Page 7 of Break the Ice
My brows jump. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me—bullshit,” he says, standing to full height. “I’m not Hawk’s puppet, and I damn sure won’t be letting anybody pull my strings. I do what I want, when I want. I get in bar fights, and I fuck people’s wives. I total fast cars, and I’d steal the shirt off somebody’s back if I felt like it. If you think you’re going to come in here and switch that up, it’s true what they say. No such thing as a woman that’s smart and beautiful. But at least you’re easy on the eyes, Sugar Tits.”
Of course. The degrading nickname is back.
I rise too. It’s not until I do that it faintly registers I’m shaking. Only slightly, my hands balling up, my nails biting into my palms, but it’s still a marker that he’s gotten to me. He’s found a way to slither under my skin.
“I asked you not to call me that.”
“You did,” he says, almost grinning. “And I did it anyway. See how that works? I do whatever the hell I want, when I want. I should get going. I’ve got goals to score and Ice Girls to fuck.”
He steps around me, coming so close I damn near feel his body against mine, and then strides from the office. His presence lingers for minutes after he’s gone. An energy that’s hot and suffocating and feels like it’s taken over what’s supposed to be my space.
My domain to excel at my job.
I release a shriek of frustration and resist the urge to shatter something.
It takes me another fifteen minutes before I’ve regained enough composure for another one-on-one. The rest go marginally better.
Kai Fakuda is about as combative as Rafe, though he at least has the decency to forego calling me Sugar Tits. Something tells me Rafe got in his ear before our meeting and convinced him to be as resistant as possible too.
Other players like Oliver Housley and Rhett Gilliam give lukewarm reactions to my suggestions. One has been known to have a prescription drug problem while the other is embroiled in a nasty custody battle with a groupie he slept with.
Phil Morasca seems well-adjusted until he goes off on a tirade on my sofa about his suspicions his wife has been cheating on him.
“I smell him on our sheets,” he growls, his left nostril flaring. Violent urges darken his glare. “Wait ’til I find out who the bastard is. I’ll crush his teeth.”
My only response is to assure him it’s likely a misunderstanding, though I have a sneaking suspicion it just might be true. Knowing Rafe, it absolutely is.
I blow out an exhausted sigh sinking onto the sofa once my last meeting wraps up. If the image consultations were this difficult, the real work won’t be easy.
Jerry interrupts my reflection time by popping her head in and letting me know Mr. Hawk would like to see me in his office. I promise her I’ll be over in a few minutes and move onto the silver mosaic tiled mirror that hangs on the wall. My thick mane of curls has gotten progressively bigger as the day has gone on. Yet another sign it’s been a rough day.
Jerry casts me a wry, humoring smile when I approach the doors of Mr. Hawk’s office. “He’s waiting for you. I’ll be out here if you need me.”
I head in to find Mr. Hawk in the middle of a glass of whiskey. He gestures for me to shut the door and then cracks a joke about needing our privacy. The smile I give him is a lot like the one Jerry gave me. Borderline humoring.
“How did day one go?”
“It was… a challenge, but I’m looking forward to turning things around.”
“Nice. Safe, political answer. You’re a damn good PR consultant that’s going to right this wrong ship. Sure as hell better than the others,” he booms. The alcohol has made his voice gruffer than usual.
I glance over my shoulder, wondering if Jerry can hear us in the reception area. “I’ll do my best.”
“Sit. Have a drink.”
“No thank you,” I answer politely. “I try not to drink before dinner.”
He cracks out a crass-sounding laugh. “So damn professional, darling. Loosen up sometime. No need to be so uptight. I might be your boss… but I’m also your friend. You’ll come to see it. Which reminds me, tomorrow night, we’re having a team event at the Onyx Hotel. Everybody’s got to be there. Including you. So no getting out of that nightcap you owe me.”
I swallow, my skin prickling with an uncomfortable warmth. “Of course. I’d love to be there to support.”
“I’ll have Jerry text you the details. Wear something nice.”
His gaze rakes over me. No subtlety. No furtiveness. No effort at all to hide what he’s doing and what he’s thinking as his eyes slide over every curve of my body. I do my best at playing my role, wishing him a good evening and turning to walk gracefully out of his office.
But it doesn’t change how I feel on the inside—the fast uptick of my heart and the way I feel like a space as grandiose as the Wolves’ training facility doesn’t have enough breathing room.
