Chapter 4
Years ago, I’d been working on the set of Benjamin Harroway’s latest movie for six months when he found me in the break room, eyes glued to my phone, earbuds in.
“You’re watching sports?” Ben said it like he’d caught me watching porn.
I pulled out one earbud. “It’s hockey.”
“That’s the one where they beat each other up, right?
” Ben wrinkled his nose, setting his green smoothie on the counter.
He was still in his set clothes, which today meant designer jeans and a blue T-shirt.
We’d been filming in Brooklyn all week for the new Speed Run movie, and he had that particular exhaustion that came from twelve-hour shoot days. “All that violence. So primitive.”
“It’s not—” I stopped myself, took a breath. “I’ve told you. I used to play. It’s not just—”
“Right, right.” He waved a hand. “Still don’t see the appeal.”
But then the Wardens went on a power play, and I couldn’t help it.
“Look,” I said, turning my phone so he could see the screen. “Just watch this one play.”
Ben sighed but leaned in, and because he was six-two, he had to duck down to see properly. His head came to rest on my shoulder, close enough that I could smell his expensive cologne. He stayed there, warm and solid against my side, his breathing evening out as he watched.
“That’s Andrew Knox,” I said, trying to ignore the way my heart rate picked up. “He’s one of the best in the league. Just watch what he does.”
On the screen, the Wardens were down by one with three minutes left in the third period. The puck was behind their own net, and Andrew Knox—number 17, impossible to miss even in the small phone screen—took possession.
Knox exploded up the ice, stick-handling around one defender like the guy wasn’t even there.
His skating was fluid, powerful, the kind of movement that made it look effortless even though I knew the strength and control it required.
He passed to his center, kept driving forward, calling for it back.
“See how he’s reading the defense?” I pointed. “He knows exactly where everyone is. Watch—”
The puck came back to Knox at the offensive blue line. Two defenders converged on him. At the last possible second, he faked left, went right, and somehow threaded a quick saucer pass between both of them to his teammate crashing the net.
Goal.
The arena exploded. Knox’s teammates mobbed him, but the camera caught his face for just a second, capturing pure joy, that fierce competitive fire, fist pumping as he skated back to the bench.
“See? That’s not violence,” I said. “That’s art. That’s strategy and skill and years of training. That’s—”
“Mmm.” Ben’s response was noncommittal. He lifted his head from my shoulder. “How much longer is this game? We need to leave for that location scout in twenty.”
“It’s almost over—”
“Matt.” He drew out my name, that particular tone he used when he wanted something. His hand slid down my arm to my wrist. “Come on. Hockey can wait. I need you focused.”
I locked my phone screen. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” He grinned. “Just prioritize better. Oh, and before we go, did you pick up my prescription from that pharmacy? The one that actually knows how to compound my supplements correctly?”
“It’s in your trailer.”
“Perfect. What would I do without you?” He squeezed my wrist once before letting go, grabbing his smoothie. “Back to work in ten? You can’t spend all day watching sports. We’ve got that scene with the extras to finish.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
He left, and I sat there for a moment, staring at my dark phone screen.
I’d grown up watching hockey with my mom. Knew every Wardens stat going back decades. Could recite playoff brackets and trade histories and career milestones. Hockey was the one thing that made sense to me, the one thing that could quiet my brain when it got too loud.
And Andrew Knox? He was something special. Talented, yeah, but also the kind of player who elevated everyone around him.
And now here I was, on my way to Andrew Knox’s penthouse, and the guy was a complete asshole. Not just difficult or intense, but an actual asshole. The player I’d watched pull off impossible plays and show up for teammates was nowhere in sight.
I arrived at seven-thirty the next morning, which was probably overkill, but I didn’t know Knox’s schedule yet, and showing up late on day two seemed like a good way to get fired.
The doorman recognized me this time. Still gave me that look—the one that said you poor bastard—but he waved me through without checking my ID.
I took the elevator up, my stomach doing uncomfortable things the entire ride. The doors opened to the penthouse foyer, and I knocked. Waited.
No answer.
I knocked again, harder this time.
Still nothing. Was he out? Or just ignoring me?
I tried the handle. Unlocked.
Great. Either he’s expecting me or he’s going to think I’m breaking in.
I pushed the door open slowly, half-expecting Knox to appear and tell me to get the fuck out, but the apartment was quiet. Not empty-quiet, though. There was a presence to it, like someone was awake but not making noise.
“Mr.—” I stopped myself. I wasn’t supposed to call him Mr. Knox, but was it okay to call Andrew Knox by his first name?
“Kitchen.”
His voice came from somewhere deeper in the apartment. I followed it, rounding the corner into the open kitchen and living area.
Knox was standing at the counter, staring at a French press like it had personally wronged him. He was dressed, if you could call it that. Gray sweatpants, a black T-shirt that looked like it had seen better days, bare feet. His blond hair was a mess, sticking up in about six different directions.
“You’re back.” He didn’t look at me. “Are you always early?”
“I didn’t know what time you wanted me here.”
“I don’t want you here at all, but here we fucking are.” He poured coffee into a mug, black, no sugar. Took a sip and grimaced. “This tastes like shit. You drink coffee?”
“Sometimes.”
“Help yourself. Mugs are in the cabinet. Don’t fucking complain about it though.”
It wasn’t exactly hospitality, but it wasn’t hostility either. I’d take it.
I poured myself a cup—also black, also terrible—and waited.
Knox drank half his mug in silence, staring out the window at the city below. Then he set it down and turned to face me, crossing his arms.
“Okay. Here’s what I need, and I’m only saying this shit once, so pay attention.”
He started talking, and I barely had time to pull out my phone to take notes.
“Schedule. I’ve got PT at eleven on Tuesdays and Thursdays with the team trainer.
Someone’s supposed to confirm those appointments weekly, but no one ever fucking does.
There’s a sponsor thing next week I’m supposed to show up to—and a charity dinner.
I don’t know the details, but it’s in an email somewhere.
Kellerman wants a weekly call, which I’ve been ignoring because fuck that noise, but apparently that’s ‘not optional’ so handle that.
Media requests go straight to trash unless it’s one of the approved outlets.
There’s a list somewhere, good fucking luck finding it.
You’ll use the extra phone, and someone from the league keeps calling about a hearing, I don’t know when it is, but they want confirmation I’ll be there. ”
He paused and drained the rest of his coffee in one aggressive gulp.
“Also, my agent’s pissed about something. Probably the hearing. Or the sponsor thing. Or both. Maybe he’s just pissed in general. Who the fuck knows. Tell him I’ll call him back. I won’t. He’ll call again. Repeat forever. Any questions?”
I looked down at my notes. Looked back up at him.
“No.”
He raised an eyebrow, the one with the scar. “No questions at all?”
“You told me not to ask questions.”
“Huh.” He turned away, refilled his mug. “Fine. Whatever. My laptop’s in the office down the hall. Password’s on a sticky note because I can never remember the fucking thing. Do whatever you want.”
The office was less an office and more a room where furniture went to die. There was a desk, expensive and barely used, and a laptop sitting on top of it that looked like it had been purchased sometime during the previous decade.
I opened it.
The screen flickered to life, slow and protesting. Windows loaded with the enthusiasm of a funeral march. The sticky note with the password was exactly where Andrew said it would be, in handwriting that looked like it had been done in a moving vehicle.
WardensDef3nse88
I logged in and immediately understood why Andrew never used this thing.
It was a graveyard. Emails—hundreds of them, maybe thousands—sat unread in his inbox.
Spam, press requests, sponsorship offers, messages from his agent, messages from the team owner, messages from people whose names I didn’t recognize and probably didn’t matter.
I started sorting.
Sponsor requests into one folder. Media into another. Agent emails into a third. Team business into a fourth. Everything else into trash.
An hour in, I found the approved media list buried in a subfolder labeled IMPORTANT that also contained three unread messages and a PDF of Andrew’s contract that I definitely shouldn’t have access to.
I didn’t read the contract. Wasn’t my business.
Two hours later, I worked on the charity dinner details. Next week. Black tie. Andrew was listed as a featured guest, which meant he’d have to show up, smile, and pretend he cared. I had a sinking suspicion that this kind of thing would make him homicidal.
Too bad. He was going anyway. I sent a confirmation email and kept it brief, professional, and vague. Mr. Knox will attend.
No, I couldn’t send him by himself. Not if he was still. . . like this.
Mr. Knox will attend with one guest. Please send updated event details and seating arrangements.
Three hours in, I found the drafts folder.