7. A Work Arrangement
A WORK ARRANGEMENT
LAKE
Did I foolishly underestimate the six-foot-five obstacle standing between me and the Mustangs’ coach? I may have, yes.
In fact, I must be breathing in stupid particles, because Buford has probably turned half the team against me, and me being here is enough of a catalyst to start another world war.
I voluntarily walked into the lion’s den with a gaping leg wound and the delusional mindset that some of the furry inhabitants are vegan.
I have to go over the logistics of the articles with Coach Lawson, and while Tamara said she handled it, it’s best if I talk to him myself. I want to make sure he’s on board with me watching practices and infiltrating his rink for a couple months.
Though, because my life loves to whip out the occasional spike strip, I’m stopped in my tracks before I can even breach his periphery.
Sutton is towering over me (as usual), a paroxysm of hurt etched into his expression.
It’s in the furrow of his brows, the jut of his bottom lip, the normally warm brown of his eyes.
He’s colder now; more aloof. The set of his shoulders screams professionalism, and I hate how I’ve broken his trust when I should have handled it with care.
Everything sets off a chain reaction of guilt inside of me. “Sutton, I—”
“What are you doing here?” he interrupts, his voice a burr—low and intimidating but lacking the malice to classify as a growl. Like he can’t bring himself to be mad at me, which is worse than him lashing out.
Suddenly, my part-time job dips to the wayside, and there’s a breathlessness to my run-on apology that nearly bludgeons my solar plexus.
I’m overheating in this igloo, my stomach is determined to revolt everything I had in the last twenty-four hours, and my heart is pounding so hard that I can feel each strained beat threaten to break through my chest’s cavity.
“I’m so sorry, Sutton,” I blurt out. “I didn’t mean to stand you up. I got arrested Friday for protesting on campus grounds, and then my mom bailed me out and she was pissed, and then I had to clean the entire house as a punishment, and then—”
He blinks a few times. “Hold on, you were arrested?”
I can’t help but feel embarrassed that I even put myself in that situation knowing I had plans that night. This apology had to happen eventually, but I hadn’t considered how it would affect Sutton’s perception of me.
To be fair, we did meet when I was doing something recklessly stupid and borderline illegal.
Heat pools in my cheeks as my throat works with a weak swallow. “I never would’ve stood you up on purpose. I even DMed you on Instagram, but I never heard back. I was excited to meet you that night. I was just being reckless and impulsive, and my big, fat mouth landed me behind bars.”
Instead of going all Terminator on me—not that Sutton gives off that vibe—concern steeps in the hard-set features of his face, and his gaze searches mine for any noticeable crack in my impenetrable mask—any sliver of truth that my tongue refuses to divulge.
“Shit, I haven’t had the chance to check my socials.”
As much as Sutton calms the storm inside of me, he doesn’t deserve to be pulled into my mess. The brontide that’s always a snap away, the fluctuating mood swings. Perhaps the world did me a favor by placing me in time-out—perhaps it did Sutton a favor.
Following regular Sutton fashion (which I’m picking up pretty quickly), he’s more concerned with the schematics of my stay rather than the heartache of my vanishing act. “Are you hurt?”
His gloved hands magnetize to my arms immediately, and he begins inspecting my body like I’d have physical bruising rather than a million paper cuts on my soul.
I try to wiggle out of his iron-tight grasp. “I’m fine.”
Alleviate his worry, Lake.
“This has happened before,” I quickly tack on, except my well-intentioned tidbit of information only makes his grip tighter.
Shit. Shouldn’t have said that.
Sutton stares deeply into my eyes, as if he believes it’s possible to peel back my hard outer shell layer by layer.
I suppose he can’t fathom getting in trouble with the law.
That boy has a golden moral compass, and mine is more like a poor man’s version of a casino wheel.
Sutton would have to do something astronomically horrible to land himself in jail.
“You should have called me. I would have come.”
“It’s fine. My mom picked me up.”
“It’s not fine.”
While his concern is appreciated, it’s kind of unnerving.
Nobody’s ever given a shit about me besides my mom.
And Ellaria. But regaling my well-intentioned friend with tales from the holding cell would send her into a spiral.
She doesn’t do well with conflict, or the law.
When I got incarcerated the first time (for a brief overnight stay), Buford was out partying with his friends and didn’t even bother to ask if I was okay after the whole ordeal.
“I mean, it’s not my first choice, but Drunk Dina usually has some fun stories to tell,” I joke, which doesn’t, in fact, lighten the mood.
Sutton is just standing there—with an adorable crease between his eyebrows—and his eyes darken to a shade I’ve never seen before.
It’s a drastic hue shift, and it would be terrifying if I wasn’t aware of the intent behind it.
A muscle in his jaw feathers, as if he’s actively navigating how to best approach my pathetic employment of a coping mechanism.
However, instead of pelting a barrage of questions at me with no ceasefire, he only vocalizes one. “But you’re okay, right?”
It’s a simple question with a simple answer. Physically? Yes. Mentally? Uh, mentally, I’m face down in the gutter somewhere after a bender with no recollection of the night before and only a Mardi Gras bead necklace to show for it.
I can’t scare Sutton away. I’ve already made one terrible choice, and contrary to popular belief, I like him a lot.
He’ll definitely run for the hills if I start offloading my baggage onto him.
Plus, I need to think about my ambitions in the long run.
Curating a peaceful workplace environment while I’m interning at Hockey Camp 101 is crucial to the success of the articles.
So, it’s in everyone’s best interest if I save the tragic backstory for my therapist.
“I’m okay. I was in and out of there fairly quickly,” I tell him.
He doesn’t look very convinced, and he gives me a once-over that I wish was under a sexier context. It’s like he’s trying to sound a containment breach and wiggle his way into my airtight security. Nobody gets past Biohazard Level 4 without clearance.
With a sigh, I present my arms to him, turning them over so he can assess the extent of the nonexistent damage. “See? Fresh as a daisy. You have nothing to worry about, Sutton. It won’t happen again.”
Shadows cling to the beautifully sculpted angles of his face, and there’s a hoarseness to his voice that sounds like it’s been filed down by weary reminiscence, slowly dulled to a point where it loses its vitality.
I inch closer to him, grabbing his hand and interlocking it with mine. The glove is a clunky barrier, but it’s the gesture that brings color back to his face.
I pout. “You’re too young for worry lines.”
When his hand squeezes mine, aftershocks surge through my body, and my heart flares in my chest as if it’s a fire that only ignites at the hands of its creator. Flickering flames scraping higher and higher the closer I am to him, ready to engulf everything in its path. Beautiful ruination.
“You’re too young to be a repeat offender,” he volleys back.
Finally. We’re getting somewhere.
A full-belly laugh erupts out of me, and I’m momentarily transported back to the night I gave Buford a housewarming gift, when it was just Sutton and me hidden under a duvet of darkness, holed up in our own little microcosm simply because we were both in the right place at the right time.
I want to experience that again, but with less bugs, obviously.
However, it doesn’t slip my mind that I’m still responsible for writing a series of completely unbiased news articles about MU’s hockey team, and nobody will want to read the one where I get my Hootie Blowfished or whatever.
A promotion and front-page publicity are on the line here, but I’m starting to catch feelings. Me! The feelings dodger and recovering commitment-phobe. Ugh, this sucks. Why did Tamara have to pick me? We have a dozen journalists on the team.
“I’m sorry,” Sutton says out of nowhere, interrupting my would-be swan dive into a mental grenade.
He’s sorry?
I shake my head, my ponytail swinging behind me like a metronome. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Dark curls fall into his eyes as he looks down at me, and I have to smother the urge to run my hands through his luscious mane.
“Yeah, I did. I jumped to conclusions about your character, and I misjudged you entirely. It never crossed my mind that you might be in trouble.”
“If you didn’t show up to our date, I’d follow a similar line of thinking. It was reckless of me to even protest that day, knowing my history and my proclivity for getting on the law’s bad side. Our date should’ve taken priority over everything else.”
“I would’ve hated if you had to sit on the sidelines because you were worried about a silly date, Lake.
A date that can be rescheduled. If you’re serious about protesting, you shouldn’t have to dim your interests in order to accommodate me,” Sutton explains, transferring an inexplicable warmth to me that I haven’t felt in ages.
It smokes out the semipermanent anxiety half-fused to the lining of my stomach—an ulcer-like growth that’s been there ever since I left my sister to bleed out in the living room.
“Next time, just think about bringing backup.”
A snort shoots out of me before I can stop it. “Let me guess. You’re the backup?”
“Protests can get dangerous. Nobody will mess with you if you have a bodyguard at your side.”
Nobody in my life has ever taken an interest in my protesting.
Certainly not my mom, not Ellaria (for capiophobic reasons), and not Buford, because that man doesn’t have the gall to stand up for anything he believes in.
It means a lot that Sutton doesn’t shy away from that part of my lifestyle.
It’s an acquired taste. Some might describe it as gritty with a hint of nutmeg.
Suddenly, over Sutton’s very muscular shoulder, I lock eyes with Coach Lawson as if he’s a broken specter in the distance, and the nerves clock in for another grueling shift at the overthinking factory.
My retired co-conspirator catches on to the shift in my mood instantaneously.
He lowers his hand, severing contact. “Why are you here, Lake?”
A shaky grimace graces my lips, and my cool-girl reputation undergoes a less-cool transformation. “Surprise! I’m going to be your shadow for the next few months.”