Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Josie
“Is this a joke?” Dane Foster looks between Arnold and his head coach, Tim Benton.
“Was your public indecency arrest a joke?” Tim fires back at him. “Because if that was all just a prank, we can clear this up real quick.”
Dane hangs his head for a second. “Coach, I couldn’t have known that woman would steal my clothes and handcuff me naked to a park bench.”
I force myself not to smile. Arnold left out that detail yesterday in the meeting with me and Jane. Twenty-four hours have passed since then. I packed up some clothes and toiletries and now I’m in the head coach’s office at the downtown Minneapolis arena where the Mammoths play.
“Funny thing, Dane,” Tim says. “When you don’t get so drunk you pass out, you can stop yourself from ending up in a situation like that.”
Dane looks like a classic playboy. He’s tall, lean and muscular, his dark hair cut short and his face coated with short, dark stubble. I can see how women fall fast for his perfect smile and bright-blue eyes, but I don’t find him charming at all.
“I fucked up,” Dane admits, casting a quick glance at me. “It won’t happen again.”
“You’ve fucked up a lot this season,” Arnold says. “If you weren’t such a great player, we’d have already dumped you off on another team. You’re what team owners call a PR nightmare.”
Arnold leans against the back wall of Tim’s office, looking at his watch every thirty seconds or so. He doesn’t seem to want to be here, and I don’t, either. As someone who hates tension, I’d rather be literally anywhere.
“Thanks for that,” Dane says wryly.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” Tim says. “No more women. No more drinking. No more bullshit. Josie will be like your shadow. She has my cell number, and if you break any of these rules, she will immediately call me. This is your last shot.”
“No.” Dane crosses his arms and looks directly at his coach. “This is over the line. No one else on this team has some college intern following them around.”
I won’t let that slide.
“I’m twenty-seven and I’m a publicist at JG Publicity,” I say, somehow managing to keep my voice level and confident.
He gives me a dismissive glance. “I don’t care who you are. No one’s going to follow me around and tell me what I can and can’t do.”
Arnold scoffs with disgust. “Tim, I told you this was a waste of time. I’ve had it with his attitude.”
Dane responds before his coach has a chance to. “You can’t control me every second of the day, Arnold. You don’t own me just because you signed me to a contract. And speaking of my contract, I’m sure my agent will have a few things to say about this.”
“You’re a petulant child,” Arnold yells. “I’m done with you.”
“Gentlemen,” Tim says, putting his palms out in an effort to calm them. “Let’s all take a step back.”
The room goes silent for a few seconds, but Dane and Arnold still look like they want to step outside and fistfight.
“Dane, you’re my top player, but your personal life is out of control,” Tim says. “And you know how bad it is for our team’s image. Your teammates deserve better.”
The fight falls from Dane’s expression. After a moment, he nods.
“I’m sorry, Coach.”
“This has been run past our legal team, and it’s not a violation of your contract terms,” Tim says. “If you do what you’re supposed to do and stay out of trouble, you won’t even know Josie’s there.”
Dane sits up straight in his chair, his expression a mix of aggravation and resignation. “Is she moving into my house?”
I wish they would have had this conversation without me here. Dane asked the question like I’m soap scum or a leaky pipe--an annoyance no one wants around.
“Yes,” Tim says. “And traveling with the team. We’ll call her your assistant if anyone outside the organization asks about her.”
Dane sneers. “That makes me seem high maintenance.”
Arnold bursts out laughing in a hearty, genuinely amused laugh. “It’s a little late to start caring about your reputation.”
Dane turns to look at me. It’s the first time he’s given me anything more than a quick glance. I can feel him sizing me up based on my clothes, my hair, my expression. And I don’t like it.
“What about the cat?” he asks.
Mr. Darcy, the black cat I adopted from an animal shelter last year, meows from his spot in my arms like he knows he’s being discussed.
“He’s with me,” I say.
Scoffing, Dane glares at his coach. “I hate cats.”
“My heart bleeds for you,” Arnold says flatly.
“The cat’s not coming,” Dane says. “She can follow me around, but she’s not moving a cat into my house.”
Tim gives me an apologetic look. “Is there anywhere else you can leave the cat?”
The only person I’d trust to care for Mr. Darcy is my best friend, Lina, and she’s allergic to cats.
“No. But he’s not much trouble.”
“He can’t come on road trips,” Tim says.
“I understand.”
Dane sighs dramatically. I don’t like him. I can’t wait to get under his skin by asking how it felt to wake up naked and handcuffed to a park bench. If he’s not going to make this easy for me, I won’t make it easy for him, either.
“I think we’re done here,” Arnold says, pushing away from the wall.
“Wait,” Dane says. “How long will she be following me around?”
“For the next three months or until you screw up next,” Arnold says, narrowing his eyes at Dane. “Guess which one my money’s on?”
Dane starts to say something but stops himself.
“Well, look at that,” Arnold says. “He does have some restraint. It’s just buried deep down in there. Probably hangs out with his conscience.”
Dane scratches his head, and I think I’m the only one who notices he’s doing it with his middle finger. Cheeky.
Arnold gives me a paternal look and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Josie, if you have any problems or need any expenses covered, you call me. Or Tim, if you’re on the road.”
“Th--” I start to speak, but my voice is strangled, so I clear my throat. “Thank you.”
I sound timid, but I’m not. At the moment, though, I want to crawl under Tim’s massive wood desk and never come out. But I remind myself I’m a professional, here to do a job.
Three months. If I can do this, I’ll get the promotion. I’ll be able to afford something other than spaghetti and pancakes for dinner.
Takeout. How I miss takeout. Just the thought of those heavenly-smelling little white boxes from Hot Wok sends a pang to my stomach.
I’ll be able to save money again. Buy new shoes. I need this to work.
Dane stands up, and I follow suit. He looks at me like I’m a muddy stray dog he just found. I force my chin to remain level.
I won’t let him know how intimidated I am.
“Let’s go, I guess,” he says with absolutely no enthusiasm.
I move to pick up my fully stuffed backpack, and he grabs it by the handle at the same time.
“You don’t have to carry it,” I say, even though it weighs at least thirty pounds and my back still hurts from carrying it here.
“I’ve got it,” he says gruffly, not even looking at me. “Where’s your other stuff?”
“This is all I could carry, so it’s all I brought.”
“Which lot are you parked in?”
“I don’t have a car.”
His eyes flash with annoyance. “Awesome. Guess you’re riding with me.”
“Apologies for the imposition,” I say sarcastically. “I know how massively difficult it is to have someone sitting in your passenger seat.”
He ignores me and hikes the backpack over his shoulder.
“What’d you put in this thing, bricks?” he grumbles.
“Nope.” I give him a big smile. “It’s the body of the last guy who pissed me off.”
He shakes his head. “So you’re a comedian, too.”
“When you work in publicity, you have to have a sense of humor.”
He leads the way down a concrete-floored hallway in the basement level of the arena. Now that he can’t see me looking, I let my gaze wander. The definition in his shoulder and arm muscles shows through the lightweight long-sleeved gray shirt he’s wearing.
This guy is a walking cliché. All he needs is a blond trophy wife with an aesthetically pleasing IG account of couple’s photos hashtagged #myperson and #myworld.
It’s only three months. Fewer if they don’t make the playoffs. I can put up with anything as long as it has an end date.
I follow him onto an elevator, where he scans a badge and presses a button. When we step out, we’re in a small, nearly empty underground parking deck.
“This is me,” he says, pushing a button on a key fob to unlock a black Range Rover. “Don’t let the cat run loose in my car, I don’t want hair all over it.”
So charming. I force myself to stay quiet because, technically, he is a JG client. Whether I like him or not, I have a job to do.
As soon as we’re both in the car with our seat belts buckled, he checks the rearview mirror, backs out of his parking place and gives me a pointed look.
“If that thing pisses on my furniture, it’s going to the shelter.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Touch my cat and I’ll stab you in your sleep, asshole.”
“Christ,” he mutters. “This is going to be the longest three months of my life.”
“Let’s both hope your team chokes and you don’t make the playoffs.”
He scoffs and tightens his one-handed grip on the steering wheel but says nothing.
Smart. The less Dane Foster and I talk to each other, the better off we’ll both be.