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"I know what it means," I say, rolling my eyes. "Why have I been blackballed?"
"You assaulted your publicist."
"I punched him in the face, which he deserved."
"You do realize thatI punched him in the faceis another way of sayingI assaulted him, right?" she asks, cocking her head to the side and looking at me like she's not sure if I know that or not. Which I do. But still. Assault sounds so…premeditated.
"He deserved it," I mutter.
"I know," she says, shooting me an apologetic look. "But no one else wants to take you on, Gray. He was your third publicist in the last year. You threatened to shove your foot up the first one's butt, and the second quit because you kept growling at him. And don't even get me started on the other half dozen you've had since I started."
"I'm not that bad," I mutter. Okay, so maybe I am that bad. But Jesus. They all want to make me into someone I'm not, as if simply being me is a preposterous notion. I'm good enough at what I do to start in the first line, and that's all they need to worry about. I don't need them trying to set me up on dates or turn me into some suave playboy or any of the bullshit they want to do.
Kelsey snorts. "They're all worried you're a crazy pants. So I had to look outside of conventional circles to find someone willing to represent you. Camila is good at her job, and she willalways have your best interests at heart. I just need you to give her a chance. Plus, she lives here in Nashville, so she'll be close."
"It sounds like you're auditioning her as my date," I complain.
"Yeah, right," Kelsey says, laughing as if the mere thought is outlandish. And…ouch. I may not date, but I'm notundatable. Women tell me all the time that my looks are lost on me. I'm not entirely sure what they mean by that, but I assume they mean I'm not terrible looking.
I'm six-three and two-hundred and thirty pounds with unruly black hair and gray eyes, which is why my Ma named me Gray. On the ice, I wear contacts. Off it, I prefer my glasses. I'm not vain, but I'm a decent looking dude. I can also be a gentleman. And unlike a lot of athletes, I don't give a shit about making millions or being the big man on campus or chasing pussy. I play this game because I love it.
I also love Marvel comics and Star Wars and shitty sci-fi flicks and science in general. Unlike a lot of guys on the team, I didn't join the draft right out of high school. I spent four years in college first, studying chemical engineering. Hockey careers don't last forever. When mine ends, I have no interest in swimming through my millions like Scrooge McDuck. I'd be bored out of my mind. I want to have something else to do, something else to conquer.
"Camila doesn't like athletes," Kelsey says.
I eye her sideways. "Call me crazy, but I see a potential problem here."
"What problem? There is no problem."
I point to myself. "Athlete."
"You're different," she says, rolling her eyes.
I'm a little afraid to ask her how I'm different or why Camila doesn't like athletes. I may not toss a ball down a field, but unless Kelsey has completely lost her mind, hockey is still a sport—a major one—and I still play it. I don't get a chance to ask either question before someone knocks on the door.
"Oh!" Kelsey jumps out of her chair like her pants are on fire and her ass is catching. Probably so she can avoid telling me whatever she isn't telling me. "She's here!"
I lean back in my seat, watching Kelsey warily as she rushes to the door. She's far too excited about this, which leads me to believe that Camila is probably going to be a terrifying demon who was spawned in hell beside her. Kelsey takes far too much pleasure in torturing us. Coach should really do something about that instead of laughing at our pain.
Despite being fully prepared for Camila Gomes to make her entrance, I'm still knocked flat on my ass as soon as she steps inside Kelsey's office. She is not like any publicist I've ever met, that's for sure. Kelsey did not warn me that she's a fucking knockout. She's Latina, with beautiful golden-brown skin. Glossy black hair hangs midway down her back in gentle waves. Long, dark lashes frame the biggest pair of sepia-colored doe-eyes I've ever seen before. Her button nose is adorable, and her full lips actually send beads of sweat trickling down my back. She can't be more than twenty-four or twenty-five.
She's maybe five-eight or five-nine, which is tiny if you ask me. But there is nothing little about her curves. I've driven mountain roads that were less dangerous than that gorgeous body. Like Kelsey, she's wearing a business suit, though hers is white. The top dips between her breasts, showing enough cleavage to make my knees weak. I don't think it's intentional. I think those tits are just too big to be contained. The pants hug her wide hips and thick thighs. She somehow looks professional and indecent at the same exact time, more like a model than a publicist.
My dick stands straight up in my pants. He doesn't even twitch first. He just surges up like the Red Sea rising to do Moses'bidding. My heart does too, surging into my head and then beating out of both eyes like in the cartoons.
"Hey," she says, smiling at Kelsey. "I hope I'm not late."
Her voice does not help my dick situation. It's somehow sweet and sultry at the same time. I can just imagine her moaning my name and begging me to fuck her. For the first time since I was a teenager, I want to hear it in reality. It's been over a decade since I last slept with anyone, and that was only once. Like I said, not a manwhore.
One-night stands are exhausting. Being a trophy fuck isn't for me. I want someone I can connect with. Someone who enjoys the same things I do and wants the same things out of life. I don't know if it's this girl, but something inside me is roaring like a lion over her. I'm not a smart man, but I'm not a dumb one either. When my instincts decide to speak, I listen. And they're speaking pretty fucking clearly right now. This woman is important.
She and Kelsey hug and then her gaze drifts to me. I instinctively shift in my seat to hide my dick, just in case it's obvious that he's standing at attention. My Ma would kick my ass over me not standing up to greet her, but I can't exactly walk at the moment.
Camila's eyes heat as they run all over me. I briefly wish I'd worn something other than jeans and a t-shirt. Had Kelsey warned me a goddess was coming, I would have worn a suit. Okay, probably not. But I probably would have worn a better shirt. I doubt my "Save a beaver, shave a Wookie" shirt is particularly impressive to a goddess.
"Camila, this is Gray Larsen. Gray, this is Camila Gomes," Kelsey says, motioning between the two of us.
Shit, I think I have to stand up now.
