Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Annabelle
“We are not talking about the couch. We are not thinking about the couch. We are pretending the couch never happened.”
I say it out loud. At full volume. To my stapler.
“Uh… you okay, Annabelle?”
I jolt so hard I nearly fling my pen across the room. One of the interns stands in my doorway, clutching a stack of folders, eyes wide.
“I… yes.” I force a smile that feels like it might crack my skull. “Everything is great. Just, you know, having a very normal conversation about furniture. Like people do.”
“Right.” He blinks. “Should I… come back later? When you’re not mad at the couch?”
“I’m not mad at the couch,” I lie. “The couch and I are on excellent terms.”
“Cool,” he says slowly. “Happy New Year… almost.”
He backs away like I am a wild animal someone tried to train with spreadsheets, then disappears down the hall.
The moment he is gone, I drop my forehead to my desk.
Perfect. Totally fine. Nothing to see here except a woman who almost had sex with a player on office furniture and now cannot look at upholstery without blushing.
I blow out a breath and try to focus on my monitor.
Emails. Schedules. Sponsor reports. All very professional, very normal, absolutely not related to Bryce Blackhorn’s hands anywhere near my body.
Unfortunately, my brain does not cooperate.
It offers a slideshow instead.
Bryce’s mouth on my neck.
His hands under my blouse.
The feel of his chest under my fingers.
“You’re a hot mess I want to taste and ruin slow.”
I groan and slap my hands over my face like that will block out the memory. Spoiler alert. It does not.
“Okay,” I tell myself. “HR lecture. Right now.”
I sit up straight and pretend I am my own stern supervisor.
“Annabelle,” I mutter, “you are a trained, competent professional. You work in high level sports operations and PR. You do not make out with players on couches in your office like a walking scandal. That is what bad decisions and reality shows are for.”
I point at my laptop.
“You have a meeting in fifteen minutes. Coach. Players. Staff. There will be charts. Focus on the charts. Not on Bryce’s jawline. Or his hands. Or his ridiculously unfair mouth. He is just a man.”
My brain whispers, very unhelpfully… A tall, annoyingly gorgeous, stupidly magnetic man.
“Stop it,” I hiss at myself. “Boundaries.”
I grab my notebook and stand. My legs feel fine. Totally steady. Not at all like they remember how it felt when he pinned me to the couch and…
I slam my office door shut behind me before that sentence finishes.
Team meeting. Focus. Work.
If I say it enough times, maybe it will be true.
The conference room is noisy when I walk in. Dex is trying to balance three water bottles on his head. Eli is failing to pretend he is not recording it. Colby is drawing something that might be a goat or might be a deformed cat on the whiteboard. I decide not to ask.
Coach Ryder stands at the head of the table, arms folded, judgment radiating off him like heat.
“Sit,” he barks.
Everyone scrambles for a chair.
I slide into a spot near the middle, flip open my notebook, and keep my eyes firmly on Coach. Not on the empty seat across from me. Not on the door.
“Holiday break,” Coach says, “is not Operation Lose Brain Cells. That means no scandals. No viral clips. No half drunk live streams. No tattoos anywhere on Dex that I have to hear about later. Understand?”
The guys snicker.
Dex raises his hand. “What about temporary tattoos?”
“No,” Coach says without blinking.
“What about piercings?”
“Dex.”
“I am just clarifying the rules, Coach. For science.”
Coach glares. “If you show up to practice with glitter on your face, I am bag skating you until you cry.”
Shelly coughs to hide a laugh. Colby fails completely.
And then the door opens.
Bryce walks in.
Late, of course.
He is in a black hoodie and worn jeans, hair damp from a shower, jaw freshly shaved. He looks… normal. Casual. Like he did not recently take my bra off with one hand and ruin my ability to think in complete sentences.
Our eyes meet.
For one suspended heartbeat, the whole room blurs. I hear the murmur of voices, the scrape of chairs, but it is all background noise to the heavy thud of my pulse.
He does not smirk.
He does not wink.
He just looks at me, steady and unreadable, like he is waiting to see if I will run.
I look away first.
Of course I do.
“Nice of you to join us, Blackhorn,” Coach says.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Bryce answers, dropping into the empty seat across the table.
I can feel his attention like heat on my skin. I stare at the agenda like it contains nuclear codes.
Coach continues. “Tonight is New Year’s Eve. Most of you idiots will be at that hotel event downtown. There will be cameras, fans, alcohol, and poor life choices.”
Dex leans over to Eli. “Sounds like my kind of place.”
Coach pins him with a look. “You embarrass this team, you embarrass me. You embarrass me, you begin the new year on the bench. Clear?”
A chorus of “Yes, Coach” fills the room.
“Good,” he says. “No shenanigans. No PR nightmares. No kissing anyone in a place you can get caught.”
My pen makes a tiny, traitorous squeak against the paper.
Bryce’s mouth curves, just a little.
I pretend I don’t see it.
***
A few hours later, I am at lunch with the wives and girlfriends in a deli near the arena, clutching a Diet Coke like it’s holy water.
Harper, Mia, Janie, and a couple other partners have become my unofficial support group. And today, I invited Shari, too.
“This is my best friend, Shari,” I say. “Shari, this is Harper, Mia, Janie… the brains behind the idiots on ice.”
“Hi,” Shari says, eyes bright. “Your husbands are very hot. In a completely respectful way.”
Mia grins. “We appreciate your honesty.”
“This is the best sandwich I have ever eaten,” Shari announces around a mouthful of turkey and avocado. “Is this what rich people eat like?”
“We are not rich,” Mia says. “We are just heavily invested in carbs.”
Harper laughs. “Speak for yourself. I married a man who considers boiled chicken a food group.”
Janie leans in. “So, Annabelle. New Year’s Eve. Are you going to the big party downtown with most of the Outlaws?”
I take an enormous bite of my sandwich to stall. “No,” I say once I have chewed enough to avoid choking. “I am not. I am going to have a quiet night. Pajamas. Cheap wine. Emotional support chocolate. Maybe a movie where no one has abs.”
Harper lifts a brow. “Mmhmm.”
Shari nearly chokes on her soda. “Excuse me, what?”
I look at her. “What?”
“You have access to an exclusive New Year’s Eve party full of hockey players and famous people and free desserts,” she says. “And you are choosing leggings and Netflix?”
“Yes,” I say. “Security will be there. PR will be fine. Bryce does not need me hovering over him like a parole officer. He is a grown man. He can behave for one night. Plus, I assigned two interns to watch him.”
Three pairs of female eyes hit me at once.
It’s The Look.
The universal, multi generational, telepathic expression women use when another woman is lying to herself.
“I am serious,” I insist. “I do not need to be there. I am not avoiding anyone. I am just… choosing rest. Boundaries. Order. Control.”
Mia sips her drink. “You keep saying that word.”
“What word?”
“Control,” she says. “Like if you say it enough, it will magically appear.”
“New Year’s at an exclusive party sounds amazing,” Shari says. “I want to meet the guys. I want to see Dex in his natural habitat. I want to eat tiny fancy desserts and pretend I’m important.”
“You are important,” I say automatically.
She waves a hand. “To you, sure. I mean important with good lighting.”
The table laughs.
I fight a smile and fail.
“I'm still not going. Shari and I already have our movie lineup ready.” I say, more to myself than to them.
Harper exchanges a look with Mia.
“Okay,” she says lightly. “Sure. We believe you.”
They don't believe me.
***
By the time I get home, I have convinced myself I am strong and resolved and absolutely not thinking about Bryce in a suit.
My plans are set. Shari should already be at my place, making her famous lasagna…her idea. I am looking forward to hanging out with my bestie and keeping it low key.
I kick off my boots, toss my keys in the bowl, and my phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
No.
Not unknown.
I know that number now.
Bryce: You don’t have to babysit me tonight.
I stare at the screen, heartbeat picking up.
Bryce: But I’d like you there.
I stop breathing for a second.
Another text appears.
Bryce: If you’re avoiding me, just tell me.
My pride sits up like an offended cat.
I type before common sense catches up.
Me: I’m not avoiding you.
Three dots.
They blink.
And blink.
Bryce: Then come.
My stomach does a full gymnastics routine.
From the couch, Shari yells, “Why are you standing in the doorway like a ghost? Did a bill collector text you?”
I swallow hard. “Worse.”
She appears in the hall two seconds later. “Show me.”
I hold out my phone.
She reads.
Her eyes go huge. “Oh my God. Yes! We are going.”
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon, Annabelle. Let’s go. It’ll be fun!”
She is already marching toward my bedroom. “You have a sparkly dress, right? Or something with cleavage? Please say you own something with cleavage.”
“Shari…”
“You can either spiral on your couch about the office couch scene,” she calls back, “or you can put on lipstick and make a professional appearance at a fancy party where your hot disaster man just asked you to show up.”
“He is not my man,” I protest.
“Sure,” she says. “Tell that to your face.”
She flings open my closet and starts humming dramatically.
“We are going,” she declares. “Get ready. Put on something sexy, like this dress. I’m going home to get ready and I’ll pick you up at 7:00.”
“What about the lasagna?”
“I’ll put it in the fridge and we’ll have it tomorrow.”
My heart pounds.
My brain screams no.
My traitorous body?
It is already moving toward my vanity, reaching for mascara.
***