2. Jett
TWO
JETT
The tension in Mitch’s office is so thick you could cut it with a steak knife.
The coach slipped out a few moments ago under the guise of us getting to know one another, leaving me alone with the six-foot-plus hockey player who’s radiating pure male testerone fueled with irritation.
Rowdy Bouchard is standing near the windows that overlook the practice rink with his back partially turned to me.
His shoulders are squared up, his hands jammed in his pockets, and his chest expands with a controlled breath, making it glaringly obvious he’s holding himself back from making a smart remark.
He’s essentially throwing a full-blown silent temper tantrum. He fills the room with his presence in an attempt to force me into submission without saying a word. Classic male bravado. I sit down at the oval conference table, entirely unbothered and needing to get this show on the road.
“So,” I begin, keeping my tone deliberately calm.
“Here’s how this is going to work, Bouchard.
The team brought me in because your current digital footprint reads like a rap sheet.
Honestly, it would have been better if you didn’t post anything to begin with, but since you have, we’re going to start from square one.
Which means I’ll be deleting posts you’ve made in the past while curating new content.
We need to rebrand you. Right now, the fans see you as a walking hot-headed bad boy who spends more time beating up his opponents to a bloody pulp and in VIP lounges than on the ice.
” He stands stone-cold sober, minus the muscle ticking violently in his sharp, stubble-dusted jaw, but he keeps his eyes locked on the glass in front of him.
“We’re going to soften the edges,” I continue, opening my tablet and pulling up some of my notes. “We need behind-the-scenes content: your rehab routines, working out, community involvement.”
“Soft? You want me to look soft? I’m an enforcer, Jett. I don’t do soft around the edges. My job is to protect my team, not post selfies for teenager likes.” Rowdy lets out a low, mocking scoff, turning his head enough to glare at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Your job right now is keeping your contract,” I reply evenly, meeting his gaze head on without a single flicker of hesitation.
“And right now, this is what will keep you off the bench.” I reach into my pocket, looking for my pen that I use for my tablet for writing notes.
“Excuse me. Let me grab my bag from the lobby,” I say, sliding back in my chair and standing up, fiddling with my layered necklaces as I walk toward the door.
I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, tracking every step I take like he’s trying to burn a hole right through me.
I’m sure he’s using the same tactic while looking down opposing players.
I almost smile to myself as I bend down just outside of Mitch’s office to grab my bag, then head back inside.
He really thinks he can intimidate me. It’s almost cute.
In my line of work, it’s not easy to do.
Plus, I’ve spent my entire youth navigating a family packed to the brim with male cousins who ooze the same macho, protective, overbearing confidence.
I know how men like Rowdy operate—they use their size, their silence, and their annoyance to push people out of their comfort zones until they get their way.
Then there’s, of course, my core group of friends back in Seattle.
Every last one of them, minus Mischa, deals with billionaire alpha-type men who literally control markets and carry themselves like they own the world.
Needless to say, men like Rowdy “Bouch” Bouchard might be impressive and undeniably good-looking, but at the end of the day, he’s a cocky hockey player with a bad attitude and horrible PR. I could handle him in my sleep.
I walk back in. My dark canvas backpack houses my prized possession: my vlogging camera, a Cannon PowerShot G7 X Mark III, I have safely nestled in a padded sleeve next to my extra notebooks, and my pen that’s in the front pocket.
And wouldn’t you know it, he’s still staring at me.
His dark eyes sweep over my face, my chest, down to my waist, and back up to my face. The sheer intensity of his focus is enough to make a shiver roll through my body. Still, I hold his gaze, slipping my bag off my shoulder and setting it down on the vacant chair next to the one I was sitting in.
“Find what you were looking for?” he asks, his deep, gruff voice laced with heavy sarcasm.
“Always,” I reply, letting his remark roll off my back. I put my pen next to my tablet, slide out my camera, and place it on the table.
“What is that?” Rowdy eyes the camera like it’s a venomous snake.
“It’s a camera.” I pick up the small device, flick the switch on, and watch as it powers on. The lens extends with a quiet whir. “We’re starting today. I’m taking raw, unscripted stills of you in your element. No filters, no staged scenes, just realness.”
“You really think a camera can rewrite who I am?” He lets out a harsh laugh, finally stepping away from the window to prowl to the table.
Every line of his powerful body moves with a grace I would never expect a man of his stature to possess.
He stops on the other side of the table, facing me, places his large work roughened hands on the wood, and leans forward.
“You don’t know anything about me, Jett. ”
I pick up my camera and bring the viewfinder up. The lens autofocuses on his face, a portrait of sharp, rugged perfection, stubborn jaw, high cheekbones, and storm-filled eyes glaring through the glass.
Click.
Click.
Click.
“Did you just take a picture of me?” Rowdy freezes, his eyebrows pulling down in disbelief as the tiny shutter echoes in the office.
“Yep.” I lower the camera to check the display screen. The lighting is perfection. The shadow across his face gives him a brooding look rather than an aggressive one. “See? You look focused. Driven. Not like a guy who’s about to throw a right hook at a bartender.”
“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest, stretching the fabric of his shirt.
Rowdy stares at me, genuinely speechless when I click through the other pictures.
The fact that I’m not backing down, flinching at his size, and am not fazed by his attitude is clearly throwing a wrench in his plans.
“I’m exceptional at my job,” I correct, setting the camera back down. “And my job is making sure the world sees you in a different light. You want to play hockey, then you’re going to let me do my work, so you can do yours.”
“Fine,” he grunts, eyes never leaving mine. “Do your worst, sunshine.”
“Oh, trust me, I will, and we’re only getting started.” My smile is a sharp, victorious tilt of my lips as reach for my pen.