Chapter 3 #2
It’ll be the opposite of my interview to work at Foxies, which was less than a minute long. The manager took one look at me and practically threw a uniform at my head.
As I’m plotting revenge, Jessa intercepts me at the bedroom door.
“Wait. That makes you look like you’re going to a funeral. What about this?” She holds up a black dress that actually shows some shape, with a neckline that hints at cleavage without being inappropriate.
“Absolutely not.” I cross my arms.
“Juliet, you’re supposed to be convincing them you could be someone’s fiancée. At least look like you’ve heard of romance. You've gotta sell it a little.”
I heave a sigh. Against my better judgment, I put on the dress and top it with the blazer for safety. I tell myself I can take the blazer off if I need to look more approachable. More wifely.
The drive to the arena is a blur of panic and half-formed strategies. When we arrive, I’m thrilled to be walking through the team offices. It feels like being close to magic, like I’m finally where I belong instead of serving wings in a glorified bikini.
That feeling lasts about thirty seconds.
When we walk into the conference room, Hunter Huxley is already there. He’s sitting at the far end of the table looking like I kicked his puppy and then set his truck on fire. His stormy gray eyes lock onto mine with an expression that clearly says this is all my fault somehow.
I’m introduced to a room full of powerful people. Jimbo Greene, the team owner, is a paunchy man who looks like he eats smaller businesses for breakfast. Ivy Prescott, an icy blonde who introduces herself as the crisis communications director, and who’s eyeing me like I’m an interesting specimen.
The tall, blond-but-balding general manager Jared Duke shakes my hand, whose once-white polo shirt has almost certainly seen better days.
Coach Damian Cross towers in his black Havoc windbreaker, tall, Black, and built like he could still drop gloves if he had to.
He obviously won some old fight that broke his nose.
The room carries a restless energy. Every man here knows last season was a disaster. Half the roster is gone, management burned the place down to the studs, and nobody is sure if what’s left will hold together.
Cross crosses his arms and glares at the table. “We are not repeating last year. I don’t care who’s still shell-shocked about the roster cuts. We fix this now or we’re all out of jobs.”
Jared leans back in his chair, expression carved from stone. “The locker room is thin. Guys are second-guessing every shift.”
Ivy clears her throat. “The rookies look terrified. It seems like everyone has serious whiplash from half the team being let go last year.”
“We had to clean house.” Jimbo looks around the room.
“The Havoc was on a losing streak for the last four years. Jared and I made the hard decision to fire most of the vets and bring in a bunch of rookies. We also replaced all the assistant coaches. That’s why Coach Ryan Haart is here with us now.
Not only does having a clean slate free up a lot of room in our budget to make moves, but it lets Coach Cross rebuild the team essentially from scratch. ”
Ryan Haart, the dark-haired assistant coach, looks way too amused by this whole situation. He has a hockey build too, like all the men in this room aside from Jimbo, and is probably younger than thirty-five.
I recognize Haart’s name from somewhere. He undoubtedly used to play professional hockey. It seems like the team management brought out the big guns for this meeting.
Coach Cross fidgets. “We kept Huxley because he has a proven track record of winning games. But damn it, Huxley, you can’t be fighting fans. We have to figure something out, stat.”
Am I the something? I wait for Jimbo to address me, anxiety creeping in.
Hunter doesn’t say a word. He sits in the corner like a coiled spring, jaw tight, every inch of him daring someone to tell him he’s the problem. More than anyone else, people have blamed him for the team’s collapse and rebirth.
I open my mouth to explain that this is all a misunderstanding, that I never actually volunteered for anything, but Jimbo cuts me off before I can get a word out.
“Now, Ms. Monroe. The hockey league is already calling, talking about a ten-game suspension for Hunter. Sponsors are calling, complaining,” he says, showing the people in the room. “So we all had a meeting about last night’s incident. And when Ivy told us your idea…”
“It wasn’t–” I try to interject.
“Let me finish,” Jimbo cuts in, his voice booming even though he isn’t intentionally yelling.
“If Hunter was defending someone he cared about, the league might treat it differently. There’s already chatter online.
People are wondering if something’s going on between the two of you. Why not lean into it?”
“But–” I try again to correct them, but Jimbo talks right over me like I’m background noise.
“Ivy tells me you two went to college together,” he says, directing the question at me like I’m being interviewed for a job I didn’t apply for. “Did you know each other back then?”
“We did,” I admit reluctantly, because lying seems like a bad way to start this conversation. My cheeks heat even though I have no reason to be embarrassed.
“Perfect!” Ivy claps her hands together like I just solved world hunger. “You’re absolutely perfect for this role, Juliet. And of course, we’d employ you as a PR consultant during the arrangement. Jessa says you’re interested in the field.”
Oh. If I’m employed by the team, that would mean I could no-call no-show for my next shift at Foxies. That’s a tantalizing idea. It’s too bad that the opportunity is with Hunter Huxley, who absolutely hates my guts for no reason I can figure out.
He always has, as far as I can tell.
I look at Hunter for support. Surely he knows that this is the worst idea possible. Hunter, however, is glaring fixedly at a spot on the shiny conference room table.
I want to scream. Not just because it’s the worst plan in the world, but because of how easily everyone assumes I’ll go along with it.
They see curves and lipstick and assume I’ll smile and say yes. They don’t see the years I spent building a career nobody takes seriously because I didn’t show up in a suit and a dowdy haircut.
Fake a relationship with a man who humiliated me in college? Sure, why not! Be charming, agreeable, helpful? Of course!
I swallow the resentment and let it simmer. It tastes familiar. Like every room I’ve ever walked into with a résumé.
Ivy looks at me. “You are interested in working in PR, aren’t you?”
The mention of actual employment, of a job in PR, makes my pulse quicken. I glance at Hunter, who’s now glaring daggers at me, silently begging me not to say yes. But this could be my chance. My way out of the Foxies crop top and into an opportunity for advancement.
“The relationship needs to be public, visible,” Ivy continues, warming to her theme. “It has to last long enough to sell the illusion. Long enough to make Hunter look like a changed man who’s found love and settled down. Only six months.”
“I’m not sure I want this,” I say, but even I can hear that my voice lacks conviction.
That’s when Ivy slides a tablet across the table. It’s a still frame from last night, captured right before Hunter threw that punch. But he’s not looking at the fan he’s about to hit. His eyes lock on me and his expression is fierce and protective in a way that makes my breath catch.
He looks like a man defending his woman. The narrative has already started writing itself. I swallow.
“No,” Hunter growls from across the table. “Absolutely fucking not.”
I want to protest too, but my heart isn’t really in it anymore. I’m staring at that image, at the way Hunter looked at me last night. Something warm is unfurling in my chest and I absolutely don’t want to examine it.
“We’ll pay you very well, Ms. Monroe.” Jimbo drops the hammer. “It’s this, or you get traded, Hunter. Period.”
The words hit the room like a physical blow. Hunter actually flinches, and for a second he looks less like the terrifying enforcer and more like a lost kid.
“I want to stay,” he mutters, his voice smaller than I’ve ever heard it. “My brothers play here. I’ve played my entire career here. If I get a choice, I’ll play here until I retire.”
The admission hangs in the air, raw and vulnerable. This team isn’t just his job. It’s his family. And they’re threatening to rip him away from it unless he plays along with this charade.
I’m furious and humiliated, but I’m also calculating. If I’m stuck in this situation, if there’s no way out that doesn’t hurt him and do me no favors, then I’m going to control the terms.
“Fine,” I say suddenly, sitting up straighter.
“Two bedrooms, one shared address. Five months. I’ll handle the optics.
He can sulk in the background, looking moody and misunderstood.
” I pause, drumming my fingers against my lips.
“The PR team can soft-launch us the day after tomorrow with some carefully staged photos. And I will get a really massive diamond ring. I’m talking about the size that rock stars buy their girlfriends. ”
The words come out steady and professional, even though my pulse is racing fast enough to power a small city. I look up at Hunter, my gaze clashing with his. I’m pinned in place by his eyes, a violent swirl of blue-gray that makes me dizzy.
God, what am I doing?
Hunter’s eyes narrow on my face for a long moment. He looks conflicted. It’s a surprise to me as much as anyone else when he grunts, “Deal.” Something electric slides between us across the table.
I’ve made a deal with the devil.
“Excellent!” Jimbo declares. He snaps his fingers at Ivy, who is already pulling out paperwork. “Ivy will set you up with the details. Welcome to the team, Juliet.”
Ivy slides a short-term employment contract across to me. My eyes bug out at the dollar amount: one hundred thousand dollars. Holy god. That’s a life-changing amount of money. I sign the contract without looking at Hunter, my signature quick and decisive.
And just like that, I’m fake engaged to Hunter Huxley.
Hunter and I leave the office together in complete silence. The hallway feels endless. By the time we reach the parking garage, the weight of what just happened is settling over me like a lead blanket.
God, this is going to be an awkward five months.
“Hunter,” I start, turning to face him.
“You just trapped me in a fucking cage and threw away the key,” he snarls. “I’m not a zoo animal, Juliet.”
My name comes out of his mouth as if he’s spitting poison. It sounds almost ugly. I shove a finger into his chest. “I saved your caveman ass. You’re welcome.”
We’re standing too close, close enough that I can smell his cologne. Something woody and clean that makes me want to lean closer, which is absolutely the last thing I should think about right now.
That’s when I catch him staring at me. But he’s not looking at my chest like every other guy I meet. His gaze drops to my mouth, slow and deliberate. Like that’s the part of me that might actually be dangerous to him.
For a second, I forget how to breathe. The realization that Hunter Huxley, the man who barely tolerated me in college, is looking at me like I’m suddenly on his menu short-circuits my brain completely.
“You’re such a jerk,” bursts past my lips. “Honestly, Huxley.”
“Better than being all high and mighty,” he sneers. “You were always holier than thou, weren’t you, Ace?”
I bristle at the nickname. It’s been years since I’ve heard him say it, making fun of my being on the school newspaper. And I hate it every bit as much now as I did back then.
“Grow the fuck up, Huxley.”
We glare at each other in the fluorescent lighting of the parking garage. The moment stretches for several seconds until the silence grows unbearable. Am I going to be the one to break this tension?
“Five months,” he husks out.
I arch a brow. He looks at me, those blue-gray eyes alight with resentment.
He looks at my mouth again. It’s not subtle. My pulse does a stupid little stutter. He says, “That’s the agreement. Five months, and then I can go back to pretending that you don’t exist.”
Finally. There is some give in his steely personality. I incline my head. “Five months. Then we call it quits.”
I stick out my hand, offering it for him to shake. Hunter makes a face, because he’s a prick, and then engulfs my hand in his giant mitt. His palm is hot to the touch and makes me nervous.
Guys like Hunter get praised for rage. Girls like me get told to smile more.
God, I can’t stand him. Even things he can’t control, like the fact that he runs hot, annoy the bejeezus out of me. I turn and walk toward my car, my heels clicking on the concrete. Hunter calls after me.
“Where the fuck are you going, Ace?”
I slow, turning, that nickname making me grit my teeth. “Home.”
“Nah.” He jerks his head toward his car. “You’re riding with me, Ace. You started this blaze. Now you burn with me.”
I should say no. I should walk away and slam the door for dramatic effect. Instead, I follow him like a moth straight into the fire.