Chapter Five
Minerva
“Don’t forget about the charity outreach thing,” Tristan says on his way through the living room.
I look up from my tablet. “The what?”
“The kiddie event on the North Vegas Rink. Viktor and his Special Olympics sponsor arranged it.”
“And… I’m going to this?” I have zero memory of agreeing to leave the house and spend time with strangers in an unmonitored capacity. That seems out of character for me, frankly. Events like this aren’t for people like me… unless Tristan decides they are, which somehow makes it harder to say no.
He leans over the back of the couch. “I sent you an invite in the calendar.” Kepler pops up from the cushions to sniff his hands, and Tristan tickles his chin in the exact way that he likes.
Kepler chirps his approval and headbutts Tristan’s fingers.
My stupid chest warms at how easily they coexist. Kepler never warms up to people that fast. I definitely don’t.
“Oh.” I reach for my phone, already knowing what happened. Tristan added the event to the calendar, and I accepted because I’m in charge of his calendar. I agreed that he should go, not that I would go with him. The idea that someone might expect me beside them on purpose… that’s new.
Does it make sense to go? I can see how I might be useful there even though I tend to be easily overwhelmed by social situations.
I almost ask if I have to, but I don’t want Tristan to think I’m ungrateful.
I am, truly. He’s been great to work for, and when my first payday hit my bank account, I almost wept in relief.
He could have easily argued that he only needs to pay me minimum wage.
I live in his house, I eat his food, and he drives me anywhere I need to go—not that I go out often.
If he wanted to take advantage of that and underpay me for the work, I wouldn’t have much leverage to argue with him.
But he didn’t. He’s paying me well. Really well, when you take into account that I’m learning everything as I go.
“I forgot about it, but I can get ready if you give me ten minutes. What kind of clothes should I wear?”
“Whatever’s comfortable.” Tristan indicates his own Venom jersey and loose workout pants. “It’s going to be a low-key kind of day.”
* * *
The event is not low-key.
Dozens of kids in oversized jerseys are running around like chaos goblins.
There are tables with gear donations, volunteers with clipboards, and a DJ who’s far too excited about dropping it low.
Everyone is being too loud, and since we’re in a rink, the sounds echo and blur, making it impossible to think, much less hold a coherent conversation.
I wish Tristan were closer—even though I don’t know what he’d do.
Needing people has never gone well for me.
I stand off to one side in my favorite pair of beat-up sneakers, wearing a Venom hoodie Tristan fished out from the back seat of his car. I could fit three of me in here. It smells like him.
I don’t not like it.
The fabric hangs off me like I’m borrowing space I’m not sure I’m allowed to take. A rebellious part of me wonders how it would feel if he asked me to keep it.
While I hide behind the unused racks of folding chairs, Tristan wanders around the rink.
He signs stuff, ruffles kids’ hair, and jokes around like the pro he is.
I melt a bit when I see him laughing with a child who’s missing his two front teeth.
Kindness looks good on him. Dangerous, even.
It makes me imagine things I have no business imagining.
My dad barely spent any time with us when we were growing up, and Luca…
Luca doesn’t like anything he can’t control.
The mere memory of Luca makes me hug myself. Not that anyone can see my flat figure under this enormous sweatshirt, anyway, but Luca’s comments about what I don’t have in the T & A department still resonate through me and make me feel lesser, immature, and ugly.
Tristan’s obviously a good guy, but seeing him goof off with the kids reminds me of all the ways he’s been nice to me.
Given how other people have treated me, the bar is in hell.
But Tristan isn’t simply nice. He’s kind.
There’s a huge difference. Nice people will help you if you ask.
Tristan’s the kind of guy who will take the initiative to make things better.
The ‘shirt off his back’ guy always being referred to.
“Hi.”
I whip toward the woman who snuck up on me. Either she’s a ninja in training, or I let my senses shut down while I was staring doe-eyed at Tristan.
The newcomer beams at me. She’s wearing leggings and a Venom athletic quarter-zip that shows off her fit and curvy body.
She’s even shorter than I am, though she reminds me of Kepler in that her confidence transforms her into a larger presence than her physical body would suggest. She’s got a clipboard under her arm, sunglasses on top of her head, and her long hair held back in a loose braid.
“Um… hi?” I still have my arms wrapped around myself, and my shoulders hunch of their own accord.
Women this pretty and confident can usually smell weakness on me.
So far, Marley is the exception, possibly a fluke.
But this one doesn’t pounce. She doesn’t sneer.
She just… stands with me. Like I’m someone.
“You must be Tristan’s new assistant!”
“I’m… yeah. Minerva.”
She whistles. “That’s a badass name! Whoops, there are kids here. Sorry.” She grimaces, but her eyes still sparkle. I’m not sure why she’s apologizing to me.
“Violet Murphy. I’m the team trainer. And if you’ve got any kind of calendar management superpowers, I will buy you lunch weekly in exchange for your services. On the clock, of course. Maybe when you’re at the arena during practice?”
I shuffle my sneakers, still not sure about the tone of this conversation. “I’m better with algorithms than people.”
Violet barks a laugh. “That makes one of us! Everyone assumes that if you’ve studied in the medical field, you must be super organized, but I’m so scatterbrained when it comes to this stuff.”
Violet Murphy does not strike me as scatterbrained. I blink when I realize what she just did: she talked herself down to make me feel more confident. I’ve done that before—hell, I did that for years—but I’m not used to other people doing the same. My family enjoys making me feel small.
This could still be a trap, but at least she hasn’t led with a strategic passive-aggressive attack.
I give her another once-over. “Murphy. As in, Bowen Murphy?” He’s one of the other Venom players.
I only know this because I have to see the players’ names on their jerseys every day, so I got bored and eventually looked them all up to see what I could glean about them from sports blogs and social media.
“That’s my husband.” Violet’s face gets all dreamy and sappy. I really hope that I wasn’t wearing the same expression when I was staring at Tristan just now. “He’s the best.” Her eyes sharpen again. “So tell me more about yourself.”
“Oh, um.” All I know about Violet is her connection to the team and her job.
I decide that it would be reasonable to share details about my education, as opposed to the messier background of my shitty family and the reasons I squatted in the Venom parking garage for a fortnight.
“Well, my background is in biomechanical engineering.”
Violet gawks at me. “Seriously?”
I automatically hunch into a defensive posture. Dad never took my degree seriously. He thought it was a pointless diversion from what I should have been doing. Namely, anything he wanted from me.
But Violet doesn’t appear to be mocking my interests, because she adds, “You’re brilliant, and they’ve got you fetching protein bars for Dubois?
Isn’t that just f— ugh, isn’t that typical.
You’ve got a ginormous brain, and you’re spending your time making spreadsheets.
” Violet looks around like she wants to fight someone on my behalf.
I can’t help but smile at her indignation. “It’s… complicated.”
“It always is.” Violet lets out a weary sigh. “Work is work, I guess. But since you’re working with athletes now, have you ever thought about applying your genius to sports medicine?”
I perk up. This is new, to say the least. People are either dismissive of me or assume that biomechanical engineering is too boring to warrant further discussion.
“Well, you know. I have thought about a sensor system for tracking post-impact cranial response. Real-time concussion protocol monitoring. That kind of thing?”
Violet’s eyes bulge. “Damn. Holy shit. You’re not just an assistant, you’re a revolution.”
I let out a self-conscious laugh. “Not really.”
“Yes, really. Listen, I know we’re supposed to be mixing and mingling and all that, but can I get your number?
I’d love to talk more later. Maybe if you can help me get my act together, I can set aside some time to talk to you about your ideas?
See if there’s anyone I can put you in touch with?
My specialty is in head injuries, so our interests are like…
” She holds up one hand to cross her middle and index fingers.
“Like peas and carrots. If you ever want to talk shop, I’m in. ”
“Okay.” I pull out my phone so that we can exchange numbers. It’s all very normal, but none of it’s normal for me.
“Great to meet you, Minerva!” Violet says as she turns to leave.
I lift my hand in a tiny wave. “Great to meet you, too.” And, yes, I actually mean it. Did I just… make another friend?
Go, me.
* * *
While Tristan continues charming the fans, Marley and I decide to have lunch at the snack bar.
As we wait, she purses her lips and twirls her stylus between her fingers while she scrolls through my extensive documents.
I can’t stop twitching while I wait for her verdict.
In an effort to distract myself, I check my phone under the table.
Marley glances up. “Texting someone?” she asks, with a coy lilt to her voice.
“Oh, no. I’m just, uh.” I sigh. “I’m checking the baby monitor.”
She tilts her head. “What baby monitor?”
I push my phone across the table. On the screen, Kepler is sacked out, his fuzzy chest rising and falling as he snores. He’s the cutest thing ever, and judging by the way Marley melts and makes cooing noises, that statement is an objective fact.
When the server comes back with our lunch, we both move our devices out of the way. My mouth waters at the smell of the noodle soup I ordered. Marley got some sort of power bowl thing that sounded pretty boring when I was reading the menu, but looks amazing now that it’s in front of her.
“Want to taste mine?” she offers. “That looks so good, too.”
We take a moment to arrange a taste of each of our meals for the other person.
This, too, is unfamiliar. If anything, I expected her to scold me for eating something with carbs.
Women as pretty as Marley are always complaining about things like carbs and sugar. Or at least, my mother and Frankie do.
“Okay, real talk,” Marley says. “Before we get into all this, give me the update. How’s he treating you?”
“Tristan?” I pause to think my answer through. “He’s… very clean.”
Marley cackles. “Wow, okay. Such a glowing review.”
I lift one shoulder as I twine my noodles onto a fork. “I’m used to men who assume that things like cleaning are beneath them. When I cook, though, he does the dishes. And he asked me to print out the recipes I’m using, because he cooks sometimes.”
Marley rolls her eyes. “A man who washes his own dishes? Imagine.”
“But he’s my employer,” I point out.
“Yeah, but I’m not Knight’s maid. I’m not cleaning up after him. You should discuss boundaries. You’re not working for him twenty-four-seven, you know?”
Boundaries? I live in his house. I’m supposed to follow his rules. That’s what my dad always told me, anyway.
“Sure,” I say, keeping it vague since I’m going to need to think about this concept for a while on my own.
“Great, just think about it. Now, I need to get you up to speed. We’ve got a private assistant channel on Slack. Are you on that yet?”
“I don’t have Slack,” I tell her. I don’t have any socials, really. What would be the point?
“Well, get it! And while I’m thinking about it, let me add you to the shared Google Drive.” Marley is already downloading apps onto my tablet.
I watch her in silent wonder, trying to process the fact that this is my life now. It’s new and bewildering and the rules are a total mystery. It should be terrifying.
In reality, I’m starting to enjoy it. Maybe this is what it feels like when life doesn’t hurt all the time.