Chapter 6
. . .
Drew
From: Drew Callaghan
To: Will Jones
Subject: Read receipts are a wonderful thing.
Will,
You’re aware that when you hit Read on an email, the sender knows that you’ve seen it, right?
Where are you? I’m sitting in Riley’s Bar, where you asked me to meet you—which is a direct breach of rule two, by the way—and you are now a half hour late.
Today is officially my day off, and I have a gym class in an hour.
We need to go over content for Instagram and plan out your social calendar.
Regards (note the absence of “kind”),
Drew
“Someone looks like they could use a drink.”
I set my cell on the bar top when a Manhattan is slid toward me by a slender hand belonging to someone I’ve met on more than one occasion.
Nights out are not really my thing. I prefer to stay home and watch a movie or read. However, when First Line has monthly team evenings out, they generally hit up Riley’s Bar, and because I don’t want to be seen as boring or unsociable, I always make an appearance.
My gaze moves from dark red nail polish to a tight red tank top before contrasting black hair and blue eyes capture my attention.
The female bartender here is strikingly beautiful, and a little like how she remembers my favorite cocktail, I could never forget a face like hers.
She’s tiny—I’d guess not much more than five feet—but she commands the bar area like the head female in a pride of lions.
Impossibly fair skin shines beneath the twinkling lights set above the bar, and when she smiles, I’m pretty sure every person in this place holds their breath.
I know I do.
Given we’ve never interacted beyond me ordering a drink and she isn’t wearing a badge, I have no clue what her name is.
I offer her a warm smile and take a sip of the cocktail.
The whiskey burns my throat, but I welcome the feeling as it slides down and warms my frosty mood, thanks to a delinquent client.
“Did you add an extra shot?”
Grinning, she picks up a fluffy black towel from behind her and begins wiping the bar top. It’s pretty early on a Saturday night, so the place isn’t busy, and the music is quiet enough to hold a conversation.
“With a Manhattan, I always think the stronger, the better. Rye whiskey is too delicious not to be appreciated.”
She sweeps her long hair over one shoulder, and I reach into my tote bag, set on the empty chair next to me.
The towel lands over my hands, and I pause on unzipping my bag.
“I hope you aren’t reaching for your wallet because this one is on the house.”
Just like with compliments, I struggle to accept people’s generosity too.
“Won’t you get in trouble for giving away free drinks?”
I’m met with an arched brow as I hand her the towel back.
“Not if you’re the newly appointed bar manager.”
I raise my glass to that. “Congrats. I’m happy to hear someone’s job is going to plan.”
Taking a twenty-dollar bill from another customer, she rings up their order and hands them the change, bracing her forearms on the bar as she leans forward.
“I actually thought you were waiting on a guy who hadn’t shown up. You know, since it’s Saturday night and you look a little lost.”
Puffing out a despondent breath, I tap my phone screen once to see no reply from Will. Not even a Read receipt this time.
“Well, you’re right about being left hanging by a man, although tonight was definitely not a date, more like the most disorganized client you’ve ever met.”
The girl, who I’d pin as being in her mid-twenties, narrows her bright blue eyes at me. Maybe it’s the striking red lipstick she always wears that sticks in my mind. I’ve never seen such full, plush lips before.
“He sounds like a dick who’s too distracted by his own self-importance.”
I chuckle because that statement could not be more accurate yet wrong, all at the same time. Sometimes, I wonder why I like Will because I’m for sure not susceptible to his charm.
“You work for First Line PR, don’t you?”
My head snaps up from where I was studying the cocktail.
“Relax.” She smirks. “I’m not going to tell anyone that Colton Davis’s staff spends their weekends berating clients for being assholes.”
“H-how do you know my boss’s name?”
“Honey”—she wipes the bar top again—“Colton is always in here, and you guys book regular booths. It doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces together.”
I lift a shoulder and let it drop. “I guess not.”
After a few minutes of her serving other customers, another Manhattan appears beneath my nose.
“If I drink that, then I’ll be wasted and definitely no good for the gym.”
She balks like I just insulted her. “Exercise on a Saturday night? Oh, please. Stay here and get wasted with me.” Her eyes scan the bar area. “I have a feeling tonight is going to be slow. Neither the Scorpions nor Rogues have a preseason game.”
I know. One of the players is supposed to be sitting next to me right now.
“You follow hockey?” I ask, wondering if she’s astute enough to know I’m Jessie Callaghan’s daughter.
While my dad retired from the game years ago, being a Hall of Famer and now the Rogues head coach means his face is very well known.
The girl’s eyes leave my face, and she twists her lips. “I wouldn’t say that I follow it exactly. But I do know one of the Rogues players.”
That piques my interest, and I wonder if he’s a First Line client. “Oh, yeah? Who?”
She side-eyes me. “Before I divulge information like that, I need to know your name.”
“What? So you can hunt me down if I somehow find a way to use it against you?” I snort a laugh and finish up the first cocktail, pulling the second toward me immediately afterward.
Her face is expressionless, and suddenly, I realize she isn’t messing around.
“Drew,” I confirm, opting not to add my last name. “I’m the only Drew working at First Line.”
She lifts her chin and taps a fingernail on the bar in thought. “Vesper. And there’s likely only one of me in the whole of Seattle.”
I have an actual girl crush on the woman with the coolest first name ever.
“Nice to meet you, Vesper. Officially meet you anyway.”
Shiny red lips press together, and I’m mesmerized. I wonder if she’s dating a player because I’d one hundred percent be into her if I were a hot-blooded male.
“Silas Stanton. Captain and defenseman for the Rogues. He’s my boyfriend’s older brother.”
I take another sip of my cocktail. “Silas is represented by my colleague, Lydia West.”
“You can’t pull a face like that and then remain silent,” Vesper demands.
Swallowing, I’m already feeling the whiskey’s effects, and typically, when I drink, the first thing to desert me is my inhibitions.
This could end badly.
I take another sip of my drink.
“Lydia is kind of a rival colleague, and Silas doesn’t like her all that much.”
Vesper bursts out laughing, a lyrical melody to her voice when she speaks again. “Oh, well, Silas doesn’t like many people, and I think the feeling is mutual for most who have met him. Including his brother.”
My eyes grow wide.
Screw you, Will. This conversation is far more intriguing than listening to you jabber on about how many goals you’ll score this season or how many Likes you typically get on each social media post.
Or how I’ve already consumed more alcohol than you have in a lifetime.
We get it, Hotshot.
“Do you like him?” I ask.
Vesper considers my question for a second. “Silas Stanton is a complex character, and I highly recommend you leave him to your friend Lydia. Personally speaking, he’s actually pretty likeable when you peel back the layers. Professionally, I imagine that he’s a handful.”
I roll my eyes. “I guess that makes two First Line clients then.”
Vesper leans in a little closer, and I close my eyes, rueing the moment I said yes to a cocktail. I should be back at my place, getting ready for a spin class, not airing my dirty laundry to someone I barely know.
“William Jones, by chance?”
I’m part relieved, part alarmed by how easily she guessed correctly. At least I don’t have to say his name, but the very fact that Vesper knows speaks volumes about him.
“That boy is trouble,” she confirms. “Very hot, but trouble nonetheless.”
Heat prickles my cheeks. “I’m not making any comment.”
Vesper just smiles, and I appreciate that she doesn’t push me to say anything more. It’s comforting to know she respects the boundaries I’m trying to establish.
“It doesn’t matter how rich or famous these boys are; I wouldn’t accept being ignored like that.
” She stands up straight and tuts. “At the end of the day, you have a job to do, too, and they should acknowledge that by at least showing up to business meetings. Even ones in a bar on a Saturday night.”
When she winks suggestively, I descend into a full-blown panic.
“There’s nothing going on between us!” I declare way louder than I should have. Wincing, I cast my eyes around the bar, which is mercifully still quiet. “We know each other from the past, but that’s as far as it goes.”
“So, you’re friends?” Vesper clarifies.
Are Will and I friends? I think about the meal he treated me to for my twenty-first birthday and how it feels like there are two sides to his personality—one that cares and wants to help celebrate special days in my life and another that can’t even be bothered to reply to a simple email or show up tonight.
“We’re friends, but not close, and we definitely are not romantically involved.”
She studies me for a second and then spins on her heel, heading toward a couple of customers who just approached the bar.
I take the chance to check my phone and find zero notifications.
You know what? Fuck this.
Opening Instagram, I click into Will’s account and load up the draft of the post I was going to have Will check over tonight before I sent it live.
It’s an action shot of him wearing a Rogues jersey.
When a player joins a team, it’s standard practice for them to have professional images taken for promotional purposes.
Often, they look stilted and premeditated.
However, the file the Rogues’ media team sent me the other day was far from it.
Will’s smile is bright, and the stick wind-back the photographer captured looks like he’s genuinely taking a shot on goal in a big game.
Will has always been a natural in front of the camera and, in theory, is perfect for marketing teams—the complete package, capable of selling out merchandise several times over.
If only he could get his head out of his ass and grow the fuck up.
Scrolling down, I look over the caption I wrote for any typos and double-check that it sounds like Will wrote it.
September has rolled around, and that can only mean two things: the regular season is only weeks away, and our first preseason game is coming up this Tuesday.
Turning pro has been a dream of mine since before I set foot on the ice, and I could not imagine a better opportunity than to debut in the NHL wearing green and gold.
The team and coaching staff here at the Rogues have made me feel incredibly welcome, and I want to thank you, the fans, for embracing my arrival with open arms.
To my parents and sister, who have helped guide me to where I am today, I want to say thank you. I wouldn’t be doing this without you all by my side, every step of the way.
Rogue for life.
Will #25
This reads nothing like one of Will’s captions.
Excellent.
I hit Post, and immediately, the guy Vesper just finished serving starts checking his phone, showing the screen to his friend as they begin talking about my client.
Jesus. Will really has the entire city eating out of his palm.
“I’ve been thinking.” Vesper’s voice pulls me back to reality.
Locking my cell, I drop it into my bag. “Shoot.”
Her face turns devilish. “I think you should lay down the ground rules with your client right away.”
“Oh, I did,” I explain. “We have a set of rules, which he’s already ignoring.”
Vesper shakes her head. “No, no. I’m talking about you becoming Muhammad.”
I look confused—I know I do.
“If the mountain won’t come to you, then maybe you should go to it,” she clarifies.
Taking the advice of a stranger is probably not the best idea, but I like this girl, and I’m pretty tipsy at this point. So, what the hell?
“I do know where he lives,” I muse.
My partner in crime waves a hand out in front of her. “Then what are you waiting for? Take control of the situation and the arrogant rookie who thinks he can skate circles around his publicist.”
As I down the rest of my cocktail, a small voice in the back of my mind is screaming that this is a mistake.
I grab my bag anyway and head for the exit.