ground rules.”
“Ground rules?” I ask, staring down at the paper.
“Yes, ground rules.” He picks up a piece of paper as well and starts reading. “Rule number one, you are not to become friends with my daughter. You are her boss, and that is it.”
“Yup. Understandable. Establishing a—”
“Rule number two.” Okay, moving on. “You will pay her minimum wage and offer her no bonuses.”
“Bonuses, pffft, who likes those anyway?”
“Rule number three,” he continues with a force in his voice. “You will not offer her a place to live.”
“Wasn’t planning on it. But just so I’m aware, will she be homeless?”
“Rule number four,” he booms. Okay, so possibly homeless. Good to know. “There will be no perks to the job. No feeding her. No car service. No transportation. No credit card. She will have to figure all of this out on her own.”
“So you want me acting as a ruthless dictator. I haven’t practiced such a thing in my life just yet, but I’m up for the task. There’s always a time for a first.”
“And most importantly, rule number five. Under no circumstances will you have any sort of physical contact with my daughter.”
“What do you mean—”
“Fucking her. You will not fuck her, Posey.”
“Ahh . . .” I smile. “Well, no worries there. Pretty sure if she looks anything like you, there will be no need for rule number five.”
His brow lifts, and I realize what I just said.
“I mean, shit, I didn’t mean that. You’re actually, wow, you’re a good-looking guy, very attractive. The bald thing really accentuates your . . . uh, steely eyes, and the tan you’ve been able to procure while coaching a winter sport is really impressive. Not to mention your physique, just oof, what a bundle of muscles that are not wrinkly. Some people your age might look wrinkly, but not you. You’re firm. Firm in all the right places. So much firmness. Just look at those forearms and the sinew and firmness. Lots of firmness. And you know, just to throw it out there, not that you asked, but if I were a woman, then hell yeah, I would be talking to you about a date, or maybe a kiss or—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Yup.” I nod. “Thank you for that.” I bow my head as a courteous thank-you.
“There will be no fucking her. No touching her. Don’t even look at her if you can avoid it.”
I make a check mark in the air with my finger. “Got it. No plans to go anywhere near your daughter. There will be no touching, no sexual encounters, completely and utterly platonic.”
He eyes me suspiciously, then finally says, “Good. Now sign on the line at the bottom.”
“You want me to sign this?” I ask.
“Yes, I want you to agree to these terms and sign it.”
Jokingly, I flip to the blank back page and then to the front again. “I don’t know, sir. I think I might want my lawyer to look this over. Possibly my agent.”
“Sign the fucking paper, Posey.”
“Yup,” I say, nearly jumping out of my seat from his booming voice. I grab a pen off his desk, sign quickly at the bottom, and then hand the paper back over to him. “Should we shake? Hug it out? Grab a whiskey and cheers?”
“Get the fuck out of my office.”
“Sooo, that’s a no on the celebration?”
“Get out,” he yells while pointing at the door.
“Great, yup, I wanted to leave anyway.” I stand from my chair and grip the handle to the door right before I pull away and ask, “Uh, when do I meet her?”
“Tonight, after the game. Come to my office.”
“Got it. Okay, see you then. Yay for teaching lessons.” I raise my fist in celebration.
He just points at the door. I get the hint and leave his office and head down the hallway toward the locker room, feeling like I was just put through the wringer.
So I have an assistant now.
I’d be sort of thrilled if it wasn’t the coach’s daughter.
Really thrilled if I didn’t have this sick feeling that I’m being set up to fail.
Incredibly thrilled if I wasn’t the one who had to teach this twenty-two-year-old a lesson on responsibility and career building.
What the hell am I in for?
“Just put a butterfly bandage over it,”I say as blood drips down the side of my face.
Grace, our trainer, holds a towel to my face. “This needs to be cleaned up. I can’t just put a butterfly bandage on it.”
“I need to get back out on the ice,” I say.
“You’re winning by two goals and have one minute left in the game. You’re going to the training room. Now move.”
Irritated, I take the towel from her, press it against my face myself, then let her guide me back to the training room, fans on either side cheering me on as I leave the game. Surprisingly, this was not from a fight. Instead, it was an elbow to the head. Must have been a hard as shit elbow because I’ve never broken skin like this before.
Just my luck.
When we reach the training room, Grace tells me to take a seat on one of the benches, so I do as I’m told, sit down, and then pull my jersey up and over my head while Grace gathers the supplies she needs.
She glances over at me and says, “I’d appreciate it if you hold the towel to your head to help with the bleeding and not disrobe yourself.”
“Sorry,” I mutter as I bring the towel back up to my forehead, right above my eye.
When she comes over with her supplies, she sets them down on the bench and says, “You seem a bit off tonight. Any reason?”
“Off?” I say. “How so?”