Page 3 of Wallflower
Bobby Campbell was an awesome center in his day, and when I was drafted to the Tampa Bay Titans at eighteen years old, I’m not sure who was more excited about me playing for a legend of his caliber—me or my dad. Campbell knew me as a kid, helped shape me into the player I am today, and next to my father, he taught me the most about how to be a man. I played four years with him until I was traded to Calgary, and I never thought we’d be on the same team again.
Until yesterday.
Everyone waits for me to speak, but I don’t. Nobody’s going to like what I have to say, which is the media can go to hell. For my last two years with Calgary, they were up my ass about the value of my captaincy, and when news broke that our cocky new trade, Spencer Cook, had been sleeping with my girlfriend for months—and that a few of the guys on my team knew about it—the press made my life a living nightmare. So, I give them as little as I can, as infrequently as I can. And that isn’t going to change.
The media relations guy shifts in his seat, and Coach shoots him a look that tells him to keep his mouth shut.
“One more thing, Chord, and then we’ll move on,” Coach says instead. “I need you to make yourself available this summer. We’re building a new team, and not only do we need to get to know each other on the ice, but we’ve got some bonding to do.” He spares me a sympathetic glance. “This is a fresh start, all right? For you and the Fury.”
“No can do,” I reply, and his eyebrows shoot up. I pick a drink at random—it’s the green juice—and lift it to my mouth, taking my time until I’m sure the next time I speak, it won’t sound so sharp. “I’ll be in Sonoma this summer, and I don’t intend to leave.”
That’s a lie. I don’t know how long I’ll be home.
My hand involuntarily strays toward my pants pocket. I haven’t stepped foot on my family’s vineyard in three years, and it’s not like I needed an invitation to go back, but it was nice to finally get one.
My fingers press against the folded piece of purple paper tucked away where I won’t lose it, the words scrawled across it carefully formed and with sparkling pink stickers around its edges. My six-year-old niece wrote and asked me to come for a family game night, and hell will freeze over before I ever tell that little girlno.
“Well, then.” Coach scratches his forehead with one thick finger. “You’ve got a nice set-up there, right? I think I read an article five or so years ago in one of those fancy architectural magazines. The property’s huge, and you built your own house. It’s got a complete gym. A full-size pool. Secluded and private.”
I narrow my eyes. “Yeah.”
“Then it’s no problem.” His eyes brighten above his satisfied grin as he taps a palm on the table. “We’ll come to you.”
My molars grate together before I change the subject. “It might be time to talk about my email and the list of things I need from the team. It’s been a long season, and I need support for recovery between now and October.”
Courtney straightens so quickly she bounces. “Yes. We can arrange it all. No problem.”
I meet her eyes. They gleam in a way I don’t like, and it pisses me off. “Game tape? For the team and any new trades?”
“We’re on it now and will send you everything you requested.”
“Personalized eating and exercise plans?”
She checks something on her laptop and nods to herself. “We’ve sent your information to the team’s sports nutritionist and trainers, and they’ll be in touch within forty-eight hours.”
“Physio? I need someone who can come to me at least twice a week over the next couple of months.”
I don’t need to add that I’m not in my early twenties anymore. Years of hockey and the injuries that go with it mean I can’t slack off in the off-season. Everyone here can read between the lines.
“Absolutely,” Courtney agrees. “And if the team physiotherapists can’t make it, we’ve got a list of wonderful freelancers who—”
“And a personal assistant? I need someone to handle my move from Calgary to San Francisco. I’ll be preoccupied with training and my family, so I need someone who’s hands-on.”
Her eyebrow quirks and I immediately regret my choice of words.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Courtney tucks her blonde hair behind one ear, and her tongue glides across her glossy bottom lip. “I think it would be beneficial to assign you someone from the marketing team. As discussed, we need to massage some of those relationships you have with the press, and the marketing team is best positioned to facilitate that. In fact,Icould—”
“No.” I don’t need binoculars to see where she’s going with this. “I need a personal assistant, not a handler, and not a media coach. I need someone to answer my emails and find me a new apartment and deal with the shit I don’t have time to deal with.”
“I assure you, I’m perfectly—”
“And I need them to come with me to Aster Springs.”
I don’t. I really don’t. There are eighty-seven days between now and next season—I’ve counted—and I need to spend every one of them focused on my game. The last thing I want is an assistant hovering nearby and buzzing in my ear, but I’ll say anything to stop this woman from scheming her way into my personal life.
Unfortunately, my demand has her leaning forward.
Can’t she take a fucking hint?
