Chapter 7 Cole
Cole
I just did a brutal lower body session with the team trainer at the arena gym. My leg muscles are burning after a shit ton of deadlifts and Bulgarian split squats.
And yet I’d rather do another ten sets than walk into this cafe where Cassie is waiting for me.
Come on, Taylor. Get it together.
I push open the cafe door and the bell jingles cheerfully above me, which is basically the polar opposite of how I feel right now.
I catch sight of Cassie immediately. She’s sitting at a table by the window but stands when she sees me.
She’s smiling, her cheeks softly blushed from the cold.
She must’ve come straight from the office; she’s wearing a skirt and blouse, with a baby blue puffer jacket draped over her arm and matching heels.
Goddamn it, she is pretty.
I was hoping I was remembering wrong. Magnifying the memory in my head. But no. Here she is, the first time I’ve seen her since that disaster of a night at the arena, and she’s so beautiful that it actually irritates me.
Part of my reluctance is that part of me isn’t reluctant at all. Part of me wanted to see her face again, even though all she’s here to do is tell me I’m a fuckup and lecture me about how to save my ass from being traded.
“You’re a difficult man to reach, Cole Taylor,” Cassie says as I walk over.
I frown, trying not to make it obvious I was just thinking about how gorgeous she is. “That’s by design. Let’s just get this meeting over with. Let me guess, you want an iced coffee?”
In line, the finance bro in a suit in front of us is giving the young barista shit about the ratio of his overly complicated drink being off. The barista is wearing a knit sweater in about seven too many colors and looks like she’s about to cry.
Before I can tell the finance bro where to shove his coffee, he storms off, and Cassie steps up to the counter.
“Oh my god,” Cassie says, “I adore your sweater.”
The barista blinks in surprise. It doesn’t even seem like a pity compliment; Cassie’s eyes are wide like the ugly sweater actually is the best thing she’s ever seen.
“Thanks,” the barista mumbles, “I knitted it myself.”
Cassie’s face lights up as if she’s just been told she’s won the lottery. “No way. That’s amazing. I’ve always wanted to get into knitting.”
My jaw tightens as I watch Cassie befriend the barista, who’s gradually starting to smile again. How does Cassie do that? Become best friends with someone instantly. She just turned this woman’s whole shitty day around with a few kind words and the power of friendliness.
Maybe it shouldn’t irritate me. But it does.
Somehow Cassie’s warmth just makes me feel my cold all the more.
“Let’s just order,” I say abruptly, “so we can get this over with.”
They both fall silent and Cassie glances at me sideways. Shit. I shouldn’t have snapped.
“Sure.” Cassie gives the barista an apologetic look and asks for something with a double shot of espresso.
I raise my eyebrows. “Isn’t it a little late for enough caffeine to kill a small horse?”
“What can I say? I have a high tolerance. Plus, I don’t know how much of the coffee I’ll get through before it gets thrown at someone.”
“Okay,” I mutter. “That was deserved.”
I order a mint tea and get out my wallet before Cassie can object. The two drinks total about seven bucks, but I pull some twenties from my wallet and drop them in the tip jar. I’m not a total asshole, and I feel bad about interrupting earlier.
Cassie’s face flickers: something confused, and then a tug of a smile at her lips.
“My favorite seat in my favorite cafe,” Cassie explains, leading us to a table by the window. “It always puts me in a good mood.”
“It’s fine,” I shrug.
The cafe is, admittedly, nice. I usually avoid places near the arena. Unlike Miller, I don’t thrive on the thrill of getting noticed by Nor’easters fans who want a picture.
The dappled, fading sunlight filters through the tree outside the large window. It’s in its very last throes of gold, orange, and red before winter hits. It feels peaceful. Like something I could enjoy if I wasn’t here with my obnoxiously peppy babysitter.
“So, let’s talk.” Cassie drops a folder onto the table and spreads a few papers across the surface. “I’ve done a lot of thinking about what Rick said. I know this arrangement isn’t what either of us wanted, but I think we can make it work until this season’s trade deadline passes.”
I sip my tea, observing her. “You think if you do a good job, you’ll get that promotion Rick mentioned.”
“I want to get the promotion, yes. But I really do want to help you, too. You have a fantastic career, and I want you to stay on the Nor’easters. Your level of play should be on a team with a shot at the playoffs this year.”
It doesn’t seem like bullshit flattery. Guess this girl really is a diehard Nor’easters fan. “All right, then. What do you have in mind?”
She pushes a sheet of paper forward. “I’ve expanded Rick’s original PR image boosting plan. This document outlines my responsibilities and what you can expect. I’ll attend games, practices, media obligations, and social events.”
My jaw ticks. “You want to come to social events with me?”
Great, this only gets worse. Having her watch me at games is one thing.
But Cassie following me to team parties?
Not that I’m a regular at those, especially not in the last year.
Which is something that my teammates like to give me shit about, most of all Miller, who lives and dies by his social calendar.
I value my privacy. Hell, I haven’t even told my teammates about what happened with Jess yet.
Some topics are just too damn big and too damn difficult to talk about. I glance at the brightness of Cassie’s smile, and I’m struck with the feeling that she probably has no idea what it’s like to feel uncomfortable talking about anything. What must that be like?
She takes a sip of her coffee. “If the social event is public or team-related, yes. That was Rick’s specific request, and I think we both want to keep him happy. Being traded by your team and dropped by your agent would be a very bad season, agreed?”
Well, yeah. I can’t argue with that point. I lean back in my chair, folding my arms and frowning. “So, what—is your mere presence supposed to keep me in line? What are you going to do if I get myself into trouble?”
“Just imagine I’m Rick. You’d have to be insane to spiral right in front of your agent, the person responsible for the contract that’s making you millions.”
“See you as Rick?” I hold back a laugh. There’s no way I can picture this painfully pretty woman as a fifty-year-old man with the fashion sense of a public defender. “I don’t know about that.”
“Well, just try it.” She points to a dotted line at the bottom of the page. “You just need to sign here.”
I scan the text: it’s some contract bullshit that makes my eyes glaze over.
“And this is?”
“Just a formality. Rick asked me to get your signature, so you can officially sign off on me handling your account.”
“That’s a lot of words for just a formality.” I know I’m being difficult, but I don’t care. “Maybe I don’t want to sign.”
She leans forward, and I try to ignore how her scent hits me and the heat that stirs in my body in response. It’s something floral and honeyed, like orange blossom. Something in her pretty, open face suddenly turns sharper.
“If you don’t sign off and follow this plan, you’re going to get traded. That’s just a fact.”
She holds my gaze. Damn. I can see where her negotiation skills must come into play as an agent.
She’s right, anyway. If I don’t go along with this plan and fix my shit, the front office will ship me off to whatever team will take me. Fine. I’ll sign off on making her my official ‘supervisor’.
But I’m going to enjoy messing with her a little first.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, standing up and heading for the cafe’s door. “So, let’s go somewhere where I can think more clearly.”
Cassie frowns, quickly rising to her feet and downing the rest of her coffee before hurrying behind me. “Where exactly might that be?”
I shrug, a slight tug of a smile on my face. “You’ll see.”
“Thank you!” Cassie calls back to the barista as we walk out into the cool New England fall air.
The bell above the cafe’s door jingles again as we leave—a bright, twinkling sound like the wind chime on my parents’ porch growing up back in Maine, a sound that touches something long frozen over in my chest.
As the door swings shut behind us, I realize that light, pretty sound suddenly reminds me of something else, too.
The voice of one inconveniently pretty junior agent.