Chapter 7
Istared at the screen, cursor blinking in the email draft.
Mr. Knox appreciates your interest in—
Thwack.
The sound echoed from the living room. I paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
—your interest in partnering with—
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
I backspaced. Tried again.
Thank you for reaching out regarding—
Thwack.
My eye twitched.
Andrew Knox had been hitting a lacrosse ball against the wall. Over and over. He’d been at it for twenty minutes, and I’d been staring at this same email for just as long.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The new laptop hummed quietly on the desk—top of the line, fifteen hundred dollars that I’d put on his credit card yesterday without blinking because it wasn’t my money and he clearly needed something that actually worked.
Fast, responsive, everything loaded in seconds.
The screen was huge and crisp. The keyboard felt expensive under my fingers.
Mr. Knox will review—
Thwack.
Mr. Knox will review the proposal and—
Thwack. Thwack.
The truth was simpler: Mr. Knox doesn’t give a shit.
And right now, neither did I, because I couldn’t think past the steady percussion of rubber meeting drywall, the slight rattle of something on a shelf, the thwack-thwack-thwack that burrowed into my skull and made every sentence take twice as long to write.
I’d been at this for two hours. Two hours of emails, calendar management, reorganizing his inbox while he played catch with himself like a bored teenager.
Thwack.
I’d learned, over the past few days, that Knox had a habit of bouncing things, a tennis ball, usually, or sometimes a lacrosse ball he kept on the coffee table. It was background noise, like the fan.
Thwack. Thwack.
The rhythm was faster now. Closer. I could feel it through the floor, through the cheap desk chair Knox had set up for me in the corner of his living room. My workspace, apparently. A folding table and a view of his immaculate kitchen that he never used.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The sound shifted. Not just against the wall anymore—it was moving. Knox must have been pacing, throwing the ball as he went, catching it, throwing it again. The rhythm was erratic, aggressive. Each impact louder than the last.
Thwack. Thwack. THWACK.
“Jesus Christ—” The words came out before I could stop them. I spun in the chair, and there he was.
Knox stood maybe ten feet away, ball in hand, frozen mid-throw.
His blond hair was a mess, sticking up in the back like he’d been running his hands through it.
He wore sweatpants and a faded Wardens long-sleeve that clung to his shoulders, its sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
His blue eyes locked on me, wide and startled, like I’d just materialized out of thin air.
The silence was immediate.
“Sorry,” I said, quieter now. I forced my voice into something neutral, something that wouldn’t get me fired. “I just—it’s hard to focus with the noise.”
Knox blinked. The ball was still in his hand, gripped tight. For a second, he looked like a kid caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to—an expression I wouldn’t have expected on a man who’d built a career out of controlled violence on ice.
“I—” He stopped. Cleared his throat. “Yeah. Okay.”
He turned and walked toward the kitchen, his movements stiff, self-conscious. The ball disappeared into his pocket. I watched him go, my pulse still hammering in my ears.
I’d snapped at him. At Andrew Knox, who was volatile on a good day, who’d gone through multiple assistants before me, who had a reputation for not tolerating weakness or incompetence or back talk. I’d been here less than a week, and I was already screwing it up.
I turned back to the computer, my hands shaking slightly as I placed them on the keyboard. The email was still open, half-finished. I read the same sentence three times without absorbing it.
Behind me, the kitchen was quiet.
I took a breath and went back to work.
And for about twenty minutes, it was fine.
Knox stayed in the kitchen. I heard the fridge open and close, the clink of a glass on the counter. Footsteps. The sound of him leaning against something—probably the island, based on the creak of the stool.
I finished the email. Started on another.
Opened the calendar to check his schedule for next week.
A virtual meeting with the PR team on Thursday that he’d probably hate.
Nothing on the weekend because he wasn’t allowed near the rink, wasn’t allowed near the team, wasn’t allowed to do the one thing that might actually burn off whatever was building inside him.
I was halfway through drafting a follow-up to his agent when I heard him.
“I’m gonna shower.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Knox was standing in the doorway to the hall, arms crossed, looking—well, not looking at me, exactly. Somewhere past my left shoulder.
“. . . Okay,” I said.
“So.” He shifted his weight. “You need to get work done. Without me—”
“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”
Knox looked like he wanted to throw something.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered. “Forget it.”
He turned and stalked down the hall. A door slammed. The pipes groaned as the water kicked on.
I stared at the doorway for a second.
That had been—what? Was I supposed to. . . thank him? Or was he annoyed that I existed within earshot? I wasn’t sure. Knox didn’t operate like most people.
The quiet stretched out, interrupted only by the fan and the distant rush of water from the bathroom. I opened a new tab and started sorting through his inbox. Deleted the spam. Flagged the important stuff. Made a note to follow up on a potential charity appearance that might help his image.
The silence was nice, I guess.
I was maybe three minutes into actual productive work when the water shut off.
I paused, frowning at the screen.
That was. . . fast. Suspiciously fast. If he’d actually showered, that had been the quickest shower in human history. Had he even washed his hair? Used soap?
Whatever. Not my business. It was not at all part of this job to imagine Andrew Knox’s shower routine.
But then I heard footsteps in the hall.
I glanced up, and my brain short-circuited.
Knox stood in the kitchen with a towel slung low on his hips, dangerously low, water still dripping from his hair, sliding down his neck, his chest, tracking along the defined lines of his stomach.
The tattoo on his ribs was more obvious now, some kind of explosion of black ink that spread across his side.
His skin was flushed from the heat of the shower, and there was a dark trail of hair below his navel that disappeared beneath the towel.
I realized I was staring.
Oh, fuck. Oh, no.
My brain unhelpfully supplied a flash of last night—my shower, my hand against the tile, the thoughts I’d had that I’d specifically promised myself I would never, ever have again.
I looked away. Looked back at the laptop. Tried to remember what I had been typing.
Knox moved like he didn’t notice, or didn’t care, that he was essentially naked in front of me, all muscle and ink and damp skin.
“Where the hell is it?” he muttered, more to himself than to me.
“Where’s what?” My voice sounded strangled, which I hated.
“The body wash. The PR team sent me some bullshit—” He waved a hand, and I tracked the movement despite myself, the flex of his arm, the water droplet that slid from his collarbone down the center of his chest. “It’s supposed to smell ‘fresh and modern’ or some crap. Can’t find it.”
I forced my eyes back to his face. Big mistake. His hair was a mess, wet and pushed back, a drop of water clinging to his jaw.
Jesus Christ.
“I have no idea,” I managed.
“Come help me look.”
It wasn’t a request.
“Now?”
He was already walking back toward the bathroom without waiting for an answer. The towel shifted with each step. I sat there for a beat, and then—because I was apparently a glutton for punishment—I followed.
The bathroom was slightly steamy, the mirror starting to fog. Knox was standing in front of the sink, rifling through a drawer, his reflection hazy in the condensation. I stopped in the doorway, hyper-aware of how small the space felt with both of us in it.
“It’s probably in the cabinet,” I said.
“Checked.”
“The shower?”
“Checked.”
I stepped inside and opened the cabinet. Cleaning supplies. Extra toilet paper. No body wash.
Knox leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me. I caught his reflection in the mirror—half-fogged, distorted—and then mine beside it. The contrast was stark. Him, barefoot and dripping, too big for the space. Me, fully dressed in a sweater and jeans, sneakers still on, hair neatly combed.
“Maybe they didn’t send it yet,” I said.
“They sent a whole fucking box. I opened it yesterday.”
“Then it’s probably in the living room.” I straightened up, closing the cabinet harder than necessary. “Look, I have work to do. Emails. Your schedule. Actual assistant things. I can’t spend my afternoon hunting for body wash.”
“You’re the one who’s supposed to organize my shit.”
“I’m supposed to organize your professional life. Not your bathroom.”
He pushed off the wall, and suddenly the space felt even smaller. He was too close, still damp, still half-naked, and the steam made everything feel thick and close.
The bathroom. Another bathroom. Another shower. I shoved the thought away so hard I almost gave myself a headache.
“You’re real snippy today, Quinn.”
“I’m busy. And you’ve been—” I gestured vaguely at him, at the energy radiating off him like heat. “You’ve been bouncing off the walls all afternoon. It’s distracting.”
“I’m distracting?” He crossed his arms, and I tried very hard not to notice how that made his bare shoulders look. “How?”
“What?”
“How am I distracting?” He tilted his head slightly. “The ball? Too loud?”
“Yes. That.”
“Just the ball?”
I swallowed. “You’re—you’re restless. You’ve been pacing around, making noise, interrupting—”
“Right now I’m just standing here.”
Knox was. Just standing there, water still beading on his collarbone, that damn towel still slung low on his hips. Just standing there, watching me fumble for words like an idiot.
“You’re bored,” I said finally, redirecting.
“I’m bored,” he agreed.
“And restless.” I met his eyes in the mirror. “You need to burn off this energy.”
His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but close. His voice dropped, just slightly. “Oh yeah? How?”
Shit.
The bathroom suddenly felt a lot warmer. My brain, traitorous and unhelpful, immediately supplied approximately twelve answers to that question, none of which I could say out loud, all of which I’d tried very hard to stop thinking about since last night.
I cleared my throat. “What?”
“How do you think I should burn it off, Quinn?”
I scrambled for an answer. What did I do when I needed to burn off energy? Run until my legs gave out. Organize things. Clean. Count stats until the anxiety quieted.
Not—not whatever my brain was currently suggesting.
“Go skate,” I blurted out.
The smirk vanished. “What?”
“Skate. Get on the ice.” I turned to face him properly, not just his reflection. “You’re suspended from games. Not from skating. So go.”
He stared at me. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“That’s—” He ran a hand through his still-damp hair. “That’s actually a damn good idea.”
“I’m full of them.”
“Yeah. Okay.” He was already moving, pushing past me out of the bathroom. “Let’s go.”
I followed him into the hallway, confused. “What?”
He was already heading toward his bedroom. “The ice. Let’s go.”
“I—wait, you want me to come?”
Fuck. Why did I have to say it that way?
He glanced back, one hand on the doorframe. “Yeah. You’re the one who suggested it.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to—” But he’d already disappeared into his room. I heard drawers opening, the rustle of fabric. “I have emails to finish.”
“Do ‘em later!” His voice was muffled, like he was pulling something over his head.
I stood in the hallway, staring at his open bedroom door, my brain trying to catch up. This was not how this was supposed to go. I was supposed to suggest the rink, he was supposed to leave me in peace, and I was supposed to actually get some work done.
I was not supposed to spend the afternoon in close proximity to him after last night’s extremely ill-advised shower incident that I was never, ever going to think about again because it had been a one-time lapse in judgment brought on by stress and a dry spell and nothing else.
Instead, apparently, I was going to the rink.
Knox emerged a minute later, dressed in joggers and a hoodie, hair still damp and sticking up. He had a duffel bag over one shoulder and his keys in hand. “Come on.”
“I really don’t think—”
He was already walking toward the door. “You’re coming.”
It wasn’t a question.
I looked back toward the living room, where the computer sat waiting, the inbox still a disaster, the schedule still half-done. Then I looked at Knox, who was holding the door open, waiting.
“Fine,” I said, grabbing my jacket. “But if your agent calls while we’re gone, you’re dealing with it.”
“Deal.”
I followed him out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind us. As we headed for the elevator, I realized I’d just been dragged into something I didn’t fully understand. This wasn’t in my job description. This wasn’t managing his schedule or drafting emails or keeping his image intact.
This was something else entirely.
And watching Knox in athletic gear, about to get on the ice where he was at his most intense, most physical, and most himself?
That was the exact opposite of forgetting about last night.
I was so fucked.