Chapter 4 #2
There were five emails in there. Four were half-written responses to his agent that trailed off mid-sentence like Andrew had gotten bored and given up. The fifth was addressed to Mr. Kellerman, team GM.
I opened it.
You want me to play nice? Do PR? Show up and smile like nothing’s wrong? Fuck that. You knew what you were getting when you signed me. If you wanted someone media-friendly, you should’ve picked someone else.
It was dated two days ago. Unsent. Thankfully.
I stared at it for a long moment. Then I deleted it and started over.
Mr. Kellerman,
I understand the team’s concerns regarding public perception. I’m committed to fulfilling my contractual obligations, including sponsor appearances and approved media engagements. Let me know if there are specific events you need me to prioritize.
—AK
Not perfect. Still had an edge to it. But it wouldn’t get him fined or put on some kind of PR probation.
I saved it to drafts. Didn’t send it. That was Knox’s call.
A phone on the desk buzzed.
I stared at it for a second. That was the work phone, the one Knox had mentioned earlier. This was the first time it had rung since I’d been here.
Unknown number.
I let it buzz. Was I supposed to answer it? Knox hadn’t said. Maybe it was personal. Maybe I’d overstep.
It started again. Same number.
Third time, I figured someone actually needed something. I picked up. “Andrew Knox’s phone.”
“Who the hell is this?” The voice on the other end was sharp, male, annoyed.
“His assistant. Can I help you?”
“He’s letting someone else answer his phone?
” A pause. “Never mind. This is David Ortega from Apex Sports. We had a signed agreement for Knox to appear in our spring campaign, and he’s missed two scheduled shoots.
We’re three weeks from launch, and if he doesn’t show up, we’re pulling the contract and suing for breach. ”
I grabbed a pen. “Let me look into this and get back to you. What’s the best number to reach you?”
“I just called from it. And I don’t want a callback. I want Knox. Now.”
I hesitated. I didn’t actually know where Knox was. But did I owe this guy a search party?
“If you could let me know what time to—”
“Are you kidding me? Do you know how much money is on the line here?”
I opened my mouth to respond, some placating corporate speak about scheduling conflicts and commitment to the partnership, when I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned.
Knox was standing in the doorway.
Shirtless. Sweaty. Huge.
I’d known he was big. Standing close to him in the elevator had given me the general idea. But this—
His chest was broad, defined, the kind of build that came from a lifetime of training.
His shoulders were impossibly wide, arms thick with muscle.
There were scars scattered across his torso—small ones, thin white lines that looked like they’d come from skates or sticks.
A tattoo on his left ribs, black ink, some kind of design I couldn’t make out from this distance.
His stomach was flat, ridged, the kind of abs you saw in fitness magazines and assumed were edited.
He was also glaring at me.
“Who is it?” he asked, his voice low.
“Apex Sports. They’re—”
He crossed the room in three strides, took the phone out of my hand, and put it to his ear.
“Ortega? Yeah, it’s me. No, I’m not doing your shitty campaign. I don’t give a fuck what the contract says. Sue me. You want to put my face on an energy drink? Get in line behind the other dozen companies trying to sell garbage with my name on it. I’m fucking done with all of you.”
He hung up. Threw the phone back to me.
I caught it, barely.
“That’s how you deal with parasites,” he said.
I stared at him. “You just broke a contract.”
“So?”
“So they’re going to sue you.”
“Let them. I’ve got lawyers for that shit.” He turned to leave, then stopped, spinning back around. “What the fuck else did you handle while I was working out?”
“Confirmed your PT appointments. Drafted a response to Kellerman. Sorted about three hundred emails. Found the charity dinner details.”
He grunted. “Fine.”
I should’ve left it there. Should’ve gone back to work. Should’ve kept my mouth shut.
Instead, I said, “You know the suspension hearing is in a few weeks. If you miss that, you’re looking at an extended suspension. Possibly the rest of the season. That affects your playoff eligibility, even if it’s lifted later.”
Knox froze.
Slowly, he turned to face me. “The fuck did you just say?”
My brain caught up to my mouth about three seconds too late.
“Nothing. I just—”
“Don’t.” His voice went flat. Hard. “Don’t talk hockey with me. Not my career, not my stats, not my fucking hearing. That’s not your job.”
I blinked. For some reason my mind went to Ben. On more than one occasion, Ben had literally warned me about this exact same thing, to keep hockey talk to a minimum. But I’d thought—
“Do you understand me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Knox’s jaw worked. He looked away, then back at me. Some of the sharpness had drained from his expression.
“Good.” He crossed his arms, shoulders tight. His voice came out quieter. “Just. . . do your fucking job and keep your opinions about my career to yourself. Got it?”
“Understood.”
He nodded once. Didn’t quite meet my eyes.
He stared at me for another long moment, like he was trying to figure out if I was lying or just stupid. Then he turned and walked away, slamming the door to what I assumed was the gym.
I stood there, heart pounding, phone still in my hand.
Boston Wardens’ penalty minutes leader, 2022 season: Andrew Knox, 154 minutes. Second place: 89.
I forced myself to breathe. To focus. To get back to work.
By five o’clock, the inbox was under control.
The schedule was updated. The sponsor situation was.
. . well, a disaster, but at least it was a documented disaster.
I’d left a list of action items on the desk—things Knox needed to approve or sign off on—and sent a calendar invite for the charity dinner.
Knox emerged from wherever he’d been hiding around four-thirty, showered and dressed in joggers and a sweatshirt, and didn’t say a word to me. Just walked past, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and disappeared into his bedroom.
At five-fifteen, I packed up my stuff.
“I’m leaving,” I called out.
Silence. Then the bedroom door opened.
Knox appeared, leaned against the doorframe. “You eat today?”
“What?”
“Food. Did you eat any?”
“I . . . had breakfast.”
He made a noise that might’ve been disapproval, pushed off the frame, and walked to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Pulled out a container—looked like meal prep, chicken and rice or something—and shoved it across the counter toward me.
“Take it.”
I stared at the container. “I’m fine.”
“Did I ask? You look like you’re about to pass out. Take the food.”
It didn’t sound like an offer. It sounded like an order. Like he thought I was too stupid to feed myself and he had to step in.
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“Quinn—”
“I said I’m good.”
For a second, I thought he was going to argue. But he just grabbed the container back, shoved it in the fridge, and turned away.
“Fine. See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
I let myself out, locked the door behind me, and walked to the elevator.
The doors slid open. I stepped inside and hit the button for the lobby. The doors slid shut.
My reflection stared back at me in the mirrored wall, pale, eyes too bright behind my glasses, shoulders tight like I was bracing for impact.
The food container wouldn’t leave my head.
Take it.
I frowned, replaying the moment. The way Knox had shoved it across the counter. The way he hadn’t looked at me when he did it.
Was it leftovers?
Had it been sitting in the fridge for days?
Or worse, was it something he didn’t want?
The elevator hummed softly as it descended.
A ridiculous thought crossed my mind, sharp and unwelcome.
What if he poisoned it?
I snorted under my breath. Get a grip.
But the unease didn’t fade. He hadn’t offered food because he was nice. Andrew Knox wasn’t nice. He’d offered it because. . . what?
Obligation? Guilt? Control?
The doors opened onto the lobby.
I stepped out and walked past the doorman, already cataloging the moment the way I did everything else.
Not a kindness.
A variable.
And I didn’t know yet what it meant.