2. Chord
two
Chord
Barely a third of the chairs around the monstrous table are occupied, but I assume someone chose this room because it’s the biggest and the best. The Fury knows they got a good deal when they signed me for a fraction of what I’m worth, and they’re probably wondering what the hell I’m doing here.
In the hours since we signed the contracts, I’ve asked myself the same thing.
Campbell is on my right, Courtney from marketing is on my left, and there are reps from what looks like every other department arranged around the table. I don’t know that they all need to be here, but it looks like everyone wishes they weren’t. So they can stay.
After he makes the obligatory introductions, Coach braids his fingers together and sets his hands on the table. “Before we get to business, I want to offer Chord a warm welcome to the San Francisco Fury.” He turns to me. “I know this is a big change, and it’s not done under the best of circumstances, but the team here is taking this as an opportunity to make a fresh start, and we hope you will, too.”
He pauses, offering me the floor, and I give him a tight smile that barely touches my lips.
“Hey. You.” I tip my chin at the guy with the open laptop. “You’re from the media relations team, right?”
He licks his lips and nods like there might be a wrong answer—or like he wishes he could say no.
“Good. Take notes because I’m only going to say this once.”
I flex my fingers where I rest my hands on my thighs, stretching them out before curling them into fists again. I don’t want to have to say this at all but it’s something I have to deal with, and I want our media relations team to have the right lines to feed to the press.
Around me, eyes dart everywhere but in my direction. I can feel the anticipation. It’s a bit like skating out onto the ice before a big game. Everyone waiting for the first hit. The first goal. The final horn. The crowd can smell blood, and these idiots are waiting for me to spill mine.
And it’s all there. Right on the tip of my tongue…
The team that took twelve of my best playing years recruited a twenty-something douchebag who stole my team and screwed my girl. Then they dumped me when I had a problem with that. They can go fuck themselves.
But saying those words out loud would be stupid, so I grind my teeth and spit out the same bullshit I gave to the press when I was waiting to get the hell out of Calgary.
“I’m grateful to the Calgary Crushers for buying out my contract and giving me the opportunity to sign with the San Francisco Fury. I wish my former team all the best for the coming season, but my focus now is taking the Fury all the way to the Cup.”
The words taste bitter, but ice is better than fire. Frost is preferable to flames. If I ever actually said all the things I want to say, I’d lose all control, and nobody deserves to know how much the last year fucking hurt.
I glance around, and the only person who doesn’t look disappointed is Coach. What did these people expect from me today—a therapy session?
I run my tongue over my lips and look around for the drinks I asked for. Green juice. Protein shake. Hot black coffee. Iced vanilla latte. Freshly squeezed orange juice—no pulp. Iced water. I don’t know why I do diva shit like ask for six drinks when one would have been fine, other than the fact that keeping people on their toes also keeps them from getting too close. Six drinks, and there’s nothing on the table.
“Any chance of getting one of those drinks I asked for?” I say to the room.
Courtney’s the first one to speak. Of course, she is. “We had a little miscommunication this morning, but they’re on their way right now.” She snatches her phone from the table and taps out a message. “I’ll get an ETA while we continue.”
I grunt, and Coach clears his throat, shooting me a look that draws down his brows as well as the corners of his mouth. I’m too old, too rich, and too jaded to care about disappointing anyone, but like a reflex, I sit up straighter.
“Thank you, Chord,” he says, though he’s talking to everyone. “I think that means we’re all moving in the same direction—forward, not back. But let’s not sugarcoat this. We’ve got a lot of work to do. Playing for San Francisco won’t be anything like playing for Calgary. We’re rebuilding, and we’ve made a few bad contracts trying to do that, but I’m determined to turn things around, and we need a veteran to help us reach our potential. Our boys need an experienced captain—a leader and a mentor, on and off the ice. We need depth .” Coach claps me on the shoulder. “That’s where Chord comes in. Sixteen years in this game, and nobody’s ever been better on the right wing. His determination and that famous wrist shot are going to take us to the playoffs next year. I guarantee it.”
Hell, yeah, I’m leading this team to the playoffs. And if karma has my back, I’ll be taking home the Cup.
“So.” Courtney smiles and leans forward with her elbows on the table. “There are just two items on our agenda for today. Let’s take care of those before we get to the points you raised in your email, shall we?”
My eyes dip to the generous swell of cleavage peeking out from the neck of her loose black blouse, and Courtney’s mouth tips up at having won a point. It takes all my strength not to roll my eyes, so I settle for a cool stare. If a woman flashes me her tits, I’m going to look. Doesn’t mean I’m interested. Doesn’t mean a damn thing.
Her lashes flutter—is she trying to flirt ?—and I decide I don’t like this woman. I break her gaze by reaching for a glass of water that isn’t there.
Jesus Christ, what does a man have to do to get a drink around here?
“Fine,” I reply. “What do you need to—”
The boardroom door crashes open, and a woman falls through, righting herself and blushing brightly when she notices that everyone is staring. She’s tall and attractive but swimming inside baggy beige trousers that cinch in at her small waist and an open matching blazer that’s at least two sizes too big. Her dark-rimmed glasses are too large for her pretty, heart-shaped face, framed by strands of dark hair that have pulled free of her long ponytail, and she’s balancing a cardboard tray in each hand, both loaded with drinks.
My drinks.
Her big, anxious eyes land on me and widen briefly before she drops her chin and hurries down the length of the room. She keeps her gaze low as she sets the trays at my elbow and plucks the cups from their holders. I watch with mild curiosity as she avoids looking at me, fumbling a little as she pulls at the drinks, and once the six paper cups are lined up in front of me, she practically bolts for the doors.
Around the table, the Fury team ignores her, which annoys me. Even an intern deserves a nod of acknowledgment.
I choose the iced water and take a long draw, but before the mysterious brunette can make her escape from the big, bad Chord Davenport, Courtney obnoxiously clears her throat and then stabs her finger at the end of the table. And when I think I couldn’t dislike the marketing manager more than I already do, the girl freezes like she’s frightened, gives a jerky nod, and sinks into the chair closest to the door. She unloops an ugly battered satchel from across her body, pulls out a notebook and pen, and hunches over the page like she wishes she could fade into the furniture.
Someone needs to tell her that’s absolutely impossible.
“Now, where were we?” Courtney waves her hand at the media relations guy, who wipes a bead of sweat from his brow and shifts in his chair. “Steve, would you like to raise your concerns with Chord?”
“Concerns?” I echo, forgetting all about the girl. “What concerns ?”
“We just… Ah, that is…” Steve looks around for help, which makes me huff out an irritated sigh, and Coach jumps in.
“Your relationship with the media could be better, Chord. They say you’re hard to talk to, and I think you’ll agree that you don’t give them a lot to work with in post-game press. It’s something we hope you’re willing to work on.”
He rubs a wide hand over his jawline, meeting my glare with solid confidence, and for the first time, I notice the lines around his mouth. The thinning hair. The experience in his dark brown eyes that wasn’t there more than a decade ago. I breathe deeper as some of the tension leaches from my hands.
Bobby Campbell was an awesome center in his day, and when I was drafted to the Tampa Bay Titans at eighteen years old, I’m not sure who was more excited about me playing for a legend of his caliber—me or my dad. Campbell knew me as a kid, helped shape me into the player I am today, and next to my father, he taught me the most about how to be a man. I played four years with him until I was traded to Calgary, and I never thought we’d be on the same team again.
Until yesterday.
Everyone waits for me to speak, but I don’t. Nobody’s going to like what I have to say, which is the media can go to hell. For my last two years with Calgary, they were up my ass about the value of my captaincy, and when news broke that our cocky new trade, Spencer Cook, had been sleeping with my girlfriend for months—and that a few of the guys on my team knew about it—the press made my life a living nightmare. So, I give them as little as I can, as infrequently as I can. And that isn’t going to change.
The media relations guy shifts in his seat, and Coach shoots him a look that tells him to keep his mouth shut.
“One more thing, Chord, and then we’ll move on,” Coach says instead. “I need you to make yourself available this summer. We’re building a new team, and not only do we need to get to know each other on the ice, but we’ve got some bonding to do.” He spares me a sympathetic glance. “This is a fresh start, all right? For you and the Fury.”
“No can do,” I reply, and his eyebrows shoot up. I pick a drink at random—it’s the green juice—and lift it to my mouth, taking my time until I’m sure the next time I speak, it won’t sound so sharp. “I’ll be in Sonoma this summer, and I don’t intend to leave.”
That’s a lie. I don’t know how long I’ll be home.
My hand involuntarily strays toward my pants pocket. I haven’t stepped foot on my family’s vineyard in three years, and it’s not like I needed an invitation to go back, but it was nice to finally get one.
My fingers press against the folded piece of purple paper tucked away where I won’t lose it, the words scrawled across it carefully formed and with sparkling pink stickers around its edges. My six-year-old niece wrote and asked me to come for a family game night, and hell will freeze over before I ever tell that little girl no .
“Well, then.” Coach scratches his forehead with one thick finger. “You’ve got a nice set-up there, right? I think I read an article five or so years ago in one of those fancy architectural magazines. The property’s huge, and you built your own house. It’s got a complete gym. A full-size pool. Secluded and private.”
I narrow my eyes. “Yeah.”
“Then it’s no problem.” His eyes brighten above his satisfied grin as he taps a palm on the table. “We’ll come to you.”
My molars grate together before I change the subject. “It might be time to talk about my email and the list of things I need from the team. It’s been a long season, and I need support for recovery between now and October.”
Courtney straightens so quickly she bounces. “Yes. We can arrange it all. No problem.”
I meet her eyes. They gleam in a way I don’t like, and it pisses me off. “Game tape? For the team and any new trades?”
“We’re on it now and will send you everything you requested.”
“Personalized eating and exercise plans?”
She checks something on her laptop and nods to herself. “We’ve sent your information to the team’s sports nutritionist and trainers, and they’ll be in touch within forty-eight hours.”
“Physio? I need someone who can come to me at least twice a week over the next couple of months.”
I don’t need to add that I’m not in my early twenties anymore. Years of hockey and the injuries that go with it mean I can’t slack off in the off-season. Everyone here can read between the lines.
“Absolutely,” Courtney agrees. “And if the team physiotherapists can’t make it, we’ve got a list of wonderful freelancers who—”
“And a personal assistant? I need someone to handle my move from Calgary to San Francisco. I’ll be preoccupied with training and my family, so I need someone who’s hands-on.”
Her eyebrow quirks and I immediately regret my choice of words.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Courtney tucks her blonde hair behind one ear, and her tongue glides across her glossy bottom lip. “I think it would be beneficial to assign you someone from the marketing team. As discussed, we need to massage some of those relationships you have with the press, and the marketing team is best positioned to facilitate that. In fact, I could—”
“No.” I don’t need binoculars to see where she’s going with this. “I need a personal assistant, not a handler, and not a media coach. I need someone to answer my emails and find me a new apartment and deal with the shit I don’t have time to deal with.”
“I assure you, I’m perfectly—”
“And I need them to come with me to Aster Springs.”
I don’t. I really don’t. There are eighty-seven days between now and next season—I’ve counted—and I need to spend every one of them focused on my game. The last thing I want is an assistant hovering nearby and buzzing in my ear, but I’ll say anything to stop this woman from scheming her way into my personal life.
Unfortunately, my demand has her leaning forward.
Can’t she take a fucking hint?
“I can definitely make that work.”
I challenge her hot stare with one coated in ice until movement at the other end of the table catches my eye. It’s the intern doing her best to disappear into the high-back boardroom chair. I glance at her, but it’s obvious she doesn’t want to look at me, and it gives me an idea.
I need someone who isn’t going to throw herself at me and someone who won’t give me any trouble. I want someone who keeps to herself, stays out of my way, and won’t drive me crazy. I need someone invisible.
She’s perfect.
I fling up my arm and point. “I want her.”
“Oh, no!”
The intern’s hands fly up to cover the roses in her cheeks, and the way her eyes grow round like she can’t believe she said that out loud makes my lips twitch. I almost feel bad for her, but Courtney’s scornful sniff makes my dickish behavior worth it.
The marketing manager visibly collects herself, flipping her hair over her shoulder and rolling her mouth against a condescending smirk. “That’s Violet James, one of our junior marketing executives, and she will not be working with you.”
Is that right?
I stand and button my suit jacket. Well done, lady. You’ve just gone and guaranteed that this little wallflower is mine for the summer.
“If you need anything else,” I say to the room as I stride toward the exit, “send requests to Violet—my assistant.”
I set my hand on the door, but before I walk through it, I pause next to Violet and wait for her to raise her head. It takes a long second, and her gaze drags up my body like she’s delaying the moment she has to meet my eyes. When she does, I almost cancel the whole thing.
How much of an asshole do I have to be to demand this woman work for me when I can tell by the crease between her brows and the way her plush pink lips are parted that she wants to tell me something but can’t?
I hear Courtney get to her feet, but I can’t look away from Violet. There’s a question in those deep chestnut-colored eyes, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her she’s off the hook.
Courtney is suddenly at my shoulder. “You’ve changed your mind,” she says, and the relief—or maybe it’s hope—in her voice is palpable. “Good. I offer my—”
“No.”
The chill in my stare is for her, not Violet, but Violet’s on the receiving end because I can’t bring myself to look away. Her eyes widen, and I blow out a frustrated breath.
Fuck it.
“Be at Silver Leaf Ranch & Vineyard at ten a.m. tomorrow,” I tell her. “Don’t be late.”