Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
JULIETTE
Declan sort of apologizing at lunch was almost a win.
It happens so infrequently that I briefly contemplate calling our mother to brag about him—that’s how low the bar is in our family.
Men and their pride.
Still, it gives me hope that he came to the office early, before practice, to see me and attempt to work through our differences. An A for effort.
My email pings, snapping me back into reality.
A notification appears in the top right hand of my screen with the subject line:
HR Follow Up: Workplace Disclosure Policy
Right.
That.
I click it open and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Per company guidelines, any romantic relationship between employees must be disclosed to human resources to avoid conflicts of interest…
I stop reading after that, heart racing.
We’re to report any romantic relationship?
Including questionable ones, undefined arrangements?
It’s like the universe is sending us a message, except—I’m the one on the receiving end.
Are we serious enough to report?
Are we casual enough to go on ignoring it?
Are we anything?
The idea of sitting in the glass fishbowl of an office explaining my sex life to a woman named Scarlett, who burns lavender candles and has industrial hand sanitizer on her desk. gives me anxiety.
I tried bringing up our relationship status last night, but maybe I was a bit passive about it. We reached no conclusion because he had reached for me, instead. What if I march into HR with a disclosure form and he’s over there thinking we’re having fun?
I would actually die from humiliation.
I glance at my phone.
No new messages.
I open our text thread, thumbs hovering.
Don’t be needy, Juliette.
“What’s needy about texting a guy I’m dating?” I say to no one. “He brought me coffee in bed this morning.”
Juliette: What are you up to later?
Juliette: I would love to see you.
I hit send before I can overanalyze it.
Immediately, I set my phone face down on my desk, so I’m not tempted to compulsively check it, forcing my eyes back to my computer screen.
My brain refuses to process the spreadsheet in front of me. The numbers blur into meaningless columns while my entire nervous system waits for one small vibration.
As I’m about to flip my phone over—
“Boo.”
I shriek.
Like, actually shriek at my desk, several papers that were on the counter fluttering to the carpet. My phone flies out of my hand, hits the edge of my desk, and joins them.
“Oh my god!” I gasp, clutching my chest dramatically. “You scared me.”
Garrett Storm stands in the entrance of my cubicle, grinning smugly—as if he scored in overtime.
“That reaction was so satisfying,” he says, leaning against the frame.
I glare at him while scrambling to retrieve my phone and pick up the papers. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“In my defense…” He laughs. “I stood here watching you for at least ten seconds before I decided to scare you.”
My heart goes back to its normal rate, but I press a hand to my chest regardless.
“You’re a turd,” I tell him, and he grins, stepping closer into my space.
“It’s so adorable that you don’t swear.”
I gaze up at him. “I swear.”
Sometimes.
Okay, fine—rarely.
Garrett’s grin widens. “I have literally never heard you swear.”
“We’ve spent five minutes together.”
“No, you don’t swear because you’re wholesome.”
Wholesome?
Wholesome?!
I would clutch my pearls, but I’m not wearing them today. “I am not wholesome.”
His gaze drops—unhurried—down the front of my cardigan. The silk camisole beneath it. The thin gold chain with the J initial dangling from it. The barrette clipped neatly into my hair. Pressed trousers. Sensible loafers.
He lifts a brow. “Oh, yes you are. I bet if I checked your bag right now, I’d find highlighters and colored pencils. And a weekly planner that’s all… What do they call it? Annotated?”
I slide my tote subtly under my desk with my foot.
He notices and laughs.
“How do you know what annotating is?” I ask.
“My sister owns a bookstore,” he says. “She sells all that nerdy book stuff.”
Nerdy book stuff…
“Well, what’s in my bag doesn’t prove anything,” I argue.
We stare at each other for a beat before he chuckles, enjoying himself far too much.
“There’s nothing wrong with wholesome. It’s nice.”
Nice.
“I’m not—”
I close my mouth.
Really, it’s no use debating him; it’s clear he enjoys getting a rise out of me. It’s also clear he’s attempting to flirt and wants me to flirt back.
I don’t encourage him. Not because he’s not a great guy—he is. He’s funny and quick witted and seems like the kind of guy who surprises you with Starbucks. But I know Garrett has a bitty crush on me, and stringing him along feels cruel.
Two weeks ago, perhaps.
He shifts his weight, leaning against the partition, dangling one arm over the wall, wiggling his fingers.
“You’re like your brother—closed off. You don’t give much away,” he continues. “Half the guys around here can’t figure you out.”
Half the guys around here can’t figure me out?
The thought of “half the guys” analyzing me makes me uneasy.
“By half the guys…” I laugh. “Do you mean you?”
His hands go up in the air in bashful surrender. “Guilty.”
He beams at me.
It’s a beautiful, expensive smile: lots of straight, sparkling veneers.
“Um, Garrett. Can I help you with something, or were you popping in to say hello?”
“Popping in to say hello.” He reaches toward my desk and snatches up a squishy dumpling I keep on a shelf. “What are you up to?”
“Going through my emails.”
He squints at my screen. “Does that say ‘policy?’” His nose scrunches up. “That looks deeply un-fun.”
“Yes, it says ‘policy.’” I click my mouse like I’m very serious about this. “I’m reading the updated no fraternizing policy, actually. It came through this morning, so I figured I should, you know, read it.”
“Updated to give you the green light, I hope?” he teases.
“Updated to say: Do not pass go.”
“So that’s no bueno on dating a hockey player?” he presses, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I hate this for us.”
I find it impossible not to giggle at him.
He really is a shameless flirt.
“No offense, but aren’t you well passed breaking policies? Isn’t it too late for that?”
I bristle, cheeks already flushing. “How is that?”
“I mean, obviously you’re involved with Bishop—the locker room has turned into a dick swinging contest.”
I straighten in my chair, feigning calm. “I have no idea what that means.”
Except I do know what he means.
I know there’s tension between Declan and Aaron. I know they’ve almost fought several times. What I don’t know are the reasons why.
“Oh, come on.” He grins. Winks conspiratorially. “You know.”
“I can assure you, I don’t.”
“Wait,” he says, studying me more closely. “You seriously don’t know what’s going on between Bishop and your brother?”
“Garrett…” Spit it out!
I am losing patience.
He exhales through his nose, grin fading into something more uncertain. “I assumed Declan would’ve told you.”
“Told me what?”
He hesitates.
And that hesitation is all the confirmation I need: This is the moment.
He’s about to fill in the blanks.
I’m on pins and needles for whatever it is I’m about to discover: The reason behind the raised voices at practice, the heated interactions, the warnings from my brother.
Garrett rubs the back of his neck, gaze sliding away for half a second like he’s calculating whether mentioning this to me is a mistake.
I school my expression.
Check for drool at the side of my mouth, salivating for information.
This is going to be so, so good…
“Shit. Listen.” He lowers his voice. “I hate being the one to spread gossip, but I assumed you already knew—you didn’t hear this from me, okay? It hasn’t been great since Declan slept with Aaron’s girlfriend. Everyone’s been walking on eggshells.”
The words hit like a slap.
Declan…
Slept…
Aaron’s girlfriend…
“I’m sorry—what did you just say?”
“Declan slept with Aaron’s girlfriend,” Garrett clarifies. “His ex. Before you. Obviously, before you.”
Before me.
“Wait.” I hold a hand up. “Declan slept with Aaron’s girlfriend? While they were dating?”
He hesitates again. “Yeah, that’s usually how cheating works.”
The world tilts.
“Dude, neither of them have said anything, but my guess is Bishop caught them,” Garrett adds quietly. “Like, I bet he walked into Kennedy’s apartment and found them fuc—having sex.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
“W-when was this?”
My brother.
Aaron’s girlfriend.
“No idea when this was, but it’s been so fucking awkward—all they do is rage around the ice,” Garrett continues, mistaking my silence for confusion instead of horror. “They’ve been at each other’s throats, and it’s gotten worse since you started seeing Bishop.”
My mouth gapes open in dismay.
I have no words.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” I don’t know if I mean Declan or Aaron.
Garrett shrugs helplessly. “Probably because you’re the last person anyone would want to drag into it.”
Too late.
I’m in it.
So deep in it that I’ve been mentally confessing all my sins to HR, drafting my letter, so I can stop looking over my shoulder, waiting to be fired.
“Can I ask you something? And I want you to be honest.” I lick my lips, brain malfunctioning. “I saw you break up an argument at the last game before it started. What were they saying?”
He exhales slowly. “It’s probably not something you want to hear.”
I disagree. “You’ve told me this much, you might as well tell all of it.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “God, like—take this with a grain of salt, yeah? Guys say stupid shit when they’re pissed.”
I am well aware.
“Would you spit it out?” I can’t handle the suspense.
“Declan may have implied that…” His sentence trails off. Garrett is visibly uncomfortable. “Bishop is using you.”
“Using me?” I repeat.
“To get back at him,” he explains. “Your brother doesn’t believe it’s a coincidence you two started ‘seeing’ each other.” He uses air quotes around the word seeing. “He used the word ‘revenge’.”
Revenge.
The office noise fades into the background, and I don’t hear any of it. Not the sound of heels against the marble floors, or the televisions playing highlights from the last game, or the phones ringing.
“Why would a man date someone to get back at someone else? That makes no sense.”
Garrett shrugs his wide shoulders. “Dunno.”
“That’s not…” My voice trails off because, suddenly, I don’t know how to finish that sentence. “That can’t be…”
True.
Can’t be possible.
Except, my brother truly hasn’t been behaving like his usual self. He’s been short-tempered. Snippy. Reactive.
“Hey.” Garrett is studying my face carefully. “You okay?”
No.
I am not okay.
“Do you believe it?” I ask, not recognizing the sound of my own voice. “Do you think Aaron’s sleeping with me to get back at my brother?”
Garrett opens his mouth.
Snaps it closed.
Opens it again.
Already off on the wrong start.
“I mean—guys say stupid shit when they’re pissed,” he says quickly. “You know this. Who has the bigger balls, locker-room stuff. Heat of the moment.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He winces. “Right. Sorry.”
His apology makes it worse.
“Do you believe Aaron is using me?” I reiterate my question.
“No,” he says immediately.
Relief flares inside me, but then—
He keeps talking.
“I think… timing-wise? Looks kind of bad?”
Kind of bad is an understatement.
“Hear me out.” He gestures vaguely around my cubicle, digging himself a deeper hole. “If your girlfriend cheats on you with your teammate, you’re not thinking rationally—you’re fucking pissed. You might be tempted to get the upper hand, know what I mean?”
“The upper hand.” I pause. “On my brother.”
Garrett leans on a file cabinet and shifts his weight. “I don’t think he’s with you just to get back at your brother.”
Just.
That single word lands wrong.
It implies that he is, but there is a but.
“But?” I whisper.
“But, it’s possible he actually thinks you’re cool. But anger pushed him to do things he wouldn’t normally do,” Garrett admits. “You’re Declan’s sister. Dating you might feel like a direct hit.”
A direct hit.
My pulse roars in my ears.
“A direct hit?” I sound like a moron, constantly repeating myself, constantly needing clarification. Brain cannot compute.
“I don’t mean it like that.” He’s talking too fast now. “I mean—Declan implied it was deliberate. And then, you know…”
He makes an explosion gesture with his hands.
Boom.
Bad to worse.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” He rushes to apologize, stepping back when my face falls. “You need to talk to him. Not me. I’m clearly not helping.”
No.
He’s not helping.
Still, the damage has been done.
My phone vibrates on the desk, and I don’t know if I’m brave enough to look at it.
Aaron?
For the first time since he and I started talking, I’m not excited to see his name.
I’m terrified.
“Are you going to be alright?” Garrett says. “I should probably, you know… get going. Practice starts soon.”
Right.
Practice.
How lovely to go about one’s day with your life intact.
I swallow, forcing a nod. “Yeah. I’ll be good.”
Lie.
Lie, lie, lie.
Garrett lingers a few seconds longer, like he wants to say more. Like he might apologize for detonating a bomb in the middle of my cubicle.
He doesn’t.
He stuffs his hands in the pocket of his athletic pants, reticently backing out of my cubicle. “Don’t let this bother you, ’kay?”
Too late, Garrett! I’m bothered.
I am so far beyond bothered I feel physically ill.
My stomach churns, acid creeping up the back of my throat. My ears ring. The fluorescent lights suddenly feel too bright, like they’re buzzing directly against my skull.
Don’t let it bother me?
He casually suggested to me that the man I’m—What? Falling in love with? Sleeping with? Risking my job for?—might be using me to get back at my brother.
But sure!
No big deal!
I cannot sit at this desk, pretending to care about policy language from corporate, while players in the locker room are gossiping about my relationship with details I don’t have.
I want to throw up.
I want to cry.
I need to leave.
I grab my phone first, fingers clumsy around it. Then my purse. My laptop bag. The zipper snags, and I nearly lose it right there, jaw clenching as I tug it free.
“Hey,” Garrett says, alarm creeping into his voice now. “Jules—”
I shrug past him.
Literally shoulder him aside, checking him on my way out, mind already trying to solve the riddle before the pieces have finished falling, words ricocheting around my skull like loose pucks, slamming into the boards, rebounding, coming at me from every angle.
Dick swinging contest… Revenge… Get back at your brother… Direct hit.
Aaron would never. Would he?
I pursued him.
Didn’t I?
If Aaron is using me—
If this has been some sick, twisted revenge plot—
I don’t know which would hurt more: losing him…
Or realizing I never had him at all.