Page 16 of Famous Last Words
“And what if I have a shift at the bar?” I close my eyes again, massaging the hollow of my cheek. The stress is wreaking havoc on my jaw from all the clenching.
“You’re gonna need to quit.”
My painful jaw drops at his blatant audacity. “Um, I beg your pardon?”
“I have a lot of evening commitments that I’m going to need you to attend with me,” he says with the conviction of Richard Gere inPretty Woman. “And, besides, why would the girlfriend of the highest paid NHL player need to work nights in a bar?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because not all women are unemployed freeloaders.”
“You’re not unemployed, Fran,” Robbie says smugly, and I can almost hear the cocky grin curling his lips. “You’re a successful real estate agent thanks tome.”
I hate him. I actuallyhatehim.
“I have to go. I have a headache.”
“Maybe you should go rub one out,” he says casually. “It always helps me.”
“Ugh, you’redisgusting.” I end the call to the tune of his grating chuckle, tossing my phone off to the side of my cluttered desk.
With a huff, I sag in my chair, pushing my hair back from my face and closing my eyes.
Robbie Mason is a twelve-year-old boy in a man’s body. Arrogant and insolent and everything in between. I cannot believe I actually agreed to do this. I mean sure, the commission check will look pretty once it’s cleared in my bank account, and even if I never sell another property, it’ll at least afford me some extra time in the city to find another job. And Tony did personally congratulate me in this morning’s sales meeting, which was a nice boost to my ego. But is all that really worth having to associate with the likes of Robbie Mason? So far, I’m unconvinced.
CHAPTER 8
ROBBIE
Exhausted, I sit shirtless on the bench in front of my cubby, hunched over, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, feeling every bone in my body ache. I’m twenty-five years old, but right now, I feel like I’m eighty. And I can’t help but wonder if my new coaches are purposely punishing me or if it’s just a coincidence.
As far as I’m aware, of the twenty-one players out on that ice, I’m the only one with three consecutive Stanley Cup wins under my belt, and yet I’m the one being targeted, forced to repeat the same basic drills over and over again like I’m a goddamn call-up from the minors trying to prove himself. Shit’s fucked.
I drag a hand over my face as the door swings open, and I look up to see Dallas Shaw, Thunder’s starting goalie, walking in on his skates. He stops at his cubby and begins the arduous task of shedding his gear, glancing at me as he does. “You okay, my man?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, looking down at the floor.
Of all the guys I’ve met so far on the team, Dallas is the only one who hasn’t immediately treated me like I’m public enemynumber one. I think it’s because Dallas is one of Andy’s clients too, so it’s kind of like an unspoken truce we have. I’ve heard stories about the notorious Dallas Shaw—he’s a cocky asshole on the ice, and a total playboy off the ice—but so far, he’s the only one not giving me the stink eye.
“Hey, don’t take it to heart,” Dallas says. “Coach has a hard-on for asserting himself with the newbies.”
I look up at him again, meeting his eyes.
“I mean—no offense,” he says quickly. “I know you’re not a newbie, per se. But, given the circumstances, Coach is just trying to show you who’s boss.” He slumps down on the bench beside me with an almighty harrumph. “The guy’s a fucking asshole. Daughter’s a total smoke show, though.” He winks at me.
I chuckle lightly, relaxing some. It’s at least nice to know it’s not just me who thinks the head coach, Lance Draper, is a dick.
“Hey, some of us are gonna meet up for a few beers later tonight.” Dallas slaps my arm. “You in?”
I consider his question. And while it’s nice to be invited, since I’ve only been in the city for a few days and I know practically nobody, I’m reminded of the terms of my contract. Unless it’s an approved team event, I’m not allowed out past nine. I cannot believe this is my life right now.
I rub at the tension that knots in the back of my neck. “No can do, man.” With a sidelong glance, I mutter, “Curfew.”
“Oh, shit, yeah, the probation.” Dallas offers a remorseful look. “What’s the deal with that, anyway?”
Legally, I’m not allowed to divulge the terms of my contract, although the media managed to catch wind of a few of the more ridiculous call outs, such as my curfew. But there are so many stipulations, my measly nine-million, three-year deal is more like a fucking prison sentence.
“It is what it is,” is all I say with a noncommittal shrug, heaving myself up and heading for the showers.
“Mason?”
