Chapter 30
THIRTY
AARON
I’m fucked.
Not in a fun, orgasmic way.
No. It’s the ego in the gutter, a woman I care about thinks I’m a bottom feeder, I may have lost something I seriously started to care about kind of way.
So, yeah.
Here I am—standing outside human resources, a man about to voluntarily walk into a penalty box and slam the door behind himself.
I’ve been to human resources maybe two, three times in my career—once for a contract formality, once because a rookie thought it was funny to Venmo request several veteran players for “emotional scarring” after a bit of innocent hazing.
Little pussy.
Management didn’t find it nearly as funny as we did. Whole thing escalated, and I ended up in an office signing a statement confirming it was a joke—not harassment, not bullying, not a lawsuit waiting to happen.
This has been the extent of my relationship with corporate.
Until today.
I push through the glass door and hesitate, unsure what to do. I’m not usually in this part of the building unless my agent is accompanying me—and usually there’s a catered lunch.
“Hi.” The guy gives me a quick smile, fingers clicking away at the keyboard. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah. I need to speak to someone in charge.”
He nods.
Click, click click…
“And you are?”
I stare at him.
There are framed team photos on the wall. A life-size cardboard cutout of me in the lobby downstairs. My face has been on the side of a bus.
“Aaron Bishop.” I feel my nostrils flare.
His fingers touch the headset on his head. “And you’re with…?”
“With the team.”
“Right,” he says. “Of course. And what can we help you with today, Mr. Bishop?”
I shift my weight, already regretting every life choice that brought me here.
“I need to speak with the director of HR.”
His well-manicured eyebrows lift. “Is this regarding a workplace incident?”
“Yes.”
“What type of incident?”
“The kind I’d prefer to discuss privately,” I reply.
His lips press together. He glances down at his screen again. “We typically like to have some context before scheduling a meeting.”
“The context is none of your business.”
He swivels slightly, holding down a button on the side of his headset, speaking into the mouthpiece. “Yes, I have Mr. Aaron Bishop here at the desk requesting a meeting…” I hear him murmur. “Yes, ma’am. That Bishop.”
A beat later he straightens. “She can see you shortly. Please have a seat.” Pause. “Can I get you anything while you wait? A water or coffee?”
“No thanks.”
I lower my large body into an oversized leather chair and stare at the abstract painting across from me. It’s a large watercolor of ice. The men painted on it are faceless and distorted, their skates blurs in motion.
I rest my forearms on my thighs and clasp my hands together, thumbs rubbing absently until my left knee starts bouncing.
I clamp a hand over it.
This is humiliating.
Necessary, but humiliating.
Yesterday, I was in the locker room with Storm, half convinced I could fix this with a speech, possibly some expensive gifts, and some well-timed self-loathing during a pleading monologue.
Now, I’m in a corporate fishbowl waiting to confess that I fell for the right woman for the wrong reason and, if possible, could they give her a fucking break about it if anyone were to find out.
If she speaks to me after today.
“Mr. Bishop?” a young woman appears from around a doorway, navy suit, professional smile in place. “Tara is ready for you.”
Great.
I stand, rolling my shoulders back the same way I do when I’m about to step onto the ice, instead of into an office that smells of lemon furniture spray and clean carpet.
Framed diplomas line the far wall. A photo of the HR director with the team owner. Several bamboo plants. A long walnut table with eight chairs. Zero personality.
Tara McMillion sits at the head.
Mid-forties, maybe. Hair pulled back into something sleek and severe. The kind of woman who probably irons her bedsheets and files complaints alphabetically. She hadn’t thought I was funny the last time I was in her office.
To be fair, no one thinks I’m funny.
“Mr. Bishop.” She gestures to the chair across from her desk. “Please.”
Her assistant slides into a nearby seat with a tablet poised, ready to take notes. That feels excessive. Like I’m about to confess to tax evasion and it needs to be on file.
I sit.
Tara folds her hands neatly on her desk. Pastes a pleasant smile on her face. “How can we assist you today?”
I clear my throat. “I’m here to disclose a relationship.”
Her expression doesn’t change.
The assistant’s fingers hover above the screen, waiting for details.
“Go on,” Tara says evenly.
“With an employee.” I exhale through my nose. “She works on this floor.”
“Name?”
“Juliette Kennedy.”
The assistant’s fingers begin moving.
Tara nods once, glancing at her. “And how long has this relationship been ongoing?”
I scrub a hand down my unshaved jaw. “It’s new. Very new.”
Tara barely blinks. “Define new.”
“I don’t know. One week. Two?” Who’s keeping time? I do the mental math and still come up blank.
The assistant’s fingers move with quiet efficiency. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound feels louder than it should.
“And when did the relationship begin?” Tara asks. “Prior to or after the most recent update to the fraternization policy?”
I almost laugh.
Of course there would have been a recent update. That would be my fucking luck.
“Before,” I say. “I think.”
Tara folds her hands on the table. “Has Ms. Kennedy expressed any concern regarding this relationship in the workplace?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
That earns me another fractional shift of attention.
“In what capacity?”
“She’s voiced concern about professional consequences.” My jaw tightens. “For herself.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“And for you?”
I shrug once. “I hardly need to be concerned about fallout.”
What are they going to do, fire me?
Ha.
Tara nods. “And your reason for disclosure today?”
“I want to be transparent, should the relationship progress and become serious.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The assistant’s typing slows.
Tara’s face remains composed, but there’s the faintest softening around her eyes.
“You understand,” she continues, “that disclosure does not guarantee immunity from review.”
“Sure.”
“And you understand that if this relationship creates conflict of interest, it may require reassignment or structural adjustments for her.”
My chest tightens. “It might?”
I imagine Juliette packing up her desk because of me. Fielding whispers. Becoming office gossip.
Shit.
Tara folds her hands. “Mr. Bishop, you’re not the first athlete to disclose a workplace relationship. Nor will you be the last.”
That surprises me enough that I actually look straight into her eyes.
“We don’t punish people for honesty,” she continues. “We assess risk. Power imbalance. At this time, none of those factors suggest immediate action.”
The assistant nods once without looking up.
“Off the record,” Tara adds, giving her assistant the side-eye. “I am required to walk you through worst-case scenarios.”
I exhale slowly.
“I do not foresee this being an issue,” she says. “Provided it remains professional in the workplace.”
Professional.
My brain flashes to locker-room tension. To my conflicts with Declan, on and off the ice. To me throwing my helmet across a bench like a caveman. To Storm, having to mediate the two of us during a game.
“I can handle that,” I say.
Tara studies me for a long beat.
“We’ll have something for you to sign. Penny should have it drafted within the hour, and I can have those sent down.” Her smile is pleasant. “Is there anything else we can help you with?”
“No.” I pause. Remember my manners. “No, thank you.”
I rise.
Reach my hand out to shake Tara’s.
She takes it. “Thank you for coming in.”
“Yeah.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “Appreciate it.”
Penny saves whatever digital paper trail now exists tying my name to Juliette’s in neat, bullet-pointed documentation.
Done.
No fireworks. No lecture. No corporate hammer dropping.
I step back into the hallway, exhale through my nose, and check my phone out of habit.
Still nothing.
Which is fair.
If I were her, I’d tell me to fuck off and never want to see me again. But I’m not a quitter, and I have to give it a shot, see if she’ll at least hear me out.
Keeping it professional in the workplace will have to wait, because she won’t agree to see me if she’s not taking my calls, or responding to my messages.
I square my shoulders and start walking toward her office.
Paperwork handled.
Now comes the hard part.
Her desk is vacant.
Crap—what if she didn’t show up for work?
My shoulders drop. What if she’s gone home? Or is hiding from me?
Then I notice the glass-walled conference room at the end of the hall. The lights are on. The blinds are half-closed.
And she’s inside.
Alone.
She’s seated at the far end of the table, elbows on the surface, fingers pressed to her temples as if she’s mustering the energy to do whatever she’s in the room to do.
She looks up when I open the door.
Our eyes meet.
There’s no smile, no greeting, no teasing.
Juliette looks tired, her face free of make-up except for a small bit of mascara.
She looks like she’s probably been up crying all night.
I close the door behind me.
“This won’t take long.” I hold my hands up, praying she doesn’t call security or something.
She nods, crossing her arms.
“I went to HR,” I start, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans. Rock back on my heels, nervous as hell.
Juliettes mouth falls into a straight line.
“I disclosed our relationship,” I go on, unencouraged by her silence. “I wanted it documented, you know—so there are no surprises.”
A beat passes.
Then another.
“You came here to tell me that?” she asks flatly.
I blink. “Yeah.”
She lets out a breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a scoff. But if sarcasm had a sound, it would be that.
“Alright.”
Silence hums between us, she on one side of the table, me on the other, the glass walls making me feel exposed to prying eyes so soon after my meeting with Tara.
“I thought—”
“You thought going to HR would suddenly make what you did less shitty?”