Chapter 1
Chapter One
Social conduct for hate-free inter-colleague teamwork
For short: SCHIT
Professionalism must be maintained on the telephone – and Mr. Clark must not be addressed as Mr. Snark.
Seven years later...
Gareth Clark was used to people not liking him. He never aimed to be unpleasant — but he also didn’t go to any great lengths to convince people otherwise.
He had too much money for that. His patience was too short.
He was too attractive and lacked compassion.
Besides, he didn’t see the point in smiling when he didn’t feel like it, or in holding back his opinions to spare someone’s feelings.
His ambition, his obsession with control, and his Harvard law degree had made him too rational, arrogant, complacent, ruthless, cold, and hard.
If you searched long enough, Google could spit out more lists of unflattering adjectives, each more flowery than the last. But Gareth didn’t search, and certainly not for long. He didn’t give a damn what people thought of him.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t avoid picking up some assessments of his character.
…I’ll tell you! There are three types of assholes.
First: The heartless, cold-blooded, calculating version who never loses control.
Outwardly friendly and polite, but can deliberately flip the switch to jerk to get what they want.
Second: The bossy, loud version who doesn’t give a damn about the world’s opinion or the world itself.
They are just an asshole because they enjoy being that way.
Third: Gareth Clark. Who combines both.”
Chuckling softly, Gareth leaned back in his office chair and opened the paper to finish reading the interview.
It had been sitting on his desk with the note: Exciting read!
Thought it’d entertain you. Probably a gift from his sister, who’d told him better bedtime stories before — but nowhere near as humorous.
I swear the owner of the L.A. Hawks has no love for anything but his money! He didn’t sell me because of my competence on the ice. He was just pissed off because I told him his tie was ugly! The whole thing is a personal vendetta. There's a room in hell with his name on it.
Gareth snorted in amusement and put the paper down.
He had no problem with that prick’s drivel.
At least there was a grain of truth to it.
But winger Malcolm Smith shouldn’t be telling blatant lies simply because he was angry that Gareth had traded him.
Sure, he’d be pissed off if he had to endure the Canadian frost instead of the Californian sun, but that wasn’t a reason to take it personally.
None of Smith’s five statements was true.
First, Gareth was only a part-owner, since he managed the hockey team with his sister.
Second, he didn’t pick out his own ties.
He wore whatever his personal shopper hung in his closet.
Why should he be bothered by a comment about his fashion inadequacies when he literally bought his sense of style?
He’d realized long ago he didn’t have one of his own.
Third: There was a damn suite waiting for him in hell, not a crappy room.
Fourth: He loved things more than money.
Lots of things, actually. Okay, a few things.
For example: clear, color-coded appointment calendars and Excel spreadsheets.
His sister Penny. Rock-hard mattresses and Froot Loops.
His best friends and his goddaughter. Ice hockey.
Milky Ways. Sudoku. Fifth: Gareth had no personal vendettas.
He’d sold Smith because the guy had barely seen the ice the previous season, had a terrible work ethic — and apparently had a problem with having a female boss.
That Gareth couldn’t stand the guy was beside the point.
Gareth didn’t make business decisions based solely on grudges.
He remained objective and rational when it came to the team.
Well, with one exception. But exceptions proved the rule.
His gaze slid to the last line on the page at the end of the interview – he didn’t do things half-assed, he had to finish things once he started them – and his jaw hardened.
Hazel Barrow, CEO of Barrow Sports Agency, would not comment on the sale or her client’s statement.
He’d almost forgotten that Smith was Hazel’s client. But shit, he wasn’t surprised. Maybe she’d even put the words in his mouth.
He rubbed his face, suppressing the sweet-sharp feeling in his chest. It happened every time he read, heard, or said Hazel’s name.
Probably just heartburn. He preferred to focus on Smith’s words, which honestly made him chuckle.
The guy had leaked to the press that a necktie had meant his end with the Hawks, and no one questioned it?
“Everything okay?”
Gareth looked up and saw Freddie Cravitz standing in the open office doorway. Hmm. Maybe he wasn’t smiling enough lately; his assistant doubted his sanity whenever he saw the corners of his mouth turned up.
Oh, there were worse things.
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he muttered. “What are you still doing here, Cravitz?”
“I never leave until you’re gone, sir,” the redhead replied, embarrassed. “In case you need anything.”
Oh man. The guy must not get much sleep.
Maybe it was time for a raise. Cravitz had been the general manager’s assistant, but after Gareth had lost three assistants in a week – all with the silly excuse that his standards were too high, the hours unreasonable, and that Gareth was generally unbearable – Thomas Lyle had lost it and given him Freddie Cravitz because he wouldn’t be so easily scared off.
“That’s not necessary,” Gareth said, absentmindedly smoothing out the article with his fingers. “Really, Cravitz, go home.”
“No, no!” He waved a hand. “We still have to discuss your appointments for the next few days and…” He paused when his gaze fell on the paper in Gareth’s hands. “Oh. You really shouldn’t read that article…there are some nasty things in there.”
Gareth snorted in amusement and clasped his hands behind his neck. “Freddie, if I only read things that said good things about me, I wouldn’t be able to read at all.”
His assistant’s face turned red faster than a traffic light on Sunset Boulevard. “Smith was just angry to be traded. He shouldn’t have called you an asshole.”
“So you don’t think I’m an asshole?”
Genuinely interested in his answer, Gareth raised his eyebrows. Apart from his sister Penny, whose heart was beyond good, everyone always agreed on that point, which didn’t bother Gareth in the slightest. Personally, he saw it as a good thing. At least his reputation made his job easier.
“I…well, I…no,” Freddie stammered, hastily entering the office and sitting on the chair in front of the desk. “I think people would take advantage of you if you were too friendly.”
Hmm. Gareth inclined his head. A surprisingly far-sighted truth, even if he wouldn’t comment on it further. That would be getting too friendly. “Okay. You wanted to go over the schedule for the next few days?”
Cravitz nodded energetically and pulled an iPad out of his briefcase. “Tomorrow is Madison James and winger Matthew Payne’s wedding. You should stay at the reception for at least two hours so as not to be rude. You have Sunday off, as usual.”
Yes, and as usual, he would still work.
“The press conference on this year’s team will take place at eight a.m. Monday, and then you have an appointment with your father at nine, although he didn’t give a reason.”
Oh, his father would criticize his every business decision. Gareth didn’t need anything on his calendar to know that.
“The meeting with Leon Alvarez’s agent was scheduled for ten-thirty, but he asked if we could postpone the meeting by half an hour…”
Gareth raised an eyebrow.
Freddie cleared his throat and made a note on his iPad. “I’ll tell him that’s impossible,” he corrected himself hastily. “You have a lunch meeting with the marketing team at twelve, and at two, your sister would like to discuss new investment opportunities with various charities…”
Gareth nodded, listening with one ear and simultaneously typing a message into the group chat with his two best friends, the ones he hadn’t been able to get rid of after Harvard.
Do we have a wedding present for Matt and Maddie?
He didn’t remember ordering one, let alone getting one himself.
“Also, Coach Gray would like a meeting to discuss the snack machines in the new team common room,” Freddie continued.
Blinking, Gareth looked up. “What about them?”
“Some players have complained that they no longer have Snickers. It’s been replaced by Milky Way.”
“And that’s my problem because…?”
“Your sister says she doesn’t care about snack machines. The statistical probability of being crushed by one is incredibly high. She also claims the Milky Way thing is your fault to begin with?”
He frowned. That was correct. Still, he didn’t have time for such nonsense. “Objectively, Milky Way is better than Snickers,” he explained matter-of-factly. “There’s less risk of choking. Put that in a group email and then it’ll be over.”
“Um, I don’t think the players…”
“Freddie, is that it?” he asked impatiently, gesturing at his screen. “I’m still busy.”
“No, there’s one last thing.” Freddy cleared his throat and shifted in his chair.
Gareth wasn’t surprised; the seat was intentionally uncomfortable to discourage guests from staying longer than absolutely necessary.
“Lyle wants to know if Fox’s contract has been renewed yet.
He can’t give precise instructions to the coach or the marketing team without knowing whether the team captain will stay with us or not. ”