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I wave the comment away and pull a bunch of forms, checking to make sure there are extra copies before I close the filing cabinet. If I’d known about this in advance, I would have had the tablet already set up for him. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.” I’m not entirely sure that’s true. It depends a lot on whether Corey can keep his trap shut. It’s not something he’s been notoriously good at over the years.
He’s an absolute pain in the ass on the ice, always pushing the opposition’s buttons and generally being a douchebag. He was the same off the ice, and I’m not sure much has changed. But he’s one of the best players in the league, so he gets away with a lot of shit.
I don’t even want to know how much money they must have offered to get him to come to Seattle. I also don’t want to think about how this will change the team dynamic. I can’t see Bishop liking this guy or keeping his mouth shut if he happens to pull out his douche card, which is highly likely.
“You’re sure you’re okay to show him around?”
“Of course. It’s my job.” I flash what I hope is a seminormal smile.
“That’s not what I mean. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“It was six years ago, Dad. Besides, doesn’t he have a pregnant fiancée or something?” I accidentally stumbled on an article a month ago on some hockey site or other. There was a picture of him and some woman in a supertight dress showing off her baby belly and her giant rock.
“He does, yes.”
“So he’s moved on, and so have I.” I shuffle all the papers into a file folder and print Corey’s name across the top, internally cringing as I remember how I used to make the O into a heart. But then, at eighteen one does cheesy things like that. “We shouldn’t keep the superstar waiting longer than necessary.” I close the folder and tuck it under my arm, then think better of it, since I’m sweaty.
My dad seems reluctant to let me leave the office. “We’ll talk more about this on the way home.”
“Sure. Sounds good.” It actually sounds the exact opposite of good, but I’m not going to tell him that.
Corey’s lounging in one of the waiting room chairs, long legs stretched out and crossed over each other, phone in his hand, smarmy smirk firmly in place. I’m sure he’s going through one of his social media accounts, looking at all the comments from the women who want to hump him and the would-be hockey stars who want to be him.
“All set, Corey. Would you prefer paperwork first or a tour of the facilities?” My face feels stiff with how fake my smile is.
He clicks away on his phone for an inappropriately long time while my dad and I stand there, waiting for him to acknowledge us and respond. Finally he shuts down his phone and slips it in his pocket. “I’ll take the private tour first.” While the words themselves aren’t inappropriate, his tone is slick and slimy.
I’m pretty sure I hear my dad’s teeth grind together beside me. Or maybe they’re mine.
“Great. We’ll be back in a bit.” I do an about-face and head for the hallway, not checking to see if he’s following. “I’ll show you the gym first, and then you can tour the locker room and the rink.”
After several long seconds of silence, I finally give in and glance over my shoulder. Corey’s phone is back out and he’s thumb typing away, shambling along like he has all the time in the world and I’m absolutely irrelevant.
Which I suppose I sort of am and honestly probably always have been. You’re just a warm hole to fill, like the rest of them. Those were the words he once used, while drunk, after I caught him cheating on me. In the bed we shared. With some puck bunny he’d met by the keg in the living room of the frat house we were shacking up in.
Obviously my taste in men wasn’t great at eighteen. And truthfully, until Kingston my poor taste was an unfortunate trend that extended throughout college. It’s sad, really, considering I have such a great father, and logistically I should have been able to make better choices when it came to men and dating. I’ll blame low self-esteem and insecurity for all the less-than-stellar boyfriends. And possibly flat keg beer.
I don’t bother to slow down or look over my shoulder again to see how far behind he’s fallen until I reach the gym. Unfortunately, it’s empty, since the team has long since finished its preskate workout.
“I remember when you used to come by the college gym to see if I was working out.” He’s right behind me. So close that I can feel his breath on my temple.
