Page 87 of Enticing the Enforcer
“I came here to eat. Not to hook up.” I shoot her a look. “Orget harassed.”
“Well, whatever’s going on, Parks, you need to get it together.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because I’ve put all my money on The Surge to take the cup next year,” she says, smirking as she leans back in the booth. “And they’re gonna need you to do it.”
That earns a real laugh out of me, short and rough. “You have a lot of faith in me.”
Josie just grins, unbothered, and slides out of the booth. “You’re right, I do. You’re consistent, Jefferson. Determined. You came in here week after week and gave me your best shot, even when the odds were trash.”
“Yeah, well, I took all those shots and never scored. Some people would call those the actions of a lunatic. What’s the point?”
“Because someone had to be the one to tell you no.” She shakes her head, amused. “I watched you charm your way into the pants of half this campus. Every girl walked away thinking she’d won the lottery.”
“To be fair, everybody did leave happy.” I wink.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“So I’ve heard,” I mutter.
Her smile softens, just a fraction and she adds, “Jefferson, don’t be afraid to use that mix of determination and charm to get what you want outside of hockey and getting off.”
I watch her weave back through the tables, and for a second the noise of the bar hits me all at once–the clatter of pitchers on wood, the chant of some frat boys arguing over the game on TV, the low hum of everyone else just living. I’ve been part of this background noise for four years.
It’s time for me to make something on my own.
I’m halfway backto the Manor when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
For a split second, every time the phone rings, my heart leaps straight into my throat.
The screen lights up with an unfamiliar number. I swipe to answer anyway. “Hello?”
“Jefferson Parks?” A clipped, professional woman’s voice comes through, crisp like someone who has no patience for wasted time. “This is Lila Harris, player-manager for the Surge. I’m calling to go over logistics for your arrival in September.”
“Ms. Harris.” My back straightens like she can see my posture through the line. My pulse is hammering so hard it’s almost stupid. “Yeah, that sounds great.”
“Good. Let’s start with your housing placement. As you know, the team often pairs rookies with an established veteran during their first season. You’re being placed with Grant Pierce.”
I sit forward so fast my knee knocks into the coffee table. “Seriously?”
“Yes. Grant is one of our most reliable players.”
Reliable.That’s one word for the guy. The man’s a machine–top scorer for the Surge, absolute beast on the ice. He’s the reason the team made it to the finals last year. I’d watched him through high school and college, tried to mimic his power play drills, studied how he found open ice like it was instinct. The idea of not only sharing a rink with him but also living with him? Unreal.
“That’s–” I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “That’s awesome.”
“I thought you’d approve.” She doesn’t sound amused, just efficient, as if she checked a box confirming my enthusiasm. She moves on, rattling off details like she’s reading from a prepared script. My flight information. What time I’m expected at the training facility. The schedule for my physical, and training appointments. She’s covering so much I feel like I should be taking notes, but all I’ve got is the phone in my hand to try to keep myself grounded.
Because this is real. It’s happening.
Then she launches into PR obligations.
“It’s important for the team to maintain a good reputation within the community,” she says. “So you’ll be expected to attend certain events, like school or hospital visits, charity fundraisers, meet-and-greets. We have longstanding partnerships with several organizations throughout Florida.”
I shift the phone from one ear to the other. “Sure, that makes sense. Wittmore has us do the same thing.”
She doesn’t pause. Just keeps rolling, her voice even and clipped: media training sessions, paperwork for W-2s, direct deposit, housing arrangements. Somewhere between the HR talk and a mention of pre-season press photos, my brain starts to fog. It’s not that I don’t care–it’s just a lot, and the steady stream of business talk feels a little like being back in class with Professor Hawkins droning on about financial systems.
