Page 13 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

“What the hell am I even doing?” I muttered to myself, running a hand through my dark brown hair, smudging a streak of paint across my temple.

I reached for the brush again, not ready to give up on it, but not sure what else to add. What else was there to say? The painting already screamed everything I didn’t want to admit.

My phone rang, and I knew who it was before I picked it up. It had been a week since my last job, and I’d been on eggshells the last couple of days, wondering when I’d get my new assignment. I stared at the screen, the familiar number flashing like a warning.

Everett.

The only other calls I got were from telemarketers—although those calls were much more welcome than his.

I took a deep breath and swiped to answer, steeling my emotions for what would come next.

“Sloane.” His voice crackled through the line, cold and impersonal, just like always nowadays. “Tyler Miller has requested you for the Stanley Cup Finals coming up.”

My stomach twisted. Tyler Miller. The cocky asshole who booked me every time he was in town for a game. He acted like he was God’s gift to women and liked to stare at himself in the mirror while he fucked me, pumping his muscles and changing positions if he didn’t like how he looked. I hated him.

But I guess he wasn’t as bad as some of my other clients.

Not that it mattered if I liked him or not. I didn’t have a choice.

“For this contract, you’ll be traveling to attend all of his games during the series. You’ll stay at whatever hotel he’s staying at, in a room he can visit.”

“You want me to go to his games?”

I bit down on my lip, going through the logistics. Tyler played for Tampa Bay. Not a terrible place to travel to for work considering how close that arena was to the beach. Going to his games had never been part of the job, though. That sounded…almost like it could be fun—especially watching Tyler get hit.

As long as I didn’t think about what would happenafterthe games.

“He’s offered up a large sum for your services. So I’m allowing it. I’ve advised him that I don’t want any undue attention on you, though. No cameras focusing on your face, no press, and no media. He’s not one of their star players, so I don’t think there should be any issues,” my uncle continued, his tone clipped, efficient. “He just wants you hanging on his arm, making him seem like the up-and-coming star who’s already scored. You’ll need to sell it to his teammates and the spectators. Make him seem desirable. Wanted. A sex symbol. Get people interested in him. And then, you’ll wait in the hotel and fuck him however he wants. You know what to do—keep your mouth shut and remember this is a job. Is that clear?”

That was always the reminder he gave me. As if it was possible for me to catch feelings for the assholes who paid him to have my body for a night or two.

I bit my lip harder, hard enough that the taste of iron and salt flooded my mouth. Oops. I tried to relax my body—my hand was gripping the phone so tight my knuckles had turned white. “Of course,” I muttered, already feeling the familiar numbness creeping in.

“And, Sloane?” His voice dropped to that concerned tone he liked to use whenever he felt like I was acting too…sullen. “Make sure you have a check-up with Dr. Jennings before the first game—we can’t let any slip-ups happen.”

There was a beat of silence as I choked back the pain that sliced through my chest. We were both on the same page about making sure my birth control was up to date. Perhaps theonlything we were on the same page about at this point in our relationship.

I forced myself to let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow in my ears. “Of course.”

“Good. His payment will replenish your accounts. You’ll be good for several months after this.” He hung up without another word.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the phone, as I began to mentally prepare myself for the next week and for Tyler’stouch—when every second would feel like I was crawling out of my own skin. Realizing I was still clutching my paintbrush in my free hand, I set it down and walked out quickly.

I wouldn’t be back in that room until after the job was done.

Painting was when I allowed myself tofeel. I couldn’t have that happening now.

Walking into my bathroom, I stared into the mirror in front of me, studying my reflection. My face was the same as it always was—perfect, composed, blank. And inside? Inside I felt nothing. Not anger, not sadness, not fear. Just…numb. Like I was floating above it all, detached from my own body, like it wasn’t mine anymore.

Although, wasn’t that the truth? Itwasn’tmine. It hadn’t been for a long, long time.

I leaned forward, my hands gripping the edge of the sink, examining the…emptiness.

My phone buzzed again, and I glanced down, already knowing what it would be. A text with my appointments over the next few days to prepare for my assignment. A list of providers and times.

There would be my eyebrow wax, my hair appointment, and my facial. Another appointment was for laser hair removal on my entire body. Whatever I was doing at those appointments was already chosen for me. I would show up to do my hair, and they would tell me if it was going to be highlights or lowlights, or even to dye my hair a different color if it was what a client had requested and Everett approved it. I would have no say in the matter.

The words blurred together on the screen as my chest tightened. Staring back into the mirror, I had the urge to break it, shatter it into a million pieces just so I didn’t have to see myself like this. More of a shell than a person.

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