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“Right now. We’ll start by cleaning up your apartment, and then you’re getting in the shower. You stink. The smell of strippers and alcohol is making me sick.”
I shake my head and laugh. “I have a feeling this will be a very interesting week for both of us.”
Charlotte winks as she breaks away from me, and she leaves the bedroom without another word, silently beckoning me to follow her.
Watching Charlotte dump thousands of dollars of liquor down the drain was painful, to say the least. All my partners in crime—Johnnie Walker, Macallan, Patrón, Hennessy, and Rémy—are now empty and at the bottom of a trash shoot. I’m surprised that I’ve allowed her to intervene, that I’m sharing this part of me with a complete stranger. But, when I’m around Charlotte, my guard lowers. She’s so comfortable in her skin and down-to-earth that I know I can tell her just about anything.
From what Mickey told me, Charlotte had a very rough life after her parents turned to drugs. Mickey paid her way through college, treated her as if she were his daughter, and then offered her a job alongside him. He was there for her when she needed someone most. I’m sure that’s why she wants to fix me.
There’s nothing for her to fix though. I drink because I’m miserable, and the hole inside my chest gets bigger every day. I drink because hockey isn’t the same without my father here to cheer for me in the stands. I drink because my life is shit without him. He coached me through every major event in my life. And, now, I have no one. No coach.
Charlotte isn’t weak, like
me, and I doubt she’d ever understand my need to close that hole even if it’s temporary.
After we cleaned my apartment, we showered—unfortunately, not together—and Charlotte accompanied me to meet, Mike Turner, the general manager of my new team. She doesn’t trust me. Hell, I don’t trust myself. She has every reason to doubt that I can make it more than a few hours without crashing.
The meeting went well, and Mike didn’t seem to pick up on the fact that I had been out drinking all night. I swore, I could smell the alcohol seeping through my pores. Even with a chill in the air, I was sweating the entire time I sat in Mike’s office.
Now that we’re back in Charlotte’s apartment, the air feels thicker, forcing me to loosen my tie and open the top buttons of my navy oxford. Charlotte insisted that I dress appropriately for the meeting, even scolded me when I walked out of my new bedroom in track pants and a Flyers hoodie. She said I needed to swap my old image for a new one and pretend that I actually gave a shit.
So, here I am in a stuffy outfit, pretending I give a shit, my palms clammy and the shirt I’m wearing sticking to my chest. It didn’t take long for the withdrawal to sink in. My hands began to shake before we even made it to the meeting. Now, I look like I have some kind of tic.
Charlotte removes a pitcher of water from the refrigerator and sets it on the island in the kitchen. She fills two glasses and slides one in my direction, motioning for me to take a seat at one of the four barstools.
“You look like you could use this. It’s important you stay hydrated. You’re starting to turn an odd shade of yellow, and you’re sweating through your clothes.”
As she leans over to retrieve a baking dish wrapped in aluminum foil from the refrigerator shelf, I get a perfect view of her ass, looking spectacular in a tight knee-length skirt.
She spins around and sets the food on the counter. “I thought I’d reheat us some leftover lasagna from last night. Any objections?”
I gulp down half of the water in front of me and shake my head. “No, that sounds perfect.” I don’t want her to know that the only thing I’m hungry for is her pussy and a fifth of whiskey, but I’d settle for anything, as long as it leveled me out.
She preheats the oven, and we wait, the two of us sipping our water, Charlotte leaning against the marbled bar and me sitting across from her. An awkward silence passes between us, and she begins to flip through her cell phone, trying to act as if this isn’t uncomfortable. After the timer dings on the oven, she sets her phone down on the counter, opens the door, and sets the lasagna pan on the bottom rack.
“I just got an email from Mike Turner,” she announces. “He was very pleased with you today. You need to continue to make a good impression on management and the rest of the team. But no more partying with Kane and Donovan, understand?”
I sink my elbows into the marble and cup my face in my hands. “Yes, warden.” She cracks a smile, and I continue, “Now that I’m your prisoner, can we at least role-play?”
Charlotte reaches for her water, focusing on the living room behind me as she drinks from the glass. “I don’t have time for games. Let’s not forget why you’re staying with me.”
I smirk. “I like games. We can play prisoner and executioner. You can tie me up, tease me if you like, but you’d better believe I’ll make you come.”
Her eyes widen, and she makes a choking sound before setting her glass down and backing up toward the oven. Tugging at the collar of her light-pink blouse, she looks at me, flushed. I expect indignation, but instead, I get confusion that turns into something else. Lust maybe? Of all the women I’ve known, Charlotte is by far the hardest to read.
She opens her mouth to speak and stops when the timer on the oven sounds. “Dinner is ready. Let’s eat.”
Even though we eat in silence, only stopping to make small talk about sports, I know I’ve gotten to her, whether she wants to admit it or not. But I’m afraid I’m trying to replace drinking with Charlotte, and this could never work between us, not without jeopardizing her career.
Alex
The clock on the nightstand reads two in the morning, but it feels like I just finished having dinner with Charlotte. Sleep is pointless. My hands won’t stop shaking, and the full-blown withdrawal started to set in once I crawled into bed, making me anxious and irritable. All I can think about is running to the liquor store. For the past hour, I’ve been Googling all the stores that are open and sell alcohol. I would settle for anything if that meant calming my nerves. Add the pulsing migraine that’s drilling a hole into my skull, burrowing its way into my eye sockets, and this is probably the worst night of my life.
Charlotte hid in her office after we ate leftover lasagna in almost silence, only speaking between bites to talk about the news on ESPN’s SportsCenter. She’s unlike any woman I’ve ever met. I’ve only known her for a few days, but there’s something about her that I find so calming. I can’t pinpoint what it is though.
Her entire face lights up in this adorable way when she talks about sports. I can see why she’s so successful in this business. She really knows her shit. If she can put herself out there for me, a complete stranger, then I can’t even imagine what she’d do for the rest of her clients.
That’s why I want to give her little experiment a shot. I owe her at least one week after putting her reputation on the line to get me a decent trade deal with Philly. Plus, this is pretty much my last shot unless I want to play hockey in Canada or Russia. My dad didn’t push me as hard as he did so that I could lose everything I’d ever worked for. The NHL and the Stanley Cup wasn’t just my dream; it was his, too.
