Page 2 of Unmanageable

“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.