Page 2 of Faking It with the Enforcer

That thought ricochets through my brain like a loose puck before settling in my stomach.

Coach Ferguson rattles off a few more talking points and then dismisses us with a clap of his hands. It’s still early in the day, not quite lunchtime, but I don’t feel like heading home yet. Instead, I decide to take Kincaid’s advice and blow off a little steam in the gym. Guys around me shoot the shit and give eachother a hard time as we all get out of our sweaty gear. Some head to the showers, while others hang around and talk about ordering lunch in. I feel like I’m on the fringes of it all. I’m not a talker. I’m not what you would call a friendly guy. I prefer to keep to myself.

My name suits me, I guess. I’m a lone wolf.

I change into fresh workout gear and then head to the gym, where a couple of other guys are cooling down on stationary bikes. Large TVs cover one of the walls, playing highlights from previous games. I jam my air pods in my ears, blast some angry rock music, and then tape up my hands.

Punching things usually makes me feel better. And even if it doesn’t, it’s a hell of a good workout.

I quickly lose myself in the rhythmic thwack of my hands against the heavy bag, swaying hypnotically on its chain. I jab, I cross, I duck, I weave until sweat slicks my skin and my heart is pounding in my ears. I pour all of the frustration, the doubt, the uncertainty into my movements, as though I can physically transfer it from me to the leather I’m pounding mercilessly.

And for a while, it works. My brain turns off as I settle into my body, and the weight on my chest seems to lift.

I’m not sure how much time has passed when my phone rings, jerking me back to the here and now. I pull my phone out of my pocket, frowning when I see it’s the concierge of my building.

“Hello?” I answer, reaching out with my free hand to halt the swinging of the bag.

“Hello, Mr. Hartley. This is Winston, from the front desk. I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s a young woman here saying that you’re expecting her?” His prim and proper voice goes up at the end, turning his statement into a question. “A Miss Emily David?”

“Ah, fuck,” I grind out. “Yeah. Uh, you can let her in to my place. She’ll be staying for the next several weeks.”

“I see. Very good, sir.”

“Thanks, Winston.” I like Winston. He’s the only person on the planet who calls me sir, and I like how it makes me feel. Like I’m a classy guy and not a paid goon.

The call disconnects, and I set about removing my gloves, yanking them off in harried tugs. Fuck me. I’d completely forgotten about Emily. As if I needed something else to be grumpy about.

I quickly head for the showers to soap up, and any lightness I’d been feeling vanishes.

A few weeks ago, my best friend from college, Mike, called and asked if his baby sister could stay with me while in Toronto. She’s apparently an up-and-coming ballet dancer and was selected for a prestigious internship at the National Ballet School. She’s also apparently naive and helpless, as Mike didn’t want her staying alone in the big city, so he wants her to stay with me so that I can keep an eye on her.

Because babysitting some little princess is my favourite.

Not.

Now, as a rule, I don’t like having house guests. Lone wolf, remember? But Mike’s been a close friend for over a decade, and I would’ve felt like a massive asshole if I said no. So I didn’t. I said yes, telling myself that my penthouse is more than big enough for two adults.

I’ve never met Emily, only heard about her through Mike. Given that she’s thirteen years younger than us, she would’ve been a kindergartner when I met Mike in university. Through the years, I’ve heard about her here and there—her recent high school graduation, her burgeoning ballet career, etc. But I can honestly say I’ve never spent more than a second and half thinking about my college buddy’s kid sister. Why would I?

I finish up my shower and make a beeline for the underground parking where my Land Rover is stashed and head home. Even though I don’t really want her there, my parents raised me to have manners, and it’s not cool that I completely forgot about her and wasn’t there to greet her. Plus, if I’m honest, I’m not used to having guests and I don’t want her poking around my shit. Not that I have anything to hide. I’m just very used to being on my own.

Although I guess I’ll need to get used to the idea of her being around for the next six weeks.

“It’s only six weeks,” I tell myself as I pull out into the usual Toronto traffic. It’s January, and the sidewalks are piled with snowbanks, the streets slushy with the remnants of last night’s snow. “Six weeks is nothing. Besides, I’ll be so busy with hockey and she’ll be so busy with her ballet shit or whatever that I’m sure I’ll barely notice she’s there.”

Great. Now I’m talking to myself. We’re off to a fantastic start with this whole hosting thing.

It takes me about twenty minutes to get back to my building, park my car, and make my way to my private elevator in the corner of the lobby.

“Mr. Hartley, sir?” calls Winston from the desk, and I head back in that direction. When I approach, he gives me a thin smile. “How long will your guest be with us, exactly?”

I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “Six weeks. She’s the sister of a friend, in town for an internship.”

“I see. Then I suppose you’ll want to give her this,” he says, handing over a spare key card for the building and my private elevator. I take it and stuff it in my pocket.

“Right. Thanks.”

The key card is like a hot weight in my pocket, a reminder of all the privacy I’m giving up over the next month and a half.

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