Chapter 2
The door slammed behind me hard enough to rattle the walls.
“Don’t touch anything,” Knox snapped, already stalking away. “And stay out of my way.”
Okay. Starting strong.
But I could work with this. Hostile was just a management style. Some executives were like that; I’d known more than one to be territorial and protective of their space. Once we established boundaries, once he saw I was competent, this would smooth out.
I paused just long enough to register the space I’d been dropped into—wide, echoing, aggressively quiet. Gray floors. White walls. Furniture arranged with military precision, like it was waiting for inspection instead of comfort. No art. No photos. No signs of an actual human life.
Andrew Knox moved through it like he owned it, which, obviously, he did.
He stopped short in the middle of the living area and turned on me so abruptly I nearly ran into him.
“The fuck are you staring at?”
“No, sir—I mean—” I stopped myself. Reset. “I’m sorry, Mr. Knox. I was just—”
“Don’t call me sir.” He raked a hand through his blond hair, agitation rolling off him in waves. “You sound like you’re talking to my grandfather.”
Duly noted.
“I’m Matthew Quinn.”
“You already said that.”
“Right.” I swallowed, desperately trying to keep my posture neutral. Hands relaxed. Portfolio tucked under my arm. “The agency sent—”
“Yeah, no shit.” He crossed his arms, broad shoulders pulling the hoodie tight across his chest. “You think I don’t know why there’s some random asshole standing in my apartment?”
Apartment was generous. The far wall was all glass, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Boston like it had been arranged for his private enjoyment. The Charles River cut through the city below, sunlight flashing off the water.
Knox didn’t look at it once.
“I didn’t ask for an assistant,” he went on. “Don’t want one. Don’t need one. This is just the team owner pissing away money because he thinks I can’t handle my own shit.”
“I understand your concern,” I said. “But I’m here now, and I’m on contract, so—”
“You won’t last a fucking week.”
He said it casually, like he was commenting on the weather.
“The last guy made it eight days. The one before that? Four. Record’s eleven.” He tilted his head, blue eyes sharp and assessing. “So congratulations. You’re assistant number. . . what? Five? Six? Doesn’t matter. You’re not special.”
My chest tightened. Pressure building. The familiar warning signs lighting up one by one.
I breathed in through my nose. Out through my mouth. Slow.
Wardens’ all-time leading scorer: Ray Remington. Four hundred ten goals. One thousand five hundred six games.
“I’m not here to be special,” I said, calmed by the stats like always. “I’m here to do a job.”
He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “A job. Right. Let me guess. You’re here to fix me? Is that what they asked you to do?”
“Not exactly, just basic admin tasks like—”
“I bet those fuckers want me to start journaling. Or meditating? Talking about my feelings or some shit?”
“No.”
He stopped. “What?”
“No,” I repeated. “I’m not here to meditate with you. I’m here to assist you. Schedule management. Emails. Errands. Logistics.”
“I don’t need any of that shit.”
“Then my job is going to be very easy.”
That earned me a long look. His jaw worked like he was chewing on something sharp.
Finally, he said, “You’re fired.”
Just like that.
Absolutely fucking not.
“You can’t fire me,” I said.
He smiled then. Not a friendly smile, not by a long shot.
“Watch me.”
“I’m contracted through the team GM, not through you.” The words came out steadier than I felt. “While I am your assistant, you are not technically my boss. If you want me gone, you’ll have to go through Mr. Kellerman and the agency. Otherwise, I’m here for ninety days.”
Knox took a step closer, and his body language changed. Shoulders forward, hands flexing at his sides. Not threatening, exactly, but deliberate. I wasn’t a small guy, but he was huge.
“You think I won’t call Kellerman right now? You think I give a shit about having that conversation?”
I held my ground. This asshole, famous or infamous or whatever Andrew Knox was, was not going to intimidate me out of a paycheck.
“I think you don’t want to.” I met his blue eyes, forced myself not to look away.
“You said it yourself, Mr. Knox, this is him wasting money. Calling him means having a conversation about why you’re refusing help.
It would mean dealing with him asking questions, getting in your business.
Wouldn’t it be easier to just let me sit in a corner for ninety days and collect a paycheck? ”
For a second, I thought he was going to grab me or throw me out physically. I’d seen him do worse on the rink.
Do it. Go ahead. Punch me and I’ll have grounds for a lawsuit. Then I’ll have a lot of money and no reason to work for assholes like you. Try me.
Instead, he laughed.
“You’ve got some fucking balls, I’ll give you that.
” He turned away sharply, shaking his blond hair.
“You think you’re here to help me? You’re not.
You’re here because the league thinks I’m a problem that needs fixing.
Because they think I can’t be trusted alone in my own fucking apartment without someone watching me. ”
“I’m not here to spy on you.”
He spun back to face me, and there was something dangerous in his expression.
“Sure, you’re not.” He turned away. “That’s what they all say. Then you’ll go back and report to management about my ‘behavior’ or my ‘attitude’ or whatever bullshit metric they’re using to justify this.”
“I won’t—”
“You know what they think?” He spun back to face me, and there was something raw in his expression now. Not quite anger. More like frustration. “They think I have an anger problem. They think I’m out of control. That I need to be managed like some kind of fucking time bomb waiting to go off.”
“Do you?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“No.” The word came out flat. “Archibald ended up in the hospital, but the hit wasn’t dirty. And now everyone’s acting like I’m some kind of psycho who can’t be trusted around other players.”
He looked at me like he was daring me to disagree.
I kept my expression neutral. Careful.
Because I had watched the hit. Multiple times, actually.
I’d seen Archibald chirping at the Wardens’ rookie all night, getting in his head.
I’d seen Knox line him up, commit fully to a hit that was technically legal but also unmistakably excessive.
The kind of statement hit that said don’t fuck with my team.
I understood exactly what had happened and why.
But I couldn’t say that. Couldn’t let on that I knew anything about hockey beyond what any casual observer might have seen on the news. That I’d analyzed the play frame by frame. That I knew the difference between a clean hit and retaliation, even when the rulebook said both were legal.
“I’m sure it was complicated,” I said finally.
His blue eyes narrowed slightly, like he was trying to figure out if I was placating him or actually understood.
“Yeah. Complicated.” He turned away, the bitterness clear in his voice. “Complicated enough that I’m suspended indefinitely while they ‘investigate.’ Complicated enough that they think I need a fucking babysitter.”
I stayed quiet. Let him talk.
“The league doesn’t give a shit about what actually happened,” he continued. “They care about headlines. About looking like they’re taking action. Doesn’t matter that Archibald was—” He stopped himself. Shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
I could fill in the rest. Doesn’t matter that Archibald was asking for it.
But I kept my mouth shut.
“So no,” he continued, voice tight. “I don’t need an assistant to ‘help’ me manage my day. I don’t need someone hovering over me making sure I don’t snap. I don’t need to be fixed, because I didn’t do anything wrong in the first place.”
The silence stretched between us.
“Okay,” I said finally.
He blinked. “Okay?”
“You don’t think you need me here. I get it.
” I kept my voice level, professional. “But I’m here anyway.
So here’s what I’m proposing: I sit here for ninety days.
I stay out of your way. I don’t report anything to anyone because there’s nothing to report.
And at the end of it, we both move on with our lives. ”
He stared at me like he was trying to figure out if I was lying.
“That’s it?” he asked. “You’re just going to. . . sit here?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“And you’re not going to try to ‘help’ me? Fix me? Run back to management with notes about my ‘progress’?”
“No.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why should I believe you?”
“Because I need this job,” I said honestly. “And because I’m not interested in fixing anyone. I’m just trying to pay rent.”
He studied me for a long moment. I could see him weighing it, the risk of trusting me versus the hassle of fighting to get rid of me.
Then Knox exhaled.
“Fine,” he said. “Ninety days. But stay the fuck out of my way.”
“Deal.”
Knox started pacing, sharp, aggressive movements like a caged animal.
“House rules. Don’t touch my shit. Don’t reorganize anything.
Don’t ask me questions about hockey, my career, my suspension, or anything else you think gives you the right to get in my business.
Don’t expect me to thank you. Don’t expect me to be nice.
And if anyone calls—press, agents, whoever the fuck—I’m not here. Got it?”
“Yes, Mr. Knox.”
“And stop calling me Mr. Knox. It’s fucking weird.”
I hesitated. “What should I call you?”
“Nothing. Don’t talk to me unless I ask you a direct question.”
What an asshole.
But fine. I could be invisible. I could be a piece of furniture. Whatever it took to keep the job. Except. . .
“There is one more thing,” I said.
He stopped pacing and looked at me like I’d just slapped him.
Well, there was no backing down now. If I was going to survive this, I needed boundaries of my own.
“I’ll do my job,” I continued, keeping my voice even. “I’ll follow your rules, but I won’t take responsibility for your behavior. And—”
“My fucking what?”
I held up a hand, and Knox’s blue eyes flashed. “And if the agency or Mr. Kellerman calls, I’m not lying for you.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Knox stared at me, and I watched something shift in his expression. Disbelief. Anger. Something darker underneath.
“You’re telling me what you won’t do?” His voice dropped, dangerous and quiet. “You’ve been here for ten fucking minutes and you’re already laying down conditions?”
“Yes.”
My heart was hammering, but I kept my face neutral. He could be as pissed as he wanted. I wasn’t lying for him, and I wasn’t taking the fall when he inevitably screwed something up. I needed this job, but I also needed to still have a career after these ninety days were over.
“Un-fucking-believable.” Knox shook his head, then let out a harsh laugh. “You know what? Fine. See if I give a shit.”
Toronto Breakers’ playoff drought: 2004 to 2017. Thirteen years. Longest in franchise history.
The stats helped. They always did. Little anchors in the chaos.
I stayed where I was for a moment, letting the pounding in my chest settle into something manageable. Then Knox spoke again, already moving down the hall.
“Assistant. Come here.”
I was about to say I wasn’t a dog, about to insist on Matthew, or at least Quinn, but the words died in my throat when I caught up to him.
He stopped in front of an open doorway.
Inside was. . . total and complete chaos.