Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Noel
I put my glasses on, pen in hand and notebook on the table as the footage from our last game starts up in the film room.
It’s after four p.m. and the players and staffers have been gone for more than an hour, but I don’t have any reason to go home.
There’s nothing waiting there for me but leftover chicken and rice.
I miss my kids. And my dog. My ex-wife, not so much. Our relationship shifted a couple years before I found out about her affair. She wanted a vacation home in Aspen and I said no. We already had a place in Malibu, which she spent a fortune having remodeled and redecorated.
She was used to getting everything she wanted, and she never got over my refusal to buy another vacation home. I was happy to give her the Malibu house in the divorce because I didn’t want it.
“Hey.” The door is cracked open, and Talia opens it farther, looking at me. “You need anything?”
“No, I’m okay. What are you still doing here?”
“I needed to finish inventory.” She waits for me to hit pause on the remote control. “You’re still planning to come tomorrow, right? Two p.m. at Templeton?”
“I’ll be there.”
The Templeton Center is our practice facility, and Talia arranged for me and ten players to meet up with some kids who have disabilities and teach them modified ice hockey.
“Have you eaten today?” she asks.
“I had lunch with Caroline.”
Her brows arch with interest. “Caroline? Was that business or pleasure?”
I flick a glare at her over the rim of my glasses. “Business.”
I’ve always had a policy of not dipping my nub in the company ink, and my relationship with our team doctor is strictly platonic, anyway. She shared with me that she’s gay and has a longtime girlfriend, but she prefers to keep her private life private, and I’d never share that, even with Talia.
“You should let me set up a profile for you on a dating app.”
I scoff. “No. I’ve told you, if I wanted to, I’d do it myself, and I don’t.”
“There are good women out there, Dad. You won’t know unless you try.”
I take my glasses off and rub my temples, my aggravation rising. “I don’t want to be in a relationship, Tally. I don’t have the time or the interest.”
“You should find a situationship. Keep it casual and have fun.”
I furrow my brow. “Whatever a situationship is, I don’t want that either. I like my life the way it is.”
“Your call, I guess. Want to go out for dinner with us tonight?”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m going to be here a while.”
She gives me a pointed look. “Hockey will never keep you warm at night, Dad.”
“I’ve got plenty of blankets for that. Have a good evening.”
She sighs and closes the door. I resume my film watching, taking notes. I’m only a few minutes in when I remember I told Jules I’d stop by her office.
I might as well get it out of the way. I already sense that she and I are going to clash often.
If I have to, I’ll talk to Deb and have her set Jules straight.
I don’t give a fuck about social media videos.
The players and the coaches have jobs to do.
Not only do our livelihoods depend on it, but it’s how we make the organization money.
And it takes a lot of money to run this team.
After shutting off the video, I take the stairs up to the level the front office is on.
There’s no one at the front desk when I walk in, so I go back.
I know who most of the offices belong to, and it’s not until I turn a corner and walk down another hallway that I find the one I’m looking for: Jules Barlow, Social Media Coordinator.
It’s a newly created position, and a pointless one in my opinion. But due to metrics, online presence, and whatever other bullshit the consultant cited when they recommended this position, we have one now.
The office door is open, but there’s no one inside the office. She probably left early, like most twentysomethings do. It’s always minimal effort and maximum expectations from that age group.
Unless we’re talking about my players. I can still skate and play well enough to school the ones who get lazy, even though my back always hurts like hell that night.
This place seems empty. Most people who work in the front office are in by 7:30 a.m., so I can see why they’d be gone by—I check my watch—4:39 p.m.
There is a coat on the back of the chair in Jules’s office, though, so I check the break room.
She’s there alone, her back against a wall and her face buried in her hands. Her shoulders are heaving and I can tell she’s crying without seeing her face.
My anger dissipates. I walked in on a private moment, and I feel like an asshole. I take a step back, hoping to sneak out undetected, but she drops her hands and sees me.
Her chin falls and I cringe inwardly.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she demands, her voice laced with accusation.
“I said I’d come by your office this afternoon.”
She scowls at me, the polar opposite of the agreeable, bubbly woman I met earlier. “Oh, right. You wanted to lecture me about doing my job without asking your permission. Because, of course, you’re a man.”
Black eye makeup streaks down her cheeks. She’s too upset for me to be bothered by her outburst.
“I take it a man upset you?”
She looks away. “Look, you caught me at a really bad time. Can we talk tomorrow?”
I can be a hard-ass, but my players know they can come to me when they need to talk. I’m not one to walk away from someone so upset their voice is breaking with emotion.
I close the door and walk over to her, coming to a stop a few feet in front of her and crossing my arms. “Let’s talk now. What’s got you so upset?”
She tries to sneer, but instead she breaks into tears again. “Fucking men.” She grimaces. “Please don’t tell Deb I said fuck in the office.”
I fight a smile. “Fuck is a popular word around here. Don’t worry about it.”
She sighs heavily. “Just say what you want to say. You don’t like me filming the players and you don’t want me at practices.”
I ignore her attempt at redirecting the conversation. “Just one man, or all of us?”
“Pfft. The only men I like are gay. The rest of you are assholes.”
She looks away and my gaze slides from her face down her body. I shouldn’t be thinking about how amazing her round, full breasts look in her formfitting shirt. Or the flare of her hips. She has a spectacular body.
I clear my throat and look away, pretending to find the break room refrigerator riveting. “If it makes you feel better, you can yell at me over it.”
There’s a pause, and then she lets loose. “He’s not even that attractive! Thirty-one years old and not a hair on his head. Fuck him. And fuck fucking jazz, too. It’s boring and everyone hates it, but some people say they love it just so they sound cultured.”
“Fuck jazz,” I agree, and she meets my eyes. How can I look at a refrigerator when she’s in the same room?
I don’t know whether she’s about to laugh or hit me with a right hook. And I like it. I have a strong, sudden urge to take two big steps forward and kiss her. Make her forget all about whoever this guy is.
Rubbing a hand down my face, I push away my thoughts of getting my hands on her hips. I’m old enough to be her father, for Christ’s sake.
“Forget about this jackass,” I say. “You’re better off without him.”
“I spent two weeks messaging that bald bastard. And I was open to a date, even though I guarantee he’s never made a woman’s panties wet.
He dries out panties. Like, you’re getting a little damp and then you look at him and it turns into the Sahara in there.
Fuck you, Mark. And fuck your bearded dragon, too. I hate reptiles.”
I furrow my brow, hiding my amusement. “Wait, are you saying you’ve never even met this guy?”
She sniffles. “We’ve been talking for a couple weeks, and we just exchanged pictures today. I would have met him, but when I sent him my picture, he messaged back saying, ‘I don’t date big girls, sorry. Not all guys are assholes like me.’”
Yeah, fuck Mark. He’s a clueless idiot.
“You’re beautiful. More than that—you’re a ten. It’s his loss. Don’t waste your time on Tinder bullshit.”
Her expression softens and her gaze meets mine.
“I wish I didn’t care. It’s not that I need a man.
But I do want ... someone, you know? I’ve been single for years, and sometimes I just want someone to hug me, or tell me we’re going on a date, or .
..” She cringes, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear all this.”
“Yeah, I do.”
Her eyes are blue, and they remind me of a day at the beach when there’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s unsettling how much I want to hug her and tell her I’m taking her on a date. Have I turned into a perv who wants a younger woman to make himself feel younger?
She squares her shoulders. “It was nice of you to listen. I’ll have a pity party with my sister tonight.”
“What does a pity party involve?”
“Pajamas, wine, chips and guac from our favorite Mexican place, and ice cream. We usually watch a rom-com.”
“Give yourself tonight to feel like shit and then forget about it. Move forward.”
A smile plays on her full, pink lips. “Is that what you tell your team after a loss?”
“Might be,” I admit.
She sighs softly. “I should have introduced myself to you before I started asking the players to film stuff for me. I was just ... intimidated, I guess.”
I pinch my brows together. “Intimidated? By me?”
Her smile threatens to grow wider. “I heard you’re ... unapproachable.”
I furrow my brow. “Unapproachable?”
“Like talking to a tall, prickly cactus in a bad mood. That’s what one person said.”
“The fuck?”
Sounds like someone needs to sack up. Just because I’m direct, that doesn’t make me prickly. And if it does, I guess I’m prickly. I have shit to do and I don’t like small talk.
“So anyway, I was intimidated, which is unlike me. That was unprofessional, and I apologize.”
“We can figure it out. There are boards with plays and formations in the locker room, and we can’t have those visible in videos.”
She nods. “I understand. I’ll work with you from now on.”
I should tell her to work with one of my assistants, because it’s not in my pay grade to help the social media coordinator. But I don’t. There’s something about her coming to me for permission on a regular basis that I like.
It’s official. I’m a perv.
“We’re doing a thing at our practice facility tomorrow,” I say, taking a step back. “Talia arranged it. Me and some of the players are playing modified hockey with kids who have disabilities. Is that something you’re interested in?”
Her face lights up. “Are you serious? I’d love to be there to film. I’ll need parental consent since they’re minors, but I could call Talia and work on that tonight.”
“You can ride to Templeton with me. Meet me at my office at one.”
“Okay, see you then.”
I head for the door, turning to look at her one more time. “Enjoy the pity party.”
Her response is a soft, “Thanks.”