Chapter 3 #2
I open my folder and launch into my presentation. “Based on my review of your recent media coverage, I've identified several areas that need immediate attention. First, your nightlife activities have generated negative publicity that's threatening your current endorsement deals.”
I'm good at this. I can talk strategy and damage control in my sleep. But it's hard to concentrate when Liam is watching me with those dark eyes, his attention so focused it feels like a physical touch.
“The charity appearances I have planned will help rehabilitate your image,” I continue, consulting my notes.
“You left,” he interrupts.
I look up from my papers. “Excuse me?”
“That morning in Chicago. You left before I woke up.”
My hand goes still. “Mr. Novak, I think you have me confused with someone else.”
“Do I?” He leans back in his chair, never breaking eye contact. We both know the truth. “My mistake. Please, continue with your rehabilitation plans.”
The way he says 'rehabilitation' makes it sound dirty, like he's thinking about all the ways I came apart under his hands. Which he probably is, because that smirk is getting more pronounced by the minute.
I force myself to focus on my presentation. “Moving forward, I'm implementing strict guidelines for your public appearances. No more nightclubs, controlled social media presence, and pre-approved statements for all interviews.”
“Pre-approved statements?” His eyebrows rise. “You want to script what I say?”
“I want to ensure you don't say anything that damages your career or the team's reputation further.”
“And who decides what's damaging? You?”
“That's what I’m getting paid for.” I meet his stare. “My job is to manage your public image, which means managing your behavior.”
Something shifts in his expression. The playful smirk disappears, replaced by something harder. “No one manages my behavior.”
“Then you're going to keep ending up in tabloids for the wrong reasons.”
“Maybe I like being in the tabloids.”
I set down my pen and fold my hands on the table. “Mr. Novak, I understand this might be an adjustment, but—”
“You don't understand anything.” He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “You think you can waltz in here and dictate my life? Control what I do, where I go, who I see?”
“That's exactly what I was hired to do.”
“Not happening.” He starts pacing behind his chair like a caged animal. “I don't care what Jennifer told you, I don't care what's in your little folder. No one controls me.”
I stand as well, my hands pressed flat against the table. “This is exactly the kind of attitude that landed you in trouble in the first place.”
“My attitude?” He stops pacing and faces me fully. “Lady, you have no idea what my attitude can do.”
I swallow hard, taken aback by his anger. “Let’s keep it professional.”
“Professional,” he repeats, like it's a foreign concept. “Right. Because that's what we were in Chicago. Professional.”
Heat floods my cheeks, but I don't back down. “What happened in Chicago has nothing to do with this.”
He places his palms on the table and leans forward. I catch a hint of that citrus scent that haunted my dreams for weeks. “You sure seemed to enjoy my lack of professionalism.”
“Mr. Novak.”
“You were screaming my name, Avery. Begging me not to stop.” His voice drops to a rough whisper. “Tell me that was professional.”
“Stop.” The word comes out sharp. “Whatever you think happened, whatever you think you remember, is irrelevant. You're my client now, and I have a job to do.”
He straightens up. “So do I. And my job doesn't include following orders from some uptight publicist who thinks she can control me.”
The insult stings. “Uptight?” My voice comes out shrill. “I’m trying to save your career.”
“I don't need saving. Especially not from someone who runs away in the middle of the night.”
That does it. All my composure evaporates. “You want to talk about running away? Let's talk about your DUI last season. Let's talk about the social media feud that made you look like a petulant child.
“Let's talk about how you've been photographed with more women than a rock star, and how your endorsement deals are hanging by a thread because sponsors don't want to associate with someone who can't control himself.”
His face goes dark. “You don't know what you're talking about.”
“I know exactly what I'm talking about. It's my job to know.” I gather my papers with sharp, angry movements. “And if you want to keep playing hockey instead of washing out of the league in five years, you'll start listening.”
“No one will dictate my life,” he says, his voice deadly quiet.
“Then enjoy your short career.”
We stare at each other across the conference table, the air crackling with anger. His chest is rising and falling like he's been skating hard, and I realize my own breathing has quickened to match.
This is not how I planned this.
“I don’t need a PR agent,” he says finally, then he turns and walks out, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the walls.
I sink back into my chair and stare at my perfectly organized presentation materials scattered across the table.
Well. That went well.