CHAPTER 10
Daisy
The hall outside the locker room smells like rubber flooring and post-practice hockey, a toxic scent I’ve grown accustomed to in the last few weeks.
I’ve been pacing it for ten minutes, phone in hand, checking the time every thirty seconds.
It’s been four days since the Vipers returned from their West Coast road trip and not much seems to have changed.
Grizz McAvoy is late again.
He’s also still completely hardheaded, combative, and unwilling to make my job a tiny bit easier.
What’s worse, he seems to have selective memory and has forgotten the fact he kissed me in a bar.
And he’s most definitely playing dumb about that night at the club where he blurted to me about his father.
Of course, I haven’t pushed either of those issues, although I can’t stop thinking about them. Grizz’s protective wall is higher and stronger than ever, and frankly, I probably have no business trying to scale it.
My latest project is to get Grizz to a press shoot at Bartiz, the hottest new fusion restaurant downtown.
It starts in twenty minutes, and the Vipers have spent a lot of time and effort securing the restaurant’s hospitality group as a new concessions partner.
The chef’s expecting Grizz. The PR team’s expecting him.
Everyone is expecting him, and yet the only person not concerned is the one being paid (a lot) to show up.
I spot Tanner coming down the hall, towel over his shoulder, earbuds dangling around his neck, totally unbothered.
“Tanner,” I call.
He glances up, grin in place. “Morning, sunshine.”
I tighten my grip on the folder in my hands. “Is Grizz almost ready?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm. “We were supposed to be out the door ten minutes ago.”
He chuckles, slow and smug. “Oh, he’s ready.”
I narrow my eyes. “Then why isn’t he out here?”
Tanner leans one shoulder against the wall, clearly enjoying this, the picture of casual defiance. “Because he’s busy.”
My pulse ticks. “Busy doing what?”
“Playing ping-pong.”
I blink. “Ping-pong.”
“Yep. Intense game too. He’s up by three in the quarterfinals of the tourney.”
I stare at him, mouth sagging open. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” He spreads his hands. “He’s locked in, Turner. Focused. Can’t interrupt greatness.”
My patience is running thin and my blood pressure is spiking. “He’s supposed to be at a photo shoot for a multimillion-dollar partnership, not sitting around”—I stop myself before I say something I might regret and dial it back a notch—“wasting my time and the team’s money.”
Tanner grins as if this is the most entertainment he’s had in days. “Well, technically, he’s being active, not sitting around. That’s athletic, right?”
I inhale a deep breath and push away thoughts of strangling him with his own earbuds. “You’re a real comedian.”
He offers me a half bow. “Thanks. I practice.”
I step closer, lowering my voice so it lands like a threat. “Tanner, I’m serious. Can you please tell him to get out here?”
He raises an eyebrow, head tilted. “Can I? Sure. Will I? Depends.”
I frown. “Depends on what?”
“What’s in it for me?”
I blink, certain I misheard him. “Excuse me?”
He folds his arms, that smirk deepening. “I’m about to walk into the lion’s den and tell the franchise player to stop mid-match when he’s on his way to the semis to defend his title. I need hazard pay.”
A dam breaks within me and along with it, my control. Fury ripples and I hiss at him, “You’re unbelievable.”
He’s completely unfazed and shrugs. “Hey, I’m a professional. I know my worth.”
“Fine,” I snap, cutting the air between us. “I’ll owe you.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Nah. Owing me is too vague. I want a legit return.”
“You’re bargaining with me right now?”
“Think of it as a motivational strategy.”
I let out a frustrated laugh, half snarl. “Okay. Name your price.”
Tanner pretends to think it over, gaze rolling skyward as he taps his chin. When he looks back at me, he says, “Desserts. From Bartiz. For a month.”
“A month?”
“Thirty days. Unlimited desserts. Make it happen.”
“You realize this partnership is for premium concessions, not a dessert buffet?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Sounds like a you problem.”
I cross my arms. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah, but I’m charming about it.”
I sigh, the sound exasperated. “Fine. You’ll get dessert. Whatever you want. Just get him out here and into a cab with me in the next sixty seconds.”
He grins. “Now we’re talking.”
“Sixty seconds, Tanner. I’m serious.”
“Sixty seconds,” he repeats, pushing off the wall with an easy roll of his shoulders. “You better start warming up the cab.”
I point a finger at him. “Don’t test me.”
He gives a lazy salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then he disappears through the locker room doors, the hinges hissing shut behind him.
A few seconds later, I hear the faint bounce of a ball and the crack of paddles. Someone yells, “Point!” followed by laughter.
I close my eyes, practice my box breathing to calm myself, and check my watch again.
Tanner now has fifty seconds to deliver the package. I walk outside and hail a cab, intent on having it ready to shove Grizz inside. “Just waiting on someone,” I tell the driver when I open the rear door. He nods without a word.
Thirty seconds. Then twenty, then ten—
When Tanner finally exits the training facility with Grizz walking behind him like it’s a hostage exchange, he looks pleased with himself.
“Three seconds to spare,” he says, pointing at me. “Dessert privileges secured.”
I don’t even look at him as Grizz slides into the cab. As I’m buckling my seat belt, I lean over and say, “Zero seconds, actually, but since I’m reasonable, I’ll get you desserts for the week, not a month. Hope you enjoy chocolate cake.”
He grins. “I savor anything I don’t have to pay for.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me and Grizz as we buckle up. He’s wearing a hoodie and a backward cap and has that same relaxed posture that makes me want to throw his phone out the window.
He manspreads, one knee against the door, and glances at me like he’s boarding a flight he didn’t book. “Morning,” he says as the cabbie pulls onto the street and heads down Broadway.
The late-afternoon sunlight slices between the buildings, highlighting the dust on the dashboard. I turn toward Grizz, arms folded and irritation still buzzing beneath my skin. “You’re late,” I snap, stating the obvious.
He grins without even looking at me, attention squarely on his phone. “Technically, we’re moving now. So, I’d say we’re on time.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to feel it. “You were supposed to be ready to leave thirty minutes ago.”
“Yeah, but I had to defend my title.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeeze my eyes shut, and pray for patience. “You can’t skip a sponsor shoot to play ping-pong.”
“Correction,” he says, scrolling his phone. “I won a ping-pong game while being fashionably late to a sponsor shoot. Feels like a win-win.”
I stare at him, incredulous. He’s too relaxed… too unbothered. “You know what? I don’t even care about the ping-pong. What I care about is that you keep treating these commitments like they’re optional.”
He doesn’t look up. “That’s because for me, they are.”
The arrogance is eye-popping. I laugh under my breath. “You really think that?”
“I know that,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. “No one comes to the arena to see the sponsors, Turner. They come to see me score.”
“You might want to let the sponsors know that,” I shoot back. “They’re the ones paying the bills.”
He reclines like he owns the cab and all the space within it, one arm stretched along the seat, legs stretched. “You always this fun in the morning?”
“Only when I’m babysitting millionaires with punctuality issues.”
He grins, clearly enjoying himself. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”
My stomach flips, and I hate that it does. “Don’t,” I warn.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t patronize me.”
He chuckles, tipping his head back against the seat. “You’re wound tight, you know that?”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Which apparently involves scolding grown men in taxis.”
“Only when those grown men act like immature teenagers.”
He looks at me, amused, eyes darting briefly to my mouth before sliding away. “You ever think maybe you care too much about stuff that doesn’t matter?”
“It matters to me,” I say. His expression shifts slightly, presumably from the crack in my composure. “And it should matter to you, considering your entire public image is dangling by a thread.”
He laughs with the frustrating confidence of a guy who’s always used to winning. “My image is fine.”
“Your image,” I say, “is a dumpster fire that PR keeps putting out with napkins.”
He whistles. “Harsh.”
“Accurate.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to decide whether to poke me again or let it go. He pokes. “Do you enjoy being so serious all the time?”
“I enjoy doing my job well. And I’m this serious only when I’m in cars with people who make my life harder than it needs to be.”
“That can’t be true,” he says with a shake of his head. “You seem like the type who’s serious everywhere. The kind who alphabetizes her stress.”
I glare at him. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Not when it’s this easy to get a rise out of you.”
I exhale and turn toward the window. Broadway blurs past in billboards, delivery trucks, a woman walking three dogs in matching sweaters. I try to breathe, to stop thinking about how close he is and how four days ago he kissed me just to get me to shut up.
And I think about how he told me about his dad. Spilled it like blood and then refused to acknowledge it after the fact. It told me that there’s deep pain there. “You know, I’m not against you, Grizz.”
His reflection in the window goes still. “No?”
“No. I’m trying to help you. You think I enjoy chasing you around locker rooms and dragging you into cabs? I’m doing my job. You just make it—”
“Fun?”
“Maddening.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “So what, you want me to start saying please and thank you? Hold doors?”
“I want you to stop acting like every rule is an attack on your freedom,” I say. “And maybe stop smiling every time you make my day worse.”
He laughs, softer this time. Almost surprised. “You noticed that, huh?”
“I notice everything,” I say. “It’s literally my job to notice.”
He looks at me, eyes glinting the way they did in that bar just before he kissed me. “And what do you notice now?”
Emotion clamps down on my voice. “That you’re enjoying this.”
He grins wider. “Maybe I am.”
“Why?”
He thinks about it for half a second, eyes dropping away before meeting mine again and I can see he’s not amused now. “Because you don’t fake it. Everyone else around me fakes it. They laugh at my jokes, nod when I talk, pretend I’m not an asshole. You don’t.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“Sure it is,” he says. “Means you’re interesting.”
I swallow hard. “I’d rather be effective.”
He leans in, not enough to touch me, but enough that his presence fills the small space between us. His voice drops. “You can be both.”
The air feels heavier for a beat. Too warm suddenly. Definitely too close. My pulse hammers at my throat and I look away first, completely annoyed with myself. “Unbelievable,” I mutter.
He grins. “That’s what they tell me.”
The cab jerks to a stop, brakes squealing as we pull up to the curb.
“That’ll be fifteen dollars, twenty-five cents,” the driver says over his shoulder.
“I’ll pay by card,” I reply quickly, swiping before Grizz can even reach for his wallet—not that he looks like he intends to.
He stretches lazily, cracking his neck. “Generous of you, Turner.”
I shoot him a glare. “I’ll be expensing this.”
We climb out of the cab and I button my coat. The air outside is cold, the late autumn type that makes your eyes water and your patience thin. “Let’s get started before this day becomes any more challenging,” I say, gripping my phone.
“Whatever gets this shit over with,” Grizz mutters, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Where the hell is this restaurant?”
I unlock my phone, thumb scrolling over the screen as I pull up the email from Langley’s assistant. “It’s right here—420 Greenwich.”
We both look around. Residential block. Corner deli. A dog groomer. Definitely not a high-end restaurant.
I scroll again, panic climbing up my throat. “It says 420 Greenwich. This should be it.”
“Let me see,” Grizz says, holding out his palm.
“I’ve got it under control.”
He doesn’t move his hand. “You clearly don’t.”
I exhale through my nose and give him the phone.
He glances once at the screen, then utters a quiet, satisfied hum.
“Yeah, you’re right, 420 Greenwich. But one tiny detail you missed.
This is Greenwich Avenue,” he says, pointing up at the street sign.
“You were supposed to take us to Greenwich Street. Two very different places.”
I stare at him, speechless, grabbing my phone back and peering at the address. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Easy mistake—for someone who’s not from New York.”
“I live here,” I snap.
“Uh-huh.”
I look down at my watch. “We’re twenty minutes late.”
“Correction,” he says, deadpan. “Now we’re thirty-five minutes late, by the time we actually get there.”
Panic swells and I pull up my contacts list. I tap Kendra, who heads up the PR department for Bartiz.
The phone rings once, twice, three times, then goes to her voicemail.
I wait impatiently for the tone and leave a harried message.
“Kendra… look, we’re running a bit late, but we’ll be there as soon as we can. Just hold tight.”
I disconnect the call. “Perfect,” I mutter under my breath. “Now they probably think we bailed.”
“Maybe they’ll start without us,” Grizz says, leaning against a streetlamp.
I glare at him. “Without us? You’re the reason they’re doing this. If you hadn’t been such a distraction, we’d be there already.”
He laughs under his breath. “So this is my fault?”
“Yes, it’s your fault.” I look up and down the street, praying for a cab.
“I wasn’t the one reading addresses like some tourist,” he points out.
I spin to face him. “You were the one playing ping-pong instead of being ready when you were supposed to be!”
He lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Touché.”
A cab rounds the corner, mercifully empty. I wave it down and fifteen minutes later, we finally pull up to Bartiz. It’s between a wine bar and an art gallery in Tribeca. A few team staffers stand by the entrance looking panicked.
Grizz pays zero attention to their frantic faces. He steps out, squints at the restaurant front, and says, “Nice place. You think they’ve got a ping-pong table in here?”