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When I get to my new office, which is actually Gramps’ office and is absolutely covered with papers, trophies, and even some takeout cartons that give me no clue as to how long they’ve been here, I slump in his comfortable leather chair and let my head fall into my hands.
I can’t believe I walked in on two naked players. I have to work with these people. I have to make them believe in me, in the changes I want to make. I have to look them in the eye without remembering how their dicks wobble when they’re leaning over me.
I give myself one minute to internally scream, then I take a deep breath and stand up again, determined to get this room tidy so that I can actually think about how we can find the money to pay the IRS.
Because the sooner I do that, the sooner I’ll be back in New York, working in shiny lovely offices and not a hellhole like this.
And right now that’s the only thing that’s keeping me going.
* * *
ELI
“She’s kind of hot, that management woman,” Goran says as we walk across the blacktop to my car. We’ve just spent two hours teaching kids with disabilities how to play para hockey. The school contacted us through the foundation Wayne set up when he first created the Mavericks, and we’ve been coming every week for the last month.
It's been pretty cool watching the students go from barely being able to move their sleds to actually racing around the school gym on them, hitting balls into the goals. We’re trying to coordinate a time to change the wheels into blades so they can come to the stadium to play on the ice instead of in the gym.
I click my key fob to unlock my car. “I guess she is.”
“For an old chick,” he adds and I lift a brow at him. I don’t know how old Mackenzie is but she looked younger than me.
“Don’t call women chicks.”
“Okay, for an old woman.”
“Also, don’t call them old.” I climb into the driver’s seat.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not nice.” Goran’s picked this up from the rest of the team. Sometimes it feels like I’m raising these kids as well as trying to shape them into a team. The reality is they’ve lived, breathed, and slept hockey ever since they were kids. A lot of them haven’t had the time to mature into fully grown adults.
“How long do you think she’s here for?” Goran asks as I pull out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
“No idea.”
“She said she was single though, right?”
I blink. “Don’t even think about it,” I warn him.
From the corner of my eye I see him pouting. He has these full lips that make it look particularly effective. “Rule one of being a hockey player. Don’t shit on your own doorstep.”
“I haven’t heard that one before.” He grimaces. His English is exceptional for being his second language, but he occasionally gets blindsided by idioms.
“It means that you keep work separate from your personal life. You’re twenty years old. Go out to clubs, get on Tinder, whatever. Just don’t get involved with people you work with. It always ends poorly.” I lift a brow. “Believe me.”
“You sound like you’ve had some experience with that,” Goran says perceptively.
“Yeah, well I’ve been around.”
I take a left toward the sprawling apartment building where most of the team lives. Goran shares a three bed apartment with Carter and Max. I’ve been in there once. It’s a pigsty. It reminds me of growing up with my brothers.
And makes me glad I don’t have to share my place with anybody anymore. I like my own space. I like my house not smelling of sweat and three-day-old takeout.
I pull up outside the door and Goran grabs the handle.
“Thanks for coming today,” I tell him.
“Thanks for asking me. It was fun. We’ll do it again next week, yes?”
