Chapter 41 Shouldn’t Give Me the Ick
Shouldn’t Give Me the Ick
Eric
Chase’s penthouse apartment buzzes with the kind of post-practice energy that comes from having three professional athletes lazing around one living room. The terrace doors are thrown open to let in the summer air, and protein shakes sit sweating on every available surface.
DeLuca is doing sit-ups with his feet wedged under the couch, his breathing steady despite carrying on a conversation. “So what exactly is your hesitation?” he asks as his head bobs into view again. “This hotel thing is exactly the kind of sponsorship you always wanted.”
“Yeah, and I bet Darcy would want you to take it,” Merritt says, sprawled in the oversized armchair. “Wouldn’t she, baby?”
Zoe puts her espresso cup under the machine and hits the button. “That sounds like Darcy,” she says noncommittally.
“It would be helpful if I could talk to her about it,” I say, directing the comment pointedly in Zoe’s direction.
“I bet,” she says with a shrug that offers no help at all.
The problem is that Darcy isn’t currently accepting my calls. It’s exam time, she’d replied to some of my earlier anguished texts. I’m sorry, I have to focus on school for a bit.
That was a few days ago, and I’d been determined to give her the space she asked for. The problem is that I need her to weigh in on this sponsorship thing. I already had so many questions for her, and now I have more.
Will it bother her if I take this thing?
Is she still mad at me for that awkward moment beside the lake?
And why hasn’t she been coming in to work this week? Is she avoiding me that hard? Or am I making this about me when it really isn’t?
Ugh. I’m a wreck. The team is starting to wonder why I’ve held an unprecedented number of office hours, just waiting for her to come back.
Every time I glance toward her desk, though, there’s been a temp sitting there. The woman flips her hair at me every time I look up.
This is the hell I’ve been trapped in since the moment my teammates materialized in the middle of our heart-to-heart conversation. I haven’t seen Darcy since, and Zoe won’t give me anything more than, “She’s embarrassed, but she also has to focus on school right now.”
And I refuse to be a jerk about it. I’m not that guy.
The problem is that last night I got a message from Mr. Randolph. Let’s discuss our future collaboration, the message had said. I have a contract for you. Lunch tomorrow?
“The captain needs captaining,” DeLuca observes, switching to bicycle crunches. “I kind of dig it.”
“Never thought I’d see the day,” Merritt agrees. “And over a woman, no less.”
“But she won’t talk to me!” It comes out dangerously close to a whine.
“She has exams,” Zoe repeats, but there’s something in her voice—a protective edge that makes me think there’s more to Darcy’s radio silence than academic pressure. “Maybe it’s not all about you.”
The espresso machine hisses, filling the momentary silence.
Zoe pulls her cup from the machine and takes a careful sip. “She doesn’t even have her phone right now.”
“Wait—why?”
Zoe reaches into her back pocket and shows me a phone with a familiar orange case on it. “Because I took it, at her request.” She meets my gaze directly. “She was having trouble concentrating.”
I drop my head. Okay, that must be my fault.
If I hadn’t tried to get her to discuss our relationship, she wouldn’t be freaking out over team gossip.
Not that I didn’t put the fear of God into my teammates, one by one.
“For every inappropriate comment about Darcy that I hear, you will owe five hundred push-ups and a C-note for charity.” That shut them up fast.
“About this meeting,” Merritt says, sipping his drink. “You should go but just don’t sign anything until after you see Darcy. Make all the right noises but keep your options open.”
“That’s the right call,” DeLuca says, sitting up. Then he clutches his heart. “Aww, baby’s first big sponsorship! Aren’t we proud, fam?”
“So proud!” Merritt says with a smirk.
He can laugh all he wants, but he’s got several juicy sponsorships—
including one with a luxury watchmaker. They did an over-styled photo shoot of him with his shirt unbuttoned. And DeLuca has a lucrative deal with an airline, which is kind of dumb since he flies mostly on the team jet with the rest of us.
The doorbell chimes, and Chase perks up. “That’ll be Marnie.”
We all migrate toward the front door as Chase opens it to reveal our personal chef, arms laden with insulated bags.
“You’re all here waiting for me?” Marnie asks, wide-eyed. “I should raise my prices.”
“No!” we all chorus in unison.
“Kidding!” She laughs. “Merritt—double order of guacamole for you and Zoe. And Eric—I made those mini tacos you requested. They’re on top.”
“Mini tacos, huh?” Zoe asks from the kitchen. “Interesting. Are those for Darcy?”
“Of course they are.” I wouldn’t even pretend otherwise. There’d be no point. “Zoe, would you see that she gets these?” I open the cooler bag and pull out the container.
“Sure. Good choice,” she says, taking it from me. “She can eat them one-handed.”
“One-handed,” I repeat slowly. “Which matters because…?”
Zoe almost winces. Or maybe I imagined it. “While she’s studying. For exams.”
Ah. Of course. I check the time. “I’d better roll, guys. What am I supposed to wear to my big sponsorship meeting, anyway?”
“Something expensive,” Merritt says. “Make him pay up.”
I’m meeting Mr. Randolph at Balthazar, which is practically a New York institution when it comes to power lunches.
It’s all dark wood and gold mirrors. It’s the kind of place that whispers money in French.
The servers glide between closely packed bistro chairs like they’re performing choreography.
It’s exactly the sort of spot Darcy’s father would choose—impressive enough to make a statement, but not so flashy that it screams nouveau riche.
When I’m led to the table, though, I get an unwelcome surprise—
Mr. Randolph is seated beside Tessa, of all people.
“You’ve met my new assistant,” the man says with a laugh.
“Sure have.” I shake hands with a frozen grin on my face. “How’ve you both been?”
“Can’t complain,” Tessa simpers, giving me a catlike smile.
Suddenly, the next hour feels long. I seat myself and glance at the menu, trying to get my head in the game.
“Are you seeing Darcy before you leave town?” I can’t help but ask.
This is supposed to be a high stakes lunch, but all I really want is a crumb of news from her. I just want to hear that she’s okay.
“Uh, not on this visit.” Her father chuckles awkwardly. “We’re only here for the day.”
“Tonight, we fly out to Portugal for a scouting trip,” Tessa says.
“That sounds fun,” I manage.
“Sure is!” She eyes her menu, and when the waiter returns, she orders the escargots and a Bellini.
I order the salmon and decline a glass of wine. Even alcohol can’t make this lunch less awkward.
“So,” Mr. Randolph says as soon as the waiter departs. “Let’s get this part out of the way—here is your contract.” He pulls a folder out of his briefcase and passes it over the table to me.
The folder is made of smooth, weighty paper, with Wayfair Properties richly embossed across the front. I’ve been waiting so long for just the right sponsorship offer that I’m tempted to stroke the paper with my hand.
Instead, I nudge the cover open, giving myself a glimpse of the first page. And it’s right there in the middle, in bold text—a seven-figure number, paid out over the next four years, for various photo shoots and appearances.
This is really happening.
“Don’t worry about the terms,” Mr. Randolph says. “I already sent a copy to Bess, and I’m sure she’ll vet it thoroughly. She wouldn’t want you to discuss contract details, right? Which means we can focus on the fun stuff.”
“Like… photo shoots?”
“Exactly!” Tessa says brightly. “Since the hockey season is already starting, and your schedule is a bear, we know we won’t get a block of your time until June of next year.
But we were hoping you could spare a day in Los Angeles in November, when you’re scheduled to be there on a road trip.
We’ll put you in the executive suite at our property there and shoot for a couple of hours in the room and at the pool. ”
“That’s probably doable. We always stay at the Wayfair in LA.”
“Wonderful.” She beams. “Our next opportunity after that will be when you play Seattle in December. We’d repeat the same trick, grabbing a day of your time on the road. We’d want shots of you in the spa and at the rooftop bar.”
“I like it. Is there anything I’d need to bring?”
“No way. We’ll take care of everything,” she says, waving a hand across the table.
“We’ll hire a hair and makeup guy for the set.
You’ll provide your measurements ahead of time, and on the day of our shoot, a stylist will arrive with wardrobe choices.
Even a bathing suit for those thirst-trap shots by the pool. ” She wiggles her eyebrows at me.
I keep my expression neutral, because I guess that’s exactly what I’ve signed up for—people’s eyeballs on my body. My teammates do this all the time, so it shouldn’t give me the ick, right?
Maybe I’ll need to work on that. “Sounds like a plan,” I tell her. “Get ready to color-correct those photos, though, because a hockey player is very pasty during the season.”
She laughs like I’m hilarious. “Noted! But then in June, the real fun starts! We’ll do a beach shoot in California or Mexico, and you can work on your actual tan.”
“I want some golf shots, too,” her father adds. “On the fairway at the Wayfair. It has such a nice ring to it.”
“Yes! And on the beach.” Tessa’s gaze takes a lengthy tour over my torso. “Next June, we’ll go down there a week ahead of time. We’ll play the golf course together and show you around. You can spend some time on the beach. We want you to feel authentic about everything you do for Wayfair.”