Chapter Six — Rhett
Chapter Six
Rhett
There were easier ways to get Coach Mercer’s attention than volunteering the team’s most unreliable winger for a university publicity campaign.
I knew because I had tried most of them.
Miss a meeting.
Take a bad penalty.
Break a blender.
Apparently none of those compared to appearing on the athletics department’s social media holding hands with Tessa Monroe.
Coach dropped his phone onto the table in front of me.
The photo filled the screen.
Tessa and me in front of the Lakeview banner.
Her body angled toward mine.
My hand around hers.
Both of us looking like we had forgotten there was a camera.
I had seen the picture twelve times already.
Possibly more.
Not because I liked it.
Because the team kept sending it to me.
With captions.
And wedding dates.
And one deeply unsettling edit that put our faces on a holiday card beneath the words:
CALLAHAN FINALLY COMMITTED TO SOMETHING
Coach folded his arms.
“Explain.”
“We were helping the university.”
“You were holding hands.”
“Community engagement.”
“You agreed to another event.”
“More community engagement.”
“You volunteered Ms. Monroe without asking.”
I shifted in the chair.
“That part was less ideal.”
Coach stared at me.
I resisted the urge to smile.
Mostly because I had learned that smiling during disciplinary meetings extended them by an average of fourteen minutes.
“You told her you were sorry?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You mean actually sorry?”
“I am capable of sincerity.”
“That was not my question.”
“Yes.”
Coach leaned back against his desk.
His office overlooked the rink. Through the glass, equipment staff moved nets while the ice resurfacer circled beneath the arena lights.
“You know why the university likes this.”
“Because we’re adorable?”
Coach’s expression flattened.
“Because the program needs good publicity.”
I stopped joking.
Lakeview hockey had spent most of the semester recovering from last year’s mess.
A recruiting investigation.
A former assistant coach who had treated rules like polite suggestions.
Three players transferred.
Two donors pulled funding.
Coach Mercer had inherited a program people expected him to repair quietly while winning loudly.
The charity skate mattered.
Not just because the university communications team wanted smiling children and clean press.
Because the team needed the campus to believe in us again.
“I know,” I said.
Coach studied me.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“And Ms. Monroe knows what she’s walking into?”
“She knows it’s a charity event.”
“That is not what I asked.”
I looked at the phone again.
At Tessa’s face.
She looked open in the picture.
Not relaxed exactly.
But close.
The problem was, I did not know whether she had understood what that photo would become.
By noon, it had been shared by the university, the athletics department, the student union, and an alumni account with eighty thousand followers.
The caption called us:
Lakeview’s favorite new team.
Tessa was going to hate that.
“I’ll talk to her,” I said.
Coach picked up the phone.
“Do that before communications turns this into something neither of you agreed to.”
“I thought you told me not to distract her.”
“I told you not to flirt with her.”
“I can talk without flirting.”
Coach raised one eyebrow.
“I can try.”
“That,” he said, “is what concerns me.”
I stood.
He pointed toward the door.
“And Callahan?”
I paused.
“Do not make her carry the consequences of your reputation.”
The joke disappeared before I could use it.
“I won’t.”
Coach’s expression softened.
Barely.
“Good.”
I left his office and immediately found Cam, Eli, and Noah waiting in the hallway.
Cam held up his phone.
“Look who survived couples counseling.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Eli leaned against the wall.
“Coach mad?”
“Coach is always mad.”
“He looked thoughtful,” Noah said.
“That’s worse.”
Cam turned his phone toward me.
The university post was open.
There were more than two thousand likes.
The top comment read:
She looks like she could fix him.
The second:
He looks like he wants her to try.
I took the phone from him.
“People need hobbies.”
“You’re their hobby,” Cam said.
Noah nodded. “Historically.”
I scrolled.
Most of the comments were harmless.
Some were not.
Women tagging each other beneath jokes about my dating history.
Someone asking whether Tessa knew I had a type.
Someone else replying that my type was available.
I stopped scrolling.
“Where is she?”
Cam’s grin faded slightly.
“Student activities office, I think.”
“You going to see your girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Temporary rumor-management partner?” Eli offered.
I handed Cam his phone.
“I’m going to prevent a communications problem.”
“That sounds romantic,” Noah said.
I walked away.
Behind me, Cam called, “Ask whether she’s taking your last name!”
I lifted one hand without turning.
He laughed.
The student activities office was on the third floor of Monroe Hall, a building that had nothing to do with Tessa’s last name and everything to do with confusing freshmen.
I found her in the hallway outside the office.
She sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by cardboard boxes, poster tubes, and three open binders.
A pencil was tucked behind one ear.
Her hair was pulled into a loose knot.
She wore jeans, a gray Lakeview sweatshirt, and the expression of someone who had spent too long solving other people’s problems.
I stopped before she noticed me.
It was not that I had never seen a beautiful woman before.
That would have been embarrassing.
It was that Tessa never seemed aware of being watched.
She did not arrange herself for attention.
Did not check who had entered a room.
Did not become brighter or softer because someone might be looking.
She simply existed.
Entirely.
And somehow that made looking feel more dangerous.
Her head lifted.
She saw me.
The danger increased.
“No.”
I glanced behind me.
“There’s no one else here.”
“The answer is still no.”
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“You’re carrying that face.”
I leaned against the wall.
“What face?”
“The one you use when you know you’ve created a problem and are hoping charm will qualify as a repair strategy.”
“That is an impressively specific face.”
“I’ve had practice.”
I crossed the hallway and crouched beside the boxes.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re sitting on the floor.”
“The floor is stable.”
“That sounds like an accusation.”
“It is.”
I looked at the binders.
One was labeled:
CHARITY SKATE — VOLUNTEER ASSIGNMENTS
Another:
MEDIA APPROVALS
The third had no label.
That one worried me most.
“You saw the post,” I said.
“I saw fourteen versions of the post.”
“Coach wants me to make sure you understand what the university is doing.”
Her pencil stopped moving.
“What exactly does the university think it’s doing?”
“Using the photo.”
“I gathered that.”
“And possibly us.”
She looked at me.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It sounded less ominous in Coach’s office.”
“Nothing has ever sounded less ominous in Coach Mercer’s office.”
“Fair.”
I sat beside her.
She looked at the floor.
Then at me.
“You’re sitting.”
“I noticed.”
“You’re wearing expensive jeans.”
“They’re durable.”
“You’re on dusty tile.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
She shifted one binder away from my knee.
A small thing.
Still considerate.
“The athletics department wants us at the charity skate together,” I said.
“We already agreed to that.”
“They may want more.”
“How much more?”
“Photos. Interviews. Possibly a short video.”
Her expression changed.
Not panic.
Tessa did not panic.
She calculated.
Fast.
“What kind of video?”
“No idea.”
“That is not helpful.”
“I came here before they could ask.”
“So you don’t know anything.”
“I know you should get a choice.”
That stopped her.
The hallway hummed quietly around us.
A vending machine at the far end clicked.
Somebody laughed behind a closed office door.
Tessa set down her pencil.
“Coach said that?”
“Not exactly.”
“What did he say?”
I looked at the boxes.
“Not to make you carry the consequences of my reputation.”
Her face softened.
Then she caught it.
“I can handle comments.”
“I know.”
“I can handle the university.”
“I know.”
“I can handle you.”
I looked at her.
“That sounded optimistic.”
Her mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
Then she looked away.
“What do you want me to say?”
“That we set terms.”
“We already have rules.”
“We have your rules.”
“They’re good rules.”
“They’re hostile rules.”
“They’re preventative.”
“Same thing with better branding.”
She reached for the pencil.
I took it first.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Give that back.”
“Not until we negotiate.”
“You stole my pencil.”
“I borrowed leverage.”
“That is not what leverage means.”
“I’m an athlete, not an economist.”
“I’m an economics major.”
“Then teach me.”
The words came out too easily.
Too quietly.
Her gaze held mine.
Something changed in the space between us.
Again.
That kept happening.
I handed the pencil back.
Slowly.
Our fingers brushed.
Neither of us mentioned it.
“Fine,” she said. “What terms?”
I shifted so my back rested against the wall.
“Nothing gets posted without us seeing it.”
“Agreed.”
“No interviews about our personal lives.”
“Obviously.”
“No questions about who I have or haven’t dated.”
Her eyes flicked to mine.
“Can you prevent that?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I can refuse to answer.”
That earned me a longer look.
“Would you?”
“For you?”
The words slipped out.
Her eyebrows lifted.
I corrected.
“For the event.”
“Right.”
“Obviously.”
“Very obvious.”
I kept going before I made it worse.
“No kissing for cameras.”
She stared.
“I was not concerned about that.”
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Those can coexist.”
“No kissing.”
“Agreed.”
“No fake declarations.”
“Define declaration.”
“Anything involving forever, fate, soulmates, or destiny.”
“I wasn’t planning a speech.”
“You improvise.”
“Only when inspired.”
“Do not get inspired.”
“Strict.”