Chapter 13
Knox looked like he wanted to set the entire ballroom on fire.
The venue was the kind of place that made you feel underdressed even when you weren’t.
The Fairmont Copley Plaza, grand ballroom, crystal chandeliers throwing light across marble floors.
Everyone looked expensive. Donors in tuxedos and gowns, press photographers positioned strategically near the entrance, waiters carrying champagne on silver trays.
I’d been trying not to think about Knox in that tux, the way he’d looked at me in Giuseppe’s mirror. About the fact that I’d touched him, actually put my hands on him twice in one day, and hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since.
There were no stats that could help me now. No reciting Knox’s plus-minus rating or his career goals or his playoff performance was going to make this easier. Because the problem wasn’t hockey.
The problem was Knox in that same tux, standing next to me right now, looking like every fantasy I’d had for years.
“How long?” Knox asked, adjusting his cuffs for the third time.
I forced my brain back online. “Three hours. Cocktails, dinner, auction, closing remarks.”
“Fuck me.”
Okay. Wait. No. I took a deep breath. Not today, brain.
“You’ll survive,” I said instead.
He shot me a look. “You sound real fucking sure about that.”
I was already moving, scanning the room, cataloging exits, identifying faces. Press near the entrance—avoid. Major donors clustered by the bar—navigate carefully. Auction items displayed along the west wall—mental note to redirect Knox there if things got tense.
Focus on the job. That’s all this was. A job.
“Stay near the animal displays,” I said. “People who care about the cause won’t ask you about hockey.”
“Smart.”
“That’s why you keep me around.”
He smiled, and fuck. . . I did everything in my power to ignore how that smile made me feel.
We moved through the crowd. I kept a half-step behind, close enough to intercept but far enough to stay invisible.
A woman in a red gown approached, mid-fifties, wearing enough diamonds to fund a small country. Her eyes swept over Knox with the kind of interest that had nothing to do with charitable donations.
“Mr. Knox.” She extended her hand. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
Knox shook her hand. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Your support means so much to this organization.” She leaned in, lowered her voice. “I have to say, I admire your. . . resilience. The way you’ve handled everything this season.”
I saw Knox’s jaw tighten.
“I punched a guy,” he said. “Not much to admire there.”
Her smile faltered. Then her gaze slid to me, and her expression shifted to something more curious and appraising.
“And who is this?” she asked, not looking away from me. “One of your teammates?”
“My assistant,” Knox said before I could answer.
Her perfectly shaped eyebrows lifted. “Your assistant? Really?” She looked me up and down again, slower this time. “You have the build of a player. I would have sworn—”
“Matthew Quinn,” I said, trying to redirect. “Mr. Knox’s assistant.”
“How interesting.” She stepped closer, and I caught a whiff of expensive perfume. “And do you work with the foundation as well, Matthew?”
“No, but I help coordinate Mr. Knox’s charitable commitments,” I said, keeping my voice even.
“How dedicated.” She tilted her head. Her smile turned warmer. “Are you local to Boston?”
“Ma’am,” Knox said, his tone polite but firm. “The animals?”
She blinked and pulled back slightly. “I’m sorry?”
“The medical fund. For animals. That’s why we’re here.” He gestured vaguely toward the rest of the gala. “You should probably go see what we’re supporting.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” She recovered with practiced grace, though I caught the flash of disappointment in her eyes. “Enjoy the evening, gentlemen.”
She glided away, already targeting her next conversation.
I let out a slow breath.
Knox started walking toward the bar, his stride faster than necessary.
I followed. “That happen a lot? Women at charity events hitting on you?”
“Sometimes.” He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, handed one to me without asking if I wanted it. “She thought you were a player.”
“She was just confused.”
“Yeah, because you look like one.” He said it with an edge, almost accusatory. “That’s what Searcy said too, right? At the rink?”
He’d heard that? “I guess.”
“So she sees you, thinks you’re on the team, starts asking if you’re local.” He took a drink, his knuckles tight around the glass. “That’s not friendly, Quinn. That’s an opening.”
“An opening for what? Networking?”
My contract with him was only ninety days. He knew that.
Knox looked at me like I was being deliberately dense. “For whatever the fuck she wanted to do with you after this.” He took another drink, finishing the glass. “You into that? Older women?”
The question caught me off guard. “What? No. I—why would you ask that?”
“Just wondering what your type is.” His tone was too sharp, too aggressive for a casual question. “Since apparently everyone here thinks you’re available.”
What the actual fuck?
“I’m not available, at least for the next ninety days.”
Knox’s laugh was harsh.
“And I don’t have a type,” I said carefully, trying to defuse whatever this was. “But I’m definitely not interested in being hit on at work events.”
The tension in his shoulders was back, that coiled-spring energy I’d seen on the street Thursday. Like he was about to detonate over something I didn’t understand.
“Good.” He bit the word off. “Because it’s distracting. We’re here for the animals, not for you to get picked up by—” He stopped, jaw working, hands fisting at his sides.
“By what?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” He turned away sharply, already reaching for another champagne flute.
I stared at him, completely lost. Was he angry about the optics? About the idea that I might line up something else before my ninety days were up?
I’d done that before. You had to, if you wanted to survive.
“I wasn’t trying to—” I started.
“I said forget it, Quinn.” He didn’t look at me. “Let’s just get through this and leave.”
I watched him, confused. He seemed. . . annoyed. More than annoyed. The woman had been weird, sure, but she’d left when he’d redirected her. It wasn’t a big deal.
“Okay,” I said. “We can leave whenever you want.”
He nodded. “After the speeches. Then we’re gone.”
“Fine.”
We stood there in awkward silence for a moment. I sipped the champagne he’d handed me, trying to understand what invisible line I’d crossed.
Whatever it was, Knox was clearly pissed about something.
Knox exhaled. “I fucking hate this shit.”
“I know.”
Another donor, another polite conversation that Andrew barely tolerated.
I redirected, smoothed, inserted myself when necessary.
A reporter tried to corner him near the silent auction—I steered Knox toward the bar instead.
Someone asked about his return timeline—I reminded them tonight was about the animals, not the roster.
Knox noticed. He didn’t say anything, but I felt him tracking my movements, the way I navigated the room like it was a game board and I knew all the plays.
“You’re good at this,” he said quietly.
“At what?”
“Managing people.”
“It’s logistics,” I said. “Same as everything else.”
“No. It’s not.”
Before I could respond, the dinner chime rang. Table 4 was near the center of the room. Prime location, maximum visibility. I’d reviewed the seating chart so many times I had it memorized.
Knox’s seat. My seat, to his left. And on his right—
Brandon Archibald.
He was already sitting, relaxed, champagne in hand, smiling at the couple beside him. When he saw Knox, his smile widened.
“Knox,” he said. “Good to see you again.”
Knox sat without responding.
The tension was immediate, not just between them, but around us. A few heads at the table tilted in interest. Everyone here knew the story, and I had no doubt that they all knew why these two had been placed side by side.
Archibald leaned back in his chair, the picture of ease. “Great event. Really classy.”
Knox said nothing.
“I hear you’re a big supporter of this charity,” Archibald continued. “Didn’t know you were into animal rescue.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Clearly.” Archibald’s eyes slide to me and lingered. “Nice suit, Matthew. You clean up well.”
I met his gaze. “Thanks.”
“Really well.” His smile was all teeth. “Didn’t get to see you like this at that party in New York. You were more. . . casual then.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Knox’s hand tightened around his water glass.
A woman to Archibald’s left tried to engage him in conversation about the auction items. He turned, all charm, but kept glancing back at me, like he was daring someone to react.
I tried to ignore him as the first course arrived—some kind of salad with edible flowers. Knox aggressively stabbed at the lettuce, shoulders tense. I barely touched mine.
“So Matthew,” Archibald said, too loud. “How are you finding the assistant life? Knox treating you well?”
Every instinct I had told me that this wasn’t an innocent question. This was bait.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“Just fine?” He laughed. “Come on. You can be honest. What’s he like as a boss? Demanding? Intense?”
I kept my voice neutral. “Professional.”
“Professional.” Archibald swirled his champagne. “That’s one word for it.”
Knox’s fork scraped against his plate.
The sound was sharp enough that a couple people glanced over. Conversation at the table shifted after that to safer ground. Donation amounts, auction strategies, next year’s venue.
I half-listened. Mostly, I watched.
Knox kept drinking. And he kept looking at me. He wasn’t glaring, at least not openly. It was more like he was waiting for something to happen, like he expected me to do something wrong.
I told myself not to read into it.
This wasn’t personal. This was optics. Drama by design. Two rival players seated together for the spectacle, with me inconveniently in the middle of it.
I was an employee. A temporary one. Ninety days.
That was all this was.
When the auction broke for intermission, I stood before anyone could ask me anything and slipped toward the bar.
I thought I just needed air.
I didn’t realize I was walking straight into a trap.