Chapter 3
Nick
The ink on the contract was barely dry, but the headache was already setting in.
It was a cage. A gilded, heated, rent-free cage. And she had walked right into it.
I should have felt triumphant. I had solved the variable. The chaotic element that had disrupted my gala, stained my suit, and invaded my headspace was now contained, categorized, and contractually bound to my service. I had turned a liability into an asset.
So why did I feel like I had just locked a live grenade in my bedroom?
I spun a heavy crystal tumbler of water in my hand, watching the condensation weep down the glass. My reflection in the darkened window was composed, but I could feel the tension radiating off me in waves. It wasn’t the stress of the upcoming Draft. It wasn’t the team’s inconsistent power play.
It was her.
I could feel her presence in the apartment like a change in barometric pressure.
Even through the solid oak door, I knew exactly where she was.
I could picture her in the guest suite, unpacking her meager belongings—the worn-out leggings, the oversized sweaters, the rebellion wrapped in copper curls.
I checked my watch. 8:45 PM.
Tonight was the "Sentinel Social." A mandatory team bonding event disguised as a debauched house party at The Hive, the off-campus Victorian mansion where the defensive line lived.
As Captain, my attendance was required. It was part of the theater of leadership.
I had to go, shake hands, pretend to tolerate the freshmen, and ensure no one did anything that would end up on TMZ.
Usually, I went alone. I stood in the corner, drank water, and left at 11:00 PM sharp.
But tonight...
I stood up, the chair leather creaking under my weight. I needed a buffer. I needed a distraction. And frankly, I didn't trust her left alone in my penthouse. She’d probably flood the bathroom or set fire to the curtains just to see if I’d react.
I walked to the door and pulled it open.
The apartment was dark, save for the city lights bleeding in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I walked down the hall to the guest suite. The door was ajar.
I pushed it open.
Jess was sitting on the floor, surrounded by piles of clothes. She had music playing from her phone—something loud, rhythmic, and irritatingly catchy. She was folding a t-shirt with aggressive snaps of her wrists.
She looked up. Her eyes narrowed instantly.
"Knock," she said.
"My house," I replied, leaning against the doorframe. "My rules. Clause 2.2: Access to all rooms is reserved by the Employer for inspection purposes."
"You wrote that clause just so you could be a creep, didn't you?" She stood up, dusting off her knees. She was wearing grey sweatpants and a tank top that was sheer enough to outline the lace of her bra.
I kept my gaze fixed on her face. It required effort.
"Get dressed," I said.
"I am dressed. I'm unpacking. Unless 'unpacking' is also a violation of the Treaty of Versailles you made me sign?"
"We are going out."
She blinked. "We?"
"I have a team function. You are coming."
"Why?" She crossed her arms, pushing her chest up slightly. "Is 'Party Prop' in the job description? I didn't see that under 'Nutritional Planning' or 'Light Housekeeping.'"
"It falls under 'Administrative Support,'" I lied smoothly. "I need you to drive. I might drink. And I need someone to ensure I am not cornered by the Alumni Association president's daughter, who has been trying to trap me in a conversation about her horses for three years."
"So I'm a human shield."
"You are a defensive lineman in a size four dress. Wear something black. Be ready in ten minutes."
I turned to leave, but her voice stopped me.
"I don't have a black dress, Nick."
I paused, looking back over my shoulder. She wasn't being defiant; she was stating a fact. Her face was flushed, embarrassment warring with her natural prickly defense mechanisms.
"I have jeans," she said, lifting her chin. "And I have the clothes I dance in. That's it. I sold my good clothes last semester for textbooks."
The admission hung in the air between us. It was a stark reminder of the power imbalance here. I had suits worth more than her entire education.
I looked her up and down, calculating.
"Check the closet in the master bedroom," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "My sister leaves clothes here when she visits. She is roughly your size, though she lacks your... volatility. Take whatever you need."
"I'm not wearing your sister's clothes."
"Then go naked," I said, turning away. "Though that would certainly violate the discretion clause. Ten minutes, Jessica. The clock is running."
The Hive smelled like stale beer, Axe body spray, and the distinct, humid funk of fifty elite athletes crammed into a poorly ventilated space.
The bass from the speakers was so heavy I could feel it vibrating in the fillings of my teeth. It was a sensory nightmare. The lighting was dim, punctuated by strobe lights that sliced through the haze of vape smoke and dry ice.
I hated it. I hated the lack of control. I hated the chaos.
But as I walked through the front door, the crowd parted. It always did. I was the Center. The Captain. The projected number one overall pick. In this ecosystem, I was the apex predator, and the smaller fish knew to give me room to swim.
"Vance!" Jax Miller, my winger and the team’s resident golden retriever, bounded over. He was holding two red solo cups and wearing a plastic Viking helmet. "You made it! And you look... miserable! Perfect! Who's the—"
Jax stopped mid-sentence. The red cup tilted in his hand, threatening to spill.
He was looking behind me.
I stepped to the side, revealing Jess.
She had found a dress in the closet. It was a simple black slip dress, silk, cutting across her thighs and draping low in the back. It was elegant, understated, and on my sister, it would have looked demure.
On Jess, it looked like a weapon.
The silk clung to curves I hadn't let myself think about. Her hair was loose, a riot of fire against the black fabric. She had applied a dark red lipstick that made her mouth look sinful. She stood with her chin up, eyes scanning the room with a mixture of disdain and curiosity.
"Holy puck," Jax breathed.
I felt a sharp, irrational spike of anger in my chest. It was a physical sensation, like a hot needle behind my ribs.
"Eyes up, Miller," I snapped.
Jax snapped his gaze to mine, grinning. "Who is she? Since when do you bring dates? I thought your date was usually a playbook and a sour attitude."
"She's not a date," I said, my voice loud enough to cut through the music but cold enough to freeze the conversation. "She is my assistant. She is handling my schedule."
"Assistant," Jax repeated, looking back at Jess. He extended a hand. "Hi. I'm Jax. I'm the one who makes him look good on the ice. If you need someone to schedule 'Fun,' I'm your guy. Nick doesn't know what fun is. He thinks it's a type of spreadsheet."
Jess smiled. It wasn't the polite smile she had given the donors. It was genuine, amused, and dangerous. She took Jax's hand.
"I'm Jess," she said. "And honestly, a spreadsheet sounds pretty relaxing right now. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get this one to drink anything other than filtered glacial water?"
Jax laughed, a loud, booming sound. "Oh, I like her. Vance, I like her! Can we keep her?"
"She is working," I said, stepping between them. I broke their eye contact with the physical barrier of my shoulder. "Go mingle, Miller. Don't you have a keg stand to supervise?"
Jax winked at Jess and disappeared into the crowd.
I turned on her. "You are engaging."
"I'm being polite," she shouted over the music, leaning in close so I could hear her. Her scent—vanilla and something floral—hit me harder than the bass. "It's called social skills, Nick. You should try buying some on Amazon."
"I brought you here to be a buffer, not to flirt with my winger."
"I wasn't flirting. I was shaking his hand.
There's a difference. Flirting looks like this.
" She dropped her voice, her lashes lowering, a slow, sultry smile spreading across her lips.
She stepped closer, her hand ghosting over the lapel of my jacket.
"If I was flirting, Captain, you wouldn't be wondering about it. "
My breath hitched. Just once. A microscopic failure of my respiratory system.
She knew exactly what she was doing. She was testing the contract. She was testing me.
"Careful, Jessica," I murmured, leaning down until my lips were inches from her ear. "You are playing a game you do not understand. In this arena, I make the rules. And the penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct is severe."
She shivered. I saw the goosebumps rise on her bare arms.
"I'm not scared of you," she whispered back.
"You should be."
I grabbed her elbow—gently, but with unmistakable firmness—and steered her through the crowd. "Stay close. Do not accept drinks from anyone. Do not wander off."
"Aye aye, sir," she mocked, but she stayed by my side.
We moved through the party like a shark moving through a reef. I nodded at teammates, acknowledged the puck bunnies who tried to catch my eye with a dismissive glance, and kept a perimeter of two feet around us at all times.
But I couldn't block everything.
I felt the eyes on her. The hungry, assessing stares of the defensive line. The whispers. Who's the girl with Vance? Is that the new flavor?
Every look directed at her felt like a theft. It was irrational. She wasn't mine. She was an employee. A charity case I was housing to fix a PR disaster.
But my body didn't seem to care about the logic. My hand stayed on the small of her back, my thumb tracing small, possessive circles against the silk. I told myself it was to guide her.
I was a liar.
"Vance!"
The voice came from the kitchen area. It was Carter, the backup goalie. A guy with too much money and not enough talent. He was leaning against the counter, holding a bottle of tequila.