4. Jett
FOUR
JETT
When I first spoke with Mitch before taking over Rowdy’s social media and changing his image, I knew this would be a job like no other.
Then today, before he left the arena, he made it abundantly clear in his final instruction.
I’m to be Rowdy Bouchard’s shadow—wherever he goes, I go, until the franchise feels confident enough he isn’t going to set his career on fire again.
This level of proximity is usually fine with me.
I’m used to high-strung clients and chaotic schedules.
What I was and still am not prepared for is the sheer gravity of being in Rowdy’s personal space once we left the arena.
Being inside his black SUV, sitting in the passenger seat, listening to his music, and watching as he handled the machine with perfect ease.
“Make yourself at home,” Rowdy grunts once we make our way into his home. He tosses the keys onto the kitchen counter before heading straight up the stairs. “I’m taking a shower. I reek of ice and sweat.”
“Take your time,” I call after him, slipping my bag off my back and setting it on an empty barstool at the kitchen island.
“I’ll start logging footage.” He doesn’t hear me.
His retreating back is already at the second-floor landing and turning the corner.
I go through the process of pulling out my camera, laptop, and phone.
A quick plugging in the cord from the camera to my laptop starts the transfer.
Hundreds of stills, short video clips, and even the longer ones that I’ll more than likely break down or delete all together.
And this was only from a couple of hours that I captured this morning.
There’s no telling how much more footage I’ll get through the day.
I pop in my earbuds, lean over the screen as I scrub through the timeline as I stand like a flamingo, one foot flat on the ground, the other in a triangle at my thigh.
The raw footage is great, but the clip of him coming off the ice is even better.
Rowdy has sweat dripping down his neck, jaw set, eyes intense and brooding, it’s going to outperform the other videos Rowdy has posted of him.
My head is popping, my lips are moving, and I’m humming along to the song streaming, so deep into trimming, cutting, and editing them into smaller clips, that I don’t see or hear Rowdy, but I feel him. The shift in the air and the sudden, subtle scent of cedar and bergamot make me look up.
My breath hitches in my throat. Rowdy’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing a pair of dark blue athletic shorts.
And that’s it. Just shorts.
His thick, dark hair is slicked back, still wet from the shower, and drops of water glide slowly down his chest, tracing the sharp, carved lines of each dip of his sculpted abdomen.
I stare, my god, do I stare. It’s impossible not to.
The professionalism I’ve always strived for fades into the background for five long seconds while my brain scrambles to process the number of muscles in front of me.
My eyes involuntarily track a bead of water as it slithers down his abs, dipping into the soft ridge where his shorts rest on his hips.
And then—because the universe is seriously testing my patience with some weird, twisted sense of humor—my gaze drifts an inch lower.
The thin fabric he’s wearing leaves very little to the imagination.
Rowdy shifts his weight, resting one hand on the edge of the counter.
I swear I see a distinct pulse beneath the dark material.
Get it together, Jett.
I feel a sudden flood of heat rush up my neck, straight to my cheeks.
I’ve maintained an ironclad rule my entire career: never mix business with pleasure.
It’s my gospel, my boundary line, the one thing that keeps me sharp in an industry full of fragile egos.
But looking at Rowdy right then, that rule feels like a string pulled tight, ready to snap.
“Hope I’m not distracting you from your work, sunshine.” His voice is a deep, husky rumble. Of course, he notices where my eyes froze, judging by the shit-eating grin tugging at the corner of his lips. His deep eyes are fixed on mine with a quiet, knowing amusement.
“It takes a lot more than a shirtless athlete to distract me, Bouchard.” I clear my throat, forcing my hands to remain steady as I click my touchpad to pause the video.
“Is that right?” He walks past me toward the refrigerator, his shoulder brushing close enough to mine that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. He opens the fridge door and pulls out a carton of spinach, ground turkey, and sweet potatoes. “Looks like you were doing something else.”
“Only analyzing lighting angles,” I lie smoothly, leaning back into my stool, and cross my arms over my chest. Somewhere along the way, my lower back started aching and made me plop my behind in the padded seat with a high back. “You happened to step into the frame.”
“Right.” He sets the ingredients on the counter before pulling a heavy cast-iron skillet out of the cabinet below. “Well, I’m making food. You want some, or are you going to watch me eat, too?”
“I’m good, thanks.” I scrunch my nose, trying to figure out what he’s going to make with the food he has set out.
I tap my pen against my notebook in an attempt to pull the conversation back to familiar ground before my brain completely short-circuits.
“While you’re cooking, can we go over the interview questions the team wants us to run through tomorrow? ”
“Sure,” Rowdy grunts, setting the skillet on the stovetop. “As long as I can ask a question of my own.” He flops the ground meat into the pan, then moves to the pantry to pull out more ingredients.
“A question? You want to interview me?” I raise an eyebrow, surprised at this suggestion.
“Why not?” The meat sizzles. He pulls out another pot, measuring the water he needs to boil the rice. He turns his body slightly toward me, resting a hip against the counter. “You’ve been shadowing me all day, prying into my life, taking pictures of me. I think I’m entitled to one question, Jett.”
“Fair enough.” I drum the pads of my fingers against my laptop.
“How did you get into the whole social media gig? It’s not like you can go to college for a degree in making enforcers look friendly.” Rowdy tilts his head, his focused eyes searching my face.
“Well, it’s one of those things you kind of fall into,” I admit, my voice softening as I think back to how it all started.
“It definitely wasn’t my original master plan.
” I can’t help the small, genuine laugh that escapes my lips.
I push my laptop to the side, lean my elbows on the counter, rest my chin in my hands, and look up at him.
“Yeah?” He turns his attention back to the stove, sautéing the meat, adding spices, and keeping his eyes on both tasks, his food and me.
“It started with my cousin, Toren. He was getting his name out there in the art industry, but he wanted to do it in a way where he could keep his identity hidden. Total ghost mode.”
“Hidden? Why?” Rowdy looks over his shoulder from where he’s still doing a few things at once, his dark brow furrowed with curiosity.
“Long story, but he lives in a small town. People talk, and when we posted one video, it blew up. Women went absolutely feral. He didn’t want strangers showing up on his property.
The only problem with that is, we created a supply and demand.
It took off, wildly. He had more commissioned pieces than he knew what to do with.
I ran the behind-the-scenes strategy, building the suspense, curating his aesthetic to look cohesive, and lived in the shadow. ”
“And people bought into it?” Rowdy pulls the rice off the heat, turns off the burner, and then throws the spinach in with the meat before adding the diced-up sweet potatoes to the mix as well.
“They went crazy for it. Before long, he started getting a flood of messages and emails—not just from his fans, but from brands and high-profile galleries. Everyone wanted to know the same thing: who’s running his account and filming it all?
” I stand up and walk around the island.
“Do you mind if I get a glass of water?”
“Help yourself. Bottles of water are in the fridge.” I once again scrunch up my nose. Water in plastic, the same plastic being recycled, except I’ve been to landfills, and it all lands in the exact same place. So, tell me, do they really recycle?
“Glasses?” I ask.
“To the right of the fridge.” I go about my task fridge while Rowdy plates his food, sets his plate next to my laptop, and grabs a fork. Meanwhile, I fill my glass with ice and water and return to my seat where he’s sitting right next to me.
“So, you took the hint.” Rowdy takes a bite of his food. There are six inches between us, too bad his effortless, commanding presence makes the space feel smaller.
“I created a business right then and there.” I nod, meeting his gaze while taking a sip of my water.
“I bought a better camera, registered an LLC, and I’ve been doing it ever since.
I took on independent clients, built a reputation for crisis management, and now it seems I’m into sports franchises.
Like the Lonestars calling my cell when their star player needs some help. ”
“Clearly, I’m not a project to you.” He chews slowly, his gaze locked on mine.
There’s no sarcasm in his expression, no defensive edge.
Only a calculating respect that makes me think maybe we’ll be on the same page after all.
“I’m just the latest fire you’re setting out to extinguish,” he muses, propping his forearms on the counter, which brings his thick arm closer to mine.
“You’re a high-stakes client, Rowdy,” I correct, holding my ground despite the reckless desire crackling between us. “And I don’t fail my clients.”
“Is that right?” It seems Bouchard has a favorite phrase when it comes to me. He leans in a fraction of an inch closer, his eyes dropping briefly to my lips before rising back to meet my gaze. “And what happens when the project gets complicated, sunshine?”
“I handle the complications. I always do,” I whisper, licking my lips, and he watches as I do so.
Rowdy stares at me for a long, silent beat, the quiet hum of the fridge and air conditioner the only sound in the kitchen.
For a second, I think he’s going to close the remaining few inches between us.
Every instinct in my body screams at me to pull back, to remember my rules, to maintaining the professional boundary I’ve never broken.
Instead, I hold my breath, waiting to see what he’ll do next. Rowdy lets out a rough breath, a slow grin spreading across his sharp jaw, and pulls back just enough to break the spell.
“Alright, Jett.” He picks up his fork again. “Hit me with those interview questions. Let’s see what we’re working with and what the fans want.” I blink, taking a moment as I tap on my laptop screen to open the list.
“Question one.” My fingers tremble slightly, but my voice remains steady. “How do you feel about telling the world that Rowdy Bouchard has a soft side?” I begin, my eyes darting up to meet his.
“Tell them whatever you want, Jett. As long as it makes me sound and look good.” When he chuckles, the sound vibrates through the room.
“Every side is your good side, Bouchard,” I murmur under my breath before I can stop myself.
Rowdy freezes. His eyes go molten-lava hot as they snap back to mine, ablaze with an intensity that makes me realize I’m already way too far down a slippery slope.
And as I sit here in his kitchen, watching him eat, I know one thing for certain: keeping this purely business is going to be the hardest fight of my life.