4. Chapter 3
Josie
Icame to Beachside to prove I belonged somewhere that celebrated what I knew, not tolerated it.
And now, the first man I've ever let myself be reckless with just reduced me to a species in front of his boss, his coach, and his brothers.
I thought I left that shit behind.
My smile is frozen on my face. My hand, which had been extended toward Corbin Cole, feels cold and stupid for hanging in the air for so long.
I slowly lower it to my side, curling my fingers into a fist so tight my nails bite into my palm.
Show this… woman.
Woman.
And it’s not just about him being rude. It’s not even about him being the same man who I had in my bed three nights ago.
This is him striking directly onto a deeper wound. An older one that I thought was well hidden, yet Declan Morrison has just exposed it within five minutes of knowing who I am.
Somehow, that infuriating man has seen into every family dinner where my mother would sigh and say, “Josie, must you talk about sports at the table?” Or every time my sisters, soft and feminine and easy, were held up as the ideal while I was treated like a problem that needed solving. A phase that I needed to outgrow.
Even my friends in high school said it was too much.
I was too sporty. Too guy-ish.
“Um. Ms. Whitfield?”
Corbin Cole’s voice is a nervous squeak beside me. I drag in a breath, force my shoulders to relax, and turn to face him with a smile that feels carved from ice.
“Sorry, Corbin. Let’s start the tour.”
He leads the way with a bounce in his step, and pretty soon, I learn that Corbin Cole is a human puppy trapped in a twenty-year-old hockey player’s body. He walks beside me with a nervous energy that makes me want to pat him on the head and give him a treat.
“So, this is the main concourse,” he says, gesturing wildly with the hand not clutching his protein shake. “All the food vendors are here. The nachos at ‘Claw & Order’ are killer. And the pretzels? Oh, man. They’re like… the size of your face.”
“Fascinating,” I murmur, my eyes scanning the empty, gleaming space. My mind is still back in that conference room, watching Declan’s back disappear through the door.
What a jerk. Total jerk.
“And over here,” Corbin continues, swiping a keycard at a heavy door, “is where the magic happens. The locker room!”
He pushes the door open with a flourish.
The smell of antiseptic cleaner, sweat and leather hits my nose. It’s a cavernous room lined with dark wood stalls, each with a nameplate above it. Equipment hangs neatly in some of the cubby's, while spilling out of others.
The floor is rubberized, and dotted with drains, but overall, it's pleasant enough.
My gaze lands immediately on the stall third from the end. MORRISON, D. is engraved on a polished brass plate.
My face heats. I can practically see him there, peeling off his gear, that focused scowl on his face. The same scowl he wore when he was buried inside me, driving with an intensity that I've been craving ever since.
Stop it. He just insulted you. You are not interested in that disgusting human.
“Oh yeah. That’s Captain Morrison’s stall,” Corbin says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He’s, like, insane. He's so organized. Everything has a place. It’s kind of terrifying, actually.”
“I can imagine,” I say, my voice steady. I can imagine a lot of things about Declan Morrison.
“And Beck’s is over there.” Corbin points to a stall that looks like a tornado hit a sporting goods store. Jerseys, tape, and what looks like a half-eaten burrito wrapper are strewn everywhere. The nameplate is even crooked. “He’s… less organized.”
“Shocking.”
Corbin leads me out of the locker room and down another hall. “Gym’s next! There are two in the building, but this is the main one and where most of the guys hang out."
He pushes through another set of double doors.
The gym is massive, filled with the clank of weights and the grunt of effort. Three players are in various states of undress, drenched in sweat.
One of them, a huge defenseman with a neck tattoo, looks up from the bench press as we enter. His eyes travel over me, head to toe, and a slow grin spreads across his face.
“Well, hello,” he says, letting the bar rest on the rack. “New face. Pretty face.”
Corbin immediately steps slightly in front of me. “Respect, Finn. She’s our new boss. Ms. Whitfield. Head of Marketing and PR.”
Finn’s grin doesn’t fade. If anything, it widens. “Even better.” He gives me another once-over. “Welcome to the jungle, boss.”
My skin crawls, but I keep my expression neutral. “Thank you. Carry on.”
As Corbin starts explaining the cardio equipment, Finn turns to the other player, a lanky guy on the lat pulldown. “Hey, Sawyer. Think the new boss does spot checks?”
Sawyer snorts as I catch him checking out my ass. “I’d let her check my form anytime.”
A snicker ripples through the room.
Corbin’s ears turn bright red. He glares at them. “Guys. Come on.”
They just laugh. One of them picks up a sweaty gym towel, balls it up, and when Corbin turns back to me, thwack—it hits him square in the back of the head.
Corbin whirls around, looking genuinely pissed. “Dude! Not cool!”
The players dissolve into louder laughter. I file the moment away: Corbin is protective. And the team culture is… frat house adjacent.
We escape the gym and Corbin, still fuming, leads me to The Vault. I'm busying telling him I've already seen this room, and could probably finish the tour now, but when we round the corner, I see the frosted glass doors are open now.
The inside is even more merchandising heaven than I glimpsed earlier, so I follow along.
A girl about my age with a messy blonde ponytail and a nose ring is behind the counter, meticulously arranging a stack of caps. She's very pretty, and she looks up as we enter, her blue eyes sweeping over me.
“New girl?” she asks, her voice dry.
“That’s me. Josie Whitfield.”
“Brooke Kessler. I run this circus.” She waves a hand around the merchandise shop. “So you’re the one they brought in to handle the boys.”
“Looks that way.”
Brooke’s smile widens. “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.” Her gaze flicks past me to Corbin, who is suddenly very interested in a display of keychains. “Hey, rookie. You buying another keychain you don’t need? That’ll be your eighteenth this week.”
She winks at me, and I watch as Corbin goes beet red. “I—no. I’m just… showing Ms. Whitfield around.”
“Mhmm.” Brooke’s eyes twinkle, like this is a little game they like to play together. The shy rookie and the pretty shopkeeper. Interesting. “Well, the tour continues past the register, so move along, rookie.”
The last stop is the media room.
It’s a depressing little box with faded blue carpet and a single sad-looking chair behind a laminate table. A whiteboard on the wall has FIX THIS TEAM scrawled in angry red marker.
Corbin winces when he sees me looking. “Yeah. This is where we do post-game press conferences. When we have to. Which isn’t often, because… you know.” He gestures to the emptiness. “But I’m sure you’ll, like, fix it. Or whatever.”
The tour ends back near the executive offices. My feet ache, but I think my soul aches a little more.
“Thanks, Corbin,” I say, and I mean it. He’s a sweet guy doing his best. “You were very thorough.”
He blushes again, stammering. “Anytime, Ms. Whitfield. Really. Anything you need. I’m your guy.”
He scurries away, and I’m left alone in the quiet hallway. I lean against the cool glass wall, staring down at the empty ice.
I have no idea how to do this job. This is huge. Harder than I expected.
And even worse, how do I turn an entire team around, when the man I’m supposed to make marketable just publicly humiliated me.
“Rough first day?”
I turn around, and Darcy Madden, the only other woman who was sitting in that room with me this morning, is leaning against the wall a few feet away. Her sharp black bob is perfectly styled, and she has a tablet tucked under one arm.
“You could say that,” I say.
She pushes off the wall and walks toward me. “Declan Morrison was a complete ass to you in that meeting.”
The bluntness is so refreshing it almost makes me laugh.
“Thank you! He was, wasn’t he?!”
“I'm glad I ran into you, actually. I wanted to make sure you didn't take it too personally," Darcy offers.
I think for a second. I mean, I have taken it personally.
But is the sting of being dismissed like that… is it because he was an asshole? Or is it because a few nights ago, he made me feel like more of a woman than I ever have before?
"I'm okay." I assure Darcy with a nod.
"Good. Because he’s a complete ass to everyone when he’s uncomfortable.” She stops in front of me, assessing me with those intelligent eyes. “Come on. I’m taking you to brunch.”
"Brunch?" A frown splits my face. “I should probably—”
“Unpack? Sulk in your office? Cry in the parking lot because this is turning out harder than you expected?” She raises an eyebrow and winks. “Come with me, eat something indulgent, and let me tell you how to survive this place.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She just turns and starts walking.
Of course, I follow.
Darcy’s car is a sleek black convertible that smells like she's drowned the seats in expensive perfume. She drives with one hand on the wheel, completely relaxed, while the other hand rests casually on the gearshift as we leave the parking lot.
“So,” she says, glancing at me, my hair blowing in the breeze. “First morning. How bad was it, on a scale of one to ‘I need to change my identity and move to Fiji’?”
I exhale, letting my head fall back against the headrest. “Well the captain just called me ‘woman.’ Like I was a category. Not a person.”
Darcy doesn’t flinch as she rounds a sharp turn and plants her foot on the gas. “Yeah. That tracks.”
“You’re not surprised?”
“I mean, he’s not usually that overtly irritable. I think Declan's a decent guy. They all are.” She pauses, and my brain fills in the blank: So… it's me? “But Declan Morrison is allergic to change. You walked in and threatened his entire comfort zone. Of course he lashed out.”