Page 63 of Lawson

I sit up a little straighter in my chair, leaning my elbows on his desk and resisting the urge to bang my head against it.

“I'm fine emotionally,” I say, then tilt my head back and forth. “Mostly. I've got some internal debates going on, but other than that, Waller’s heinous comment didn't affect me. I anticipated a lot of those types of comments thrown my way, either to my face or behind my back, when taking this job. I wouldn't have accepted the position if I didn't have a thick skin.”

“That's good to hear,” he says. “But I can tell there's more.”

“Can I pose a hypothetical to you?”

Dad smiles, leaning back in his chair. “I love hypotheticals. Hit me with it.”

“Hypothetically,” I say, tension winding tight in my chest, begging me to stop right where I am.

I push around it, hoping that whatever my father's hypothetical answer is will give me some kind of perspective on all the shit that's bothering me.

“Hypothetically...”

“Honey, if you sayhypotheticallyone more time, I'm gonna realize that thisisn'ta hypothetical.”

A laugh tears from my lips, and I shake my head. “Okay, let's say Reese develops feelings for one of our players. In the beginning, it wasn't serious between them, but now she's not sure. Now she thinks things might be a little more complicated, and she's worried not only about getting her heart broken again or making a big mistake again like she did with her last relationship, but she's also worried about her job.”

Dad leans forward, mimicking my move by putting his elbows on his desk and resting his chin in his hands, nothing but eager intrigue shaping the lines of his face. “Reese being your bestie and our social media manager,” he qualifies.

I can't say yes, because I can't lie to my father, so I nod with my lips pressed together. “Hypothetically,” I add.

“Uh-huh,” he says, and I can tell he's not buying it, but it's all I’m able to give.

“Would you say that she’d need to end it? That her career is more important than whatever may be developing out of that relationship?”

“Now that's a tough question, sweetheart,” he says. “I guess it all depends on the relationship. Workplace relationships are always a tricky thing, not only because you spend so much time together but because it affects the way you act in your role and how they view you in that role as well. Or how they view otherstreatingyou in that role.” Dad arches an eyebrow, as if he’s silently indicating the brawl that happened not an hour ago on the ice.

“All that aside,” he continues. “If Reese thinks the relationship is something solid and something worth the work that goes into maintaining such a thing, then they’d have to go on record with not only me but the owner, Mr. McLaren, about said relationship. It's not illegal, and it wouldn't be the catalyst for losing her role as social media manager, but if the relationship affected her quality of work or his quality of play or created massive turmoil between team members...” His voice goes silent, and he looks at me without one ounce of humor in his eyes. “Then thatwouldbe cause for termination and justly so. Either on her end or on the player’s end, he'd likely be traded immediately.”

My stomach churns. Lawson may have wanted to be traded in the beginning of all this, to the Sharks no less, but now I knew he didn’t have any interest in that. The idea of me being the reason he’s traded makes me feel a little sick.

Anger, possibly irrationally so, replaces the nausea, bringing me back to what happened on the ice.

Lawson hadnoright to throw Waller down just because he said some misogynistic shit to me. It didn't give him the right to lay hands on him. And now look at the mess we’re in. Could he not control his instincts for a couple hours of practice? And what would happen if somebody said something worse to me someday?

The possibilities swirled in my mind, each scenario making me angrier than the next.

“Hypothetically,” Dad says, bringing me back to the present. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

I bite my lip, stopping the truth from spilling as I shake my head.

“All right then,” he says, drumming a little beat with his hands on the desk before he motions to the door. “You're free to go, Coach Wren,” he continues. “I gave a good stern talking-to to Waller and Wolfe, so that shouldn't be a problem again, but if you get even a whiff of a comment like that from anyone on this team, I want you to come straight to me.”

I push away from the desk, my hand on the knob of his front door. “Yes, Coach,” I say, hurrying out of his office before I can say anything else that might get me in trouble.

Besides, there is only one person I'm interested in talking to right now, and quite possibly directing some of this rage that's bubbling beneath my skin, and that's Lawson fucking Wolfe.

I send him a quick text asking if he's at home, and when he saysyesand that's all, I take that as invitation enough.

I make it to his apartment in under fifteen minutes, and he's opening the door before I even have time to knock.

I hesitate a couple steps into his place, knowing that this is usually the time that I’d crack a joke or that he’d scoop me into his arms and whisk me away for some much-needed cosmic bliss between the sheets.

But this visit isn’t about that, and suddenly I feel like I’m stranded in uncharted waters.

“You look like something's about to bust right out of you,” he says, taking up a lean against the bar that connects his living room and kitchen.

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