1. Rowdy
ONE
ROWDY
Being called into your boss’ office is a lot like dealing with the principal in grade school: nothing good ever fucking comes from it.
The leather chair I’m sitting in creaks as I shift my weight, trying to find a position that doesn’t aggravate my shoulder after a grueling morning at physical therapy.
The room smells like stale coffee, expensive mahogany, and cigars.
An inevitable headache is starting to brew behind my eyes.
“Say that again,” I say, shaking my head.
“Because it sounds like you’re telling me how to run my life, and I know I didn’t hear that right.
” Mitch, the coach of the Houston Lonestars, doesn’t even flinch.
He sits back in his executive chair, crossing his arms over his chest, and I can already hear him starting in on me now.
He’s dealt with hockey players like me for twenty years and treated me like the rest of them: a weapon needed to be pointed in the right direction, not reasoned with.
“You heard me just fine, Bouch,” Mitch says evenly.
“We’ve hired a social media manager and content creator.
Her job is to follow you around, handle your public-facing account, and fix the train wreck you’ve made of your image over the last six months.
” He doesn’t change his statement from the first, but that doesn’t mean I have to like what I’m hearing.
So, I had surgery, took time off, partied probably more than I should have. That doesn’t mean I’m harming anyone.
“A social media manager. Are you out of your mind? I’m a hockey player, Mitch. I play on the ice, I do my job, and I go home. I don’t dance on videos, and I sure as hell don’t need a babysitter posting pictures of my lunch to share, either.” Christ, what is the world coming to?
“You don’t have a choice,” Mitch replies, his voice leaving no room for argument, which means he’s not negotiating. He learns forward and rests his forearms on the wood desk, staring me down without a flicker of hesitation. “I’m not asking you, Bouchard. I’m telling you.”
“The hell you are.” I jump out of my chair, using my hands on the arms to help propel myself up, having to grit my teeth from the strain in my shoulder.
“Shut the hell up and listen,” Mitch snaps, cutting me off at the head.
“You’ve got more penalty minutes than anyone in the league.
You got caught on camera outside a club two weeks after shoulder surgery looking like you were ready to pick a fight, along with other shit that doesn’t make you look good for this franchise.
The league is watching us, the fans are all split, and the owners are pissed.
You think your talent makes you unkillable? Think a-fuckin-gain.”
Son of a bitch. I drop back into my seat before I lose my shit.
“You don’t do this,” Mitch continues, holding my gaze, “and you’re looking at the bench for the better part of the season.
No line time. No ice. And you sit long enough, this franchise has zero problem cutting their losses for a bench rider.
That means once your contract is up, you’ll be a free agent, that’s if they don’t just buy you out to get you gone.
Do you understand me?” This time, the pressure hits me fast and hot, rolling through my chest like a shot of adrenaline right before a puck drop.
My knuckles turn white where I’m gripping the armrests of the chair.
He has me right by the balls, and we both know it. Hockey is all I have. I’ve given my body, my blood, and my youth to this game, and the thought of being forced to sit this season out makes my stomach churn.
“This is bullshit,” I growl, standing up again.
The chair slides back an inch, and I shove my hand through my hair, taking a breath to keep from throwing something at the glass cabinet.
“I’ll do what I have to do to get back on the ice, but I don’t have to like it.
And I’m not going to play fetch with some corporate handler who thinks they can teach me tricks. ”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not going to hate it as much as you think you will, Bouch.” Mitch smirks, leaning over his desk toward the intercom. Before I can ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean, he smashes his thumb down on the speaker button and says, “Brenda, send her in.”
I step off to the side, spreading my feet shoulder-width apart, hands clamped tightly on my hips, every inch of my body tense and ready for a fight.
I’m bracing myself for a corporate suit they’re pushing through the door.
Truthfully, I expect some stodge, sharp-tongued woman in a rigid pencil skirt holding a clipboard while looking at me like I’m broken and need to be repaired.
The door swings open, and the words die in my throat.
She does not look anything like a corporate handler. In fact, she looks like trouble. A whole lot of it.
The social media manager-slash-content creator steps into the office with an unhurried, quiet confidence that has my muscles locking up.
She’s breathtaking, but not in a polished, overly manicured way the women who usually hang around the rink look like.
There’s something effortless and intriguing about her.
Her short dark hair is cut into a bob style.
Thanks, sis, for keeping me updated on all the hairstyles she’s been through over the years.
It brushes right at her shoulders and is parted to the side so a few strands fall casually across her face, framing the graceful curves of her jaw.
Her skin is warm, bathed in the glow of the hot Texas sunlight streaming through Mitch’s window.
My eyes skim down the length of her body, taking in the rest of her, and my brain quits firing on all cylinders.
She’s wearing a plastered-to-her-chest white tank top tucked tightly into a pair of classic light-wash jeans.
The scoop neck exposes the delicate curve of her collarbones, and a small, understated gold necklace rests against her skin.
A thick black leather belt cinches her slim waist, accentuating her hips.
Her arms are bare, smooth, and glowing. A couple of thin gold bangles adorn one wrist, and small gold hoop earrings glint through her dark hair.
The kicker of it all is the shoes on her feet, not cowboy boots like you’d see in Texas from the tourists.
Nope, she’s got on a pair of scuffed-up black canvas sneakers and what looks like writing on the white shell of the toe.
The woman isn’t trying hard. She doesn’t have to, she carries a quiet magnetism.
A smoldering, sun-drenched look that feels entirely too damn hot for an office in the middle of a hockey arena.
Her dark, feline eyes sweep across the room, lingering on Mitch for a fraction of a second before shifting over to me.
Our eyes lock, and for a second, all the bullshit disappears.
Her gaze is cool, calm, and collected. It’s also analytical, entirely unbothered by my size or the scowl I’m wearing.
She takes me in, my stubborn posture, the obvious anger surrounding me, and doesn’t so much as blink.
A faint, almost indiscernible tilt touches the corners of her full lips, almost as if she already knows every thought running through my head and finds it entertaining.
“Rowdy,” Mitch says, breaking the tension, His voice sounds like it’s coming through a tunnel. “This is Jett. She’s running your social media from here on out. Where you are, she is, and vice versa.”
Jett doesn’t offer me her hand to shake, nor does she slip into some rehearsed corporate greeting.
I’ve spent my entire life around people who are either intimidated by me or want something from me.
This woman stands three feet away looking like she doesn’t give a shit about my reputation, penalty minutes, or temper.
“Jett.” Her name tastes sinful as fuck on my tongue. I keep my hands locked on my hips, jaw set tight, and try to remember why not even five seconds ago, I was furious.
“Rowdy,” she replies, her voice smooth like velvet and laced with an edge that tells me my life is about to get very complicated.
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” Mitch moves from around his desk, watching us with a satisfied grin until he disappears from the office. I don’t take my eyes off her. And for the first time since this meeting started, I’m realizing I might be in over my head.