Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
He slaps his hands on the desk, and his coffee cup gives a little bounce. “You don’t understand a thing, Zoe.” He shakes his head like he just can’t believe the kind of stupidity he’s surrounded by. “I never said you weren’t a fantastic skater. I said I wasn’t sure you could be their coach. And you have proved me right every day.”
“That is not true!” I argue. “My successes are piling up—”
“With the players who are easiest to manage,” he interrupts. “But you aren’t getting through to the tough cases. If I wanted a subservient coach, I coulda hired a golden retriever and paid him even less than you.”
I gulp.
“Here’s an example. On more than one occasion, I’ve heard you tell them to call you Zoe.”
“It’s my name!”
He shakes his head again. “Not on the ice, Coach Carson. In this building, you command respect, you don’t give it away for free. What use is being the best skater in the room if you can’t get the worst guys on this team to show up and listen to you?”
I feel like I’ve just been slapped.
“Tell me this—what was the topic of your clinic today?”
“Um…” I rub my temples. “Glide and efficiency.”
“Wasted opportunity!” he declares immediately. You want these guys’ attention? You coulda chosen a topic to really grab them by the balls. Like ‘seventeen ways a figure skater could kick your ass all over this motherfucking ice.’ You’ve got to lean into your strengths. Make ’em pay attention, Zoe.”
“That’s Coach Carson,” I grumble.
He smiles. “YEAH! Damn straight. Now she gets it. Don’t take any shit, Coach Carson. That is a direct order. Make no mistake—if you can’t get this team to show up for you, I will have to go find a grumpy white guy to do your job.”
“Oh God.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. Instagram will have my ass. In the meantime—and don’t tell a soul—I’m putting a goddamn camera outside the equipment room, and another one in the staff locker corridor. We’re going to catch this gutless weasel, and I’m going to personally drop-kick him to the worst hockey team in the league.”
It takes a second for that to sink in. But it gives me a jolt of inappropriate glee to picture Jean-Luc Moreau on a last-place team. “I hear Columbus is nice this time of year, sir.”
His chuckle is evil. “There you go. Now get out of here. I have other people to yell at today.”
“Yessir,” I say, and scramble to my feet. I still have a job! For now.
Leaving Sharp’s office, I’m a little stunned to realize that I feel better after talking to him. That’s got to be a first.
My mood holds for all of two minutes, until I’m standing in front of the espresso machine. I’m waiting for my free coffee to brew when Jean-Luc Moreau approaches me, glowering.
I brace myself.
“Eh, Zoe,” he says, rubbing his forehead as if speaking to me causes him pain. “I come to make an apology for my behavior. When you fell, I should not have laughed. That was rude, and I did not guess someone tampered with your skates.”
Rage fills my veins. But then I ask myself what Nolan Sharp would do in this situation. “First of all, it’s Coach Carson to you.”
He looks sheepish. “Oui, Coach.”
“I don’t want your apology for laughing,” I say stiffly. “But you should be embarrassed about your lack of professional respect. So get your derriere signed up for one of my coaching sessions by the end of the day, or I’ll fine you the maximum. And show up for the session. My time is every bit as valuable as yours.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. Then he slinks away while I watch, open-
mouthed.
I hate myself a little for admitting this, but my evil boss knows a thing or two.
Chapter 35
You threatened to fine him?” Darcy cackles when I tell her about Moreau. “You should follow through!”
“I absolutely will!” I crow. “I’ll fine his smug ass the maximum! Just as soon as I figure out what that even means.” Except I’m a little drunk right now, so that’s probably a task for later.
“Take that, asshole,” Darcy says, raising her beer glass.
“Take that!” Our glasses clink together. We’re sitting in a booth at Highlights, and this is probably our tenth toast.
“Check your texts,” Darcy says. “Did Aiden send you the slo-mo?”
“I’ll look.” I unlock my phone and peek. “Yeah, here we go. He liked your idea. ‘Very Sherlock Holmes,’ he says.” Darcy decided we needed video in slo-mo of the moment my skate blade fell off—to see who looked stunned and who just looked smug. That’s above my video-editing pay grade, so I asked Aiden for help. “There’s a link.”
“Show me, show me,” she chants from the other side of the table.
“Patience! I have to respond first. Here—check my spelling.” I’m a little nervous about emailing anyone while drunk, so I hand her my phone.