Unmanageable (Unlovable #2)

1. Scottie Elise Reed

Scottie Elise Reed

“Finnian O’Connell, if you click that laser pointer one more time, I will jam it into your carotid artery.”

Cash doesn’t even flinch. He just clicks the button again, and a tiny, mocking red dot dances across a clip-art image of a muscular man lifting a barbell.

“It’s called a ‘Call to Action,’ Scottie. Basic marketing,” Cash says, his voice dropping into that low rumble that usually works on referees, star-struck rookies, and the occasional puck-bunny.

It doesn’t work on me.

I’ve been his agent for six months, and in that time, I’ve realized two things: one, he’s the most talented goalie the Boston Reign has seen in a decade, and two, he is an absolute menace to my blood pressure.

“It’s a PowerPoint presentation in your living room at ten o’clock on a Tuesday,” I deadpan, crossing my arms. “Actually, why the fuck am I even here? I have a perfectly good home with a wine fridge that doesn’t involve being held hostage by Microsoft Office.”

“You’re here because you love the grind, Sharky. And because I have the good pretzels.” He gestures vaguely toward a bowl on the coffee table.

“I’m here because I’m an idiot,” I correct, rubbing my temples.

“Professional diagnosis?” he asks, leaning back.

I roll my eyes but play along. “Chronic poor decision-making.”

“Symptoms?”

“Accepting meetings after business hours. Representing emotionally exhausting goaltenders who think they’re the next great world travelers.”

He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, his mouth curving into that signature, lopsided smirk. “Wow. I feel seen. And hurt.”

“I’m not done.”

“There’s more?”

“Unfortunately.”

I’ve spent years building a reputation for being untouchable.

Long before the click of my own heels became a warning sign in the Reign’s front office, people were already whispering about ‘The Shark.’ I’m the one who takes the players with the “attitude problems” and turns them into legends.

I don’t coddle, I don’t negotiate, and I certainly don’t do road trips.

But Finnian? He’s the only person I know who seems to have missed the memo that he’s supposed to be intimidated by me.

Cash turns off the projector, plunging the room into a soft, amber glow from the floor lamps. He stands, and the sudden shift in space is jarring.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and looks far too put-together for a man who just spent an hour explaining a cross-country training itinerary with the manic energy of a toddler on an espresso bender.

My brain does a quick, unauthorized detour. I find myself wondering what combination of genetics, luck, and divine favoritism resulted in that jawline. And then, more dangerously, I wonder how quickly I could trace it with my tongue.

Stop it.

He looks like a dream.

He acts like a migraine.

Which is unfair. Attractive people should come with one fatal, glaring flaw. Bad breath. Chronic lateness. An inability to assemble IKEA furniture.

Finnian O’Connell’s flaw was, apparently, making me want to throttle him and kiss him in equal measure.

“The road trip isn’t a vacation, Scottie,” he says, stepping toward me. “I was seventeenth in the league for save percentage last season. Seventeenth. That’s not Reign caliber. That’s not my caliber.”

“You were playing through a shoulder strain for months because you’re a stubborn idiot who refuses to sit on the bench,” I remind him. “Your stats are fine. Your contract is rock solid. My job is to make sure you don’t burn out before you hit thirty-five.”

“And my job is to stop the puck. I’m not stopping enough of them.”

He sits on the coffee table right in front of me, his knees nearly brushing mine. He leans in, his eyes searching mine. There’s a shadow behind them that has nothing to do with hockey—a flicker of raw drive mixed with a desperate need to just get out of Boston, to reset.

I feel my resolve crumbling, and I almost groan out loud.

“And you want me to go with you?” I ask, my voice softer than I intended. “As what? Your driver? Your nutritionist? I don’t cook, Finn. I order takeout and I negotiate multi-million dollar contracts. That is the extent of my skill set.”

“As my agent,” he says firmly. “I need you to handle the logistics. I’ve already reached out to a few different independent goalie coaches across the Midwest—guys who see the game differently than the staff here in Boston. And…”

He pauses, a rare flash of hesitation crossing his face. “I need my friend. Someone who isn’t going to blow smoke up my ass when I’m having a bad day.”

“I have a life, Finnian. I have other clients. I have a wedding to help Ivy plan.”

“The wedding is in two weeks. We leave the day after the post-brunch. Your other clients are all in their off-season. You can do everything from your laptop. You do it anyway.”

I want to say no. I should say no.

This is the definition of a conflict of interest wrapped in a bad idea.

“I’ll think about it.”

He grins, and it’s a blinding, dangerous thing. “You’ll love it. I’ve already looked at vans.”

“Vans? Like… a minivan?”

“Like a vintage van. We’ll call it the Goalie-Mobile.”

“Cash, normal people rent a car and book hotels,” I say, crossing my arms again, though the defense feels weak.

“Rental cars don’t build character.”

“Neither does food poisoning from gas station sushi.”

“We’re not eating gas station sushi,” he promises, tilting his head. “I’m taking you to the best diners in the country.”

I groan, burying my face in my hands. “I hate you so much. I’m leaving. I have a date with a seating chart.”

“Tell Ivy I said I’m not wearing a peach tie,” Cash calls out as I grab my jacket and head for the door. “I look like a giant piece of fruit in pastels.”

“You’d look fine.”

He pauses. “Was that a compliment?”

“No.”

“It sounded like one.”

“Then clearly you need your hearing checked.”

***

The cool Boston air is a relief against my heated face as I drive toward Talvi Ice. I keep the windows down, letting the breeze whip through the car, but it does nothing to cool the internal fever O’Connell just sparked in his living room.

It’s been six months since I officially stepped in as his agent.

Before that, we were just friends of friends. My best friend Ivy is marrying his best friend Callahan, so we were friendly enough.

Okay, maybe we were a bit flirty.

But at least we weren’t crossing any professional lines.

Now? I’m the woman who knows he takes his coffee black with three sugars—which is a hate crime against coffee beans—and that he unironically listens to 90s country when he thinks the locker room is empty.

When I pull up to Talvi Ice, the lobby lights are dimmed, casting long, dramatic shadows over the empty rink. I park and walk inside the rink.

At the center of the storm stands Iveline Talvi St. James.

Bride. Heiress. My best friend.

People forget that Ivy used to be terrifying—clinically precise, emotionally distant, a girl carved out of ice and uncured daddy issues. Then Callahan and the Boston Reign adopted her like a stray cat, and she… thawed.

She’s warm now. She bakes things that involve sprinkles and genuine joy.

She’s essentially a golden retriever with a high-functioning anxiety disorder, and I would fight God to keep her this happy.

Though, looking at her right now, “happy” is a stretch. She’s staring at a massive foam board covered in a mosaic of sticky notes and arrows like she’s trying to solve a cold case.

“Scottie, thank God,” Ivy gasps. “The florist is trying to kill me. Or bankrupt me. Tell me, is it possible to be murdered by baby’s breath?”

“Only if they stuff it down your throat,” I say, slamming my leather binder onto the table with a satisfying thud.

“Step away from the board, Ivy. You’re hovering.

Hovering leads to second-guessing, and second-guessing leads to us serving Taco Bell at the reception because you’ve had a total breakdown. ”

“At least people like Taco Bell,” she whispers and then shakes her head. “I should have eloped. I had a plan. A 7-Eleven. I’d already picked out a Slurpee flavor. Blue raspberry. Very chic. Why did Cal talk me into a cathedral?”

“Because he wants to show you off,” I say, squeezing her forearm. “And because you are going to walk down that aisle looking like a literal goddess, and you’re going to say ‘I do’ without tripping, because I will personally sand down any uneven floorboards in the building.”

“Before you say anything,” a cheerful voice cuts through the tension, “this is a mimosa, and therefore socially acceptable. It’s practically orange juice. Vitamin C is a lifestyle choice, Scottie.”

Jenna Martin is perched on a folding chair, looking like she’s ready for a Vogue spread instead of a late-night logistics crisis.

“Nothing about you is socially acceptable,” I say, though I can’t suppress the smirk.

Jenna beams, taking it as a compliment. “So, how is our favorite goalie? Did he agree to the sensible training camp in New York, or is he still acting like a nomad?”

I sigh. “He gave me a PowerPoint, Jenna. With transitions. And clip-art. He wants to go on a road trip across the country in a van and train with random goalie coaches.”

Ivy perks up, her eyes clearing for the first time all night. “A van? Like… together? Just the two of you in a metal box?”

“It’s professional,” I say, the words feeling like a lie the second they leave my tongue. “He’s at a crossroads. He needs the support.”

“Uh-huh,” Jenna says, swirling the pulp in her glass. “And does this ‘support’ involve you sharing a bed with a man who looks like he was carved out of granite and pheromones?”

“He’s my client,” I snap. “And he’s annoying. He’s a giant, athletic child.”

“He’s a child who looks very good in a tuxedo,” Jenna adds. “I saw the fitting photos Callahan sent. Cash has that ‘I might ruin your life, but you’ll thank me for the experience’ energy.”

“Do you ever hear yourself?” I ask.

“Constantly. I’m delightful.”

I groan, turning my attention to the board. My fingers start itching to organize the chaos. “Why is Aunt Lorraine anywhere near Uncle Evan? I thought I moved them.”

“Ivy said they only tried to kill each other once,” Jenna says with a wink. “And I say time heals all wounds. Or at least scabs them over enough to survive a three-course meal.”

“Once is enough. Attempted homicide is not a hobby, Jenna. You don’t collect them like stamps.

” I slide two sticky notes across the board.

“There. Aunt Lorraine goes next to the florist. They can talk about peonies. Uncle Evan goes next to the DJ. If he starts a scene, he’ll be drowned out by bass drops. ”

Ivy exhales, her shoulders dropping from around her ears. “Scottie, I love you. I actually think I’m going to make it to the cake without a sedative.”

She’s smiling, but I clock the slight wobble in her expression—the mix of sheer terror and the kind of excitement that makes you forget to breathe.

“You’re going to be the most beautiful bride Boston has ever seen,” I say. “And if anyone messes it up, I have a binder heavy enough to cause blunt force trauma.”

“I believe you,” Ivy laughs.

“Speaking of trauma,” Jenna interjects again, “are you and Cash-the-human-wall going to behave at the reception? Or am I going to have to bail you out of jail for assault?”

“I make no promises,” I mutter. “He’s still convinced he’s the next great American explorer.”

Ivy and Jenna exchange a knowing look that I decide to ignore.

“You know you’re going to agree anyway,” Ivy says, leaning against the table. “You live for this kind of stuff. You love a challenge.”

“Yeah, but not with him,” I groan. “I would have loved to climb that tree a few years ago, but now that he’s my client, it’s off-limits. I don’t bang my clients. It’s rule number one.”

Jenna shrugs, looking entirely unbothered. “Well, I’m the PR Director. I, for one, think I could help you both conceal the banging. It’s basically my job description.”

“Jenna!”

“Whaaat? If I can’t get some action this off-season, someone in this circle may as well.”

“Anyway,” I say, regaining control. “Tomorrow, 8 AM. We meet here for the final seating touches, then the tasting. I want everyone sharp. No mimosas until the linens are chosen.”

“Killjoy,” Jenna chirps.

“Professional,” I correct her.

As I walk back to my car, the quiet of the night settles over me, but the peace is short-lived. My phone buzzes against my palm.

10:21 PM

Cash: found a van. it’s orange. like, “safety cone” orange. you’re gonna love it

Me: Please tell me it’s a rental.

Cash: it has cup holders

Me: That wasn’t my question.

Cash: heated seats

Me: FINN.

Cash: i’m sensing negativity

I stare at the screen, a laugh bubbling up in my throat despite my best efforts to keep it contained. I type back: If you buy an orange van, I’m firing myself.

Cash: you couldn’t quit me if you tried, Sharky.

I lock the screen, leaning my head against the steering wheel.

For the record, I’m not worried about spending two months with Cash.

Okay, no.

I’m lying.

I’m very, very worried.

But, maybe the van won’t actually be orange. Maybe pigs will fly. Maybe Cash will stop flirting with me.

Right?