Chapter Six #2
“Mm-hm. And how many of them are gay?” I bite into my soujouk sandwich, which is mostly cold by now, but no less delicious.
“Hey. A lot of them are bi.” Cara lifts her glass in a one-woman toast. “Theater boys over jocks any day, that’s all I’m saying. I mean, yes, they’re all fuckboys, but so are jocks. At least theater boys know where to find the clitoris.”
I choke on a mouthful of bread.
Cara smirks over the rim of her wineglass. “I’m just saying. Does your grunting jock have the slightest idea?”
“Believe it or not, I haven’t asked. Because he’s my client.” I take a swig of wine to clear my windpipe. “Besides, I’ve done my time. I’ve sworn off hockey players.”
“Ah, yes. The evil ex.” Cara pours herself a refill. “Just remember, this one isn’t him.”
“But he is my client.” I should turn the conversation away from this topic. I don’t want to think about Owen in any type of romantic capacity, much less a sexual one.
“Ooh, you just made a face.” Cara waves her wineglass at me. “Explain.”
“I just—” This is so inappropriate. I should not be talking about my client this way, but now that Cara has posed the question, I’m remembering his earlier behavior in a whole new light.
I remember how he went through those photos one by one, signing each of them with a note that would make his young fans feel special.
“Yes, he’s hot,” I admit. “Thighs. Arms. Handsome face. Striking eyes. The works.”
And that’s before factoring in the way he looks at you when he’s actually paying attention, like he’s trying to solve something instead of waiting for his turn to talk.
Cara snorts. “Oh, yeah, you sound totally professional.”
I let that comment slide because she’s not wrong.
“There are hot people everywhere, though. Owen is interesting, which is way more dangerous. The other day, with the kids? He was really sweet with them. Trust me, I know what it looks like when a guy is just going through the motions, and he does more than he has to.”
“Wow,” Cara drawls, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “A man who does more than the bare minimum. A rare breed indeed.”
“Oh, stop it.” I open the container of cheesecake and nudge one of the forks toward her. “I’m not into him. I’m just surprised, given how low my expectations were. Did you see the video?”
“Not a hockey fan, babe.” Cara digs her fork into the cheesecake. “Want to show me?”
I think about queuing up the video, but I don’t reach for my phone.
“Maybe not. It’s pretty bad, but it’s also not a good representation of who he is.
I think something happened that set him off.
I know that’s not an excuse, but it’s only a small part of who he is, and in the context of a hockey game I can see how—”
I hear myself defending him and almost stop. That’s not my job. My job is to manage the fallout, not rewrite the facts in my own head.
Cara holds up a hand. “Whoa. Breathe.”
I nod and take another sip of wine.
My friend’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “North Shore jumped out, huh?”
I hadn’t even realized my accent slipped through. I hate when that happens. “Ugh, really?”
“You have strong feelings about your client. No shame there.” She lifts a bite of cheesecake to her mouth. “You also have strong feelings about his thighs.”
I groan and cover my face with both hands. “He’s a client, Cara. And the last thing I need is trouble with his boss. Owen might be a decent guy, but Dante Giovanetti is a pain in the ass.”
“Giovanetti?” Cara slams her fork down. “I hate that guy. Everyone in my company hates that guy. How is he your boss?”
“He owns the Vegas Venom. Or his son does, but he still calls the shots? I’m not really clear on that.” I wave the question away. “Anyway, he’s the one who signs the checks.”
“Gross.” Cara shudders. “I can tell you horror stories. He’s made two of our delivery drivers cry. Two! And Jeff is former WWE!”
Time for a change of subject. “Is he better or worse than your new boss?”
“Worse, but at least I don’t have to deal with him.” Cara drains her glass a second time. “Speaking of which, can I tell you what my asshole boss did today?”
I let her rant, nodding or shaking my head at appropriate times, but taking in her complaints with only half an ear. I can’t stop thinking about Owen, and how he took the time to write personal messages to random low-income kids.
That’s a problem. Not because he’s a client—that’s manageable. Because I’m starting to care whether the version of him I’m seeing is real.
My family needed all the help we could get when I was that age. That’s what he said at the rink. I wonder what his life was like. Maybe we have more in common than our hometown.
Not that it matters. Owen’s a client. I’m going to treat him like anyone else.
Tonight is the first and last time I’m going to think about his thighs.
Or his jawline. Or the way he took the time to write a different supportive thread for every therapy initiative on the list I gave him, rather than just copying and pasting the same short blurb.
Cara’s right. My bar for men, and hockey players specifically, is subterranean. I’m not going to derail my career over a hot guy, even if he does have quads of steel. He’d only disappoint me in the end.
They always do.