Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
The woman isn’t trying hard. She doesn’t have to, she carries a quiet magnetism. A smoldering, sun-drenched look that feels entirely too damn hot for an office in the middle of a hockey arena. Her dark, feline eyes sweep across the room, lingering on Mitch for a fraction of a second before shifting over to me.
Our eyes lock, and for a second, all the bullshit disappears. Her gaze is cool, calm, and collected. It’s also analytical, entirely unbothered by my size or the scowl I’m wearing. She takes me in, my stubborn posture, the obvious anger surrounding me, and doesn’t so much as blink. A faint, almost indiscernible tilt touches the corners of her full lips, almost as if she already knows every thought running through my head and finds it entertaining.
“Rowdy,” Mitch says, breaking the tension, His voice sounds like it’s coming through a tunnel. “This is Jett. She’s running your social media from here on out. Where you are, she is, and vice versa.”
Jett doesn’t offer me her hand to shake, nor does she slip into some rehearsed corporate greeting. I’ve spent my entire life around people who are either intimidated by me or want something from me. This woman stands three feet away looking like she doesn’t give a shit about my reputation, penalty minutes, or temper.
“Jett.” Her name tastes sinful as fuck on my tongue. I keep my hands locked on my hips, jaw set tight, and try to remember why not even five seconds ago, I was furious.
“Rowdy,” she replies, her voice smooth like velvet and laced with an edge that tells me my life is about to get very complicated.
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” Mitch moves from around his desk, watching us with a satisfied grin until he disappears from the office. I don’t take my eyes off her. And for the first time since this meeting started, I’m realizing I might be in over my head.
TWO
JETT
The tension in Mitch’s office is so thick you could cut it with a steak knife. The coach slipped out a few moments ago under the guise of us getting to know one another, leaving me alone with the six-foot-plus hockey player who’s radiating pure male testerone fueled with irritation. Rowdy Bouchard is standing near the windows that overlook the practice rink with his back partially turned to me. His shoulders are squared up, his hands jammed in his pockets, and his chest expands with a controlled breath, making it glaringly obvious he’s holding himself back from making a smart remark.
He’s essentially throwing a full-blown silent temper tantrum. He fills the room with his presence in an attempt to force me into submission without saying a word. Classic male bravado. I sit down at the oval conference table, entirely unbothered and needing to get this show on the road.
“So,” I begin, keeping my tone deliberately calm. “Here’s how this is going to work, Bouchard. The team brought me in because your current digital footprint reads like a rap sheet. Honestly, it would have been better if you didn’t post anything to begin with, but since you have, we’re going to start from square one. Which means I’ll be deleting posts you’ve made in the past while curating new content. We need to rebrand you. Right now, the fans see you as a walking hot-headed bad boy who spends more time beating up his opponents to a bloody pulp and in VIP lounges than on the ice.” He stands stone-cold sober, minus the muscle ticking violently in his sharp, stubble-dusted jaw, but he keeps his eyes locked on the glass in front of him.
“We’re going to soften the edges,” I continue, opening my tablet and pulling up some of my notes. “We need behind-the-scenes content: your rehab routines, working out, community involvement.”
“Soft? You want me to look soft? I’m an enforcer, Jett. I don’t do soft around the edges. My job is to protect my team, not post selfies for teenager likes.” Rowdy lets out a low, mocking scoff, turning his head enough to glare at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Your job right now is keeping your contract,” I reply evenly, meeting his gaze head on without a single flicker of hesitation. “And right now, this is what will keep you off the bench.” I reach into my pocket, looking for my pen that I use for my tablet for writing notes. “Excuse me. Let me grab my bag from the lobby,” I say, sliding back in my chair and standing up, fiddling with my layered necklaces as I walk toward the door. I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, tracking every step I take like he’s trying to burn a hole right through me. I’m sure he’s using the same tactic while looking down opposing players. I almost smile to myself as I bend down just outside of Mitch’s office to grab my bag, then head back inside.