Page 31

THIRTY

Damon

I’ve been on the phone all fucking day.

And I hate being on the fucking phone.

It’s—hands down—the worst part of my job.

Scouting new guys, working on trades, watching games and checking out our competition, keeping my finger on the pulse of how other teams in our division—and the league as a whole—are playing…all of those are fine.

Hell, they’re fun most of the time.

I can even tolerate the other shit—talking with legal, doing the limited press I do (because Joey does an excellent job of being the face and voice of the team), tracking trades and budgets and performance reviews.

But talking on the phone—especially in the early days of negotiating contracts that end this season—is hell.

Especially when one of those contracts belongs to Lake Jordan.

He’s the biggest hit to our salary cap.

And he deserves the money he’s pulling.

But his agent is a fucking shark, so adding insult to injury, it’s not just one call. It’s a string of phone calls and they’re painful phone calls and they’re necessary phone calls.

Fucking annoying as shit.

“I can make that happen,” I tell her when she finishes listing out several more concessions we’ll have to make—including a three-team trade clause.

Meaning, if we ever have to move him, it’ll be only to one of those three teams.

See?

Fucking pain in my ass.

And he has the skills, points, and experience to make that demand.

Same as I know, he’s the player who’ll continue carrying the team forward…so we’ll bend over backwards to give it to him.

“Good,” Olivia says and I rue the day that Prestige Media Group was founded. “I’ll be in touch in a few weeks once the other details are finalized.”

“Great,” I mutter.

“As always, Damon,” she says breezily, “it’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Right.” It’s still a mutter and it’s paired with me hanging up the phone.

Scowling, I lean back in my chair.

Then my phone rings again.

“Jesus Christ,” I snap, sighing before I swipe a finger across the screen and lift my cell to my ear. “Yes?”

The person on the other end starts speaking and I barely hold back a groan.

Because this isn’t going to be a short call.

“Are you there?” they ask.

I allow my head to drop back, staring up at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling, and then I get on with doing the worst part of my job—saying all the right things at the right times and resisting the urge to call the person on the other side of the phone an idiot.

In the end, I succeed.

But just barely.

* * *

I push out of the office, turn in the direction of the parking lot.

If I’ve been punished with phone calls all morning and afternoon, at least I can do is get out of here early.

I’ll grab some food, bring it over to Joey’s place, and fuck out all of my frustrations.

Or maybe we’ll finally get to have that bath.

It’s been two weeks since the night of the sundae—or rather, sundaes —and aside from the copious amounts of phone calls and the watchful eye of Storm, these have been the best weeks of my life.

Easy. Full.

Joey.

Maybe that’s the best adjective.

Because she’s the one making my life easy, making me feel alive, making every minute with her better than the last.

So yeah…maybe tonight is bath night.

I have a mind to show her exactly how much I appreciate all of that.

Tomorrow is a scheduled day off. We can stay up late, I can fuck her exactly how I want, and then do the same thing in the morning before I treat her to pancakes.

Good plan.

Break.

But I don’t make it to the parking lot.

Hell, I don’t even make it five feet down the hall before my phone rings again.

“Fuck,” I mutter, pulling it out of my pocket.

“That good, huh?” Colt says, walking by with his messenger bag hitched on one shoulder, clearly here taking advantage of the free ice time that Joey arranged for the team this afternoon.

“It’s the job,” I grumble. “But not a fun part of it.”

“Hopefully it’ll be a quick one.”

I nod my thanks, turn back for the office, and answer the call.

Spoiler alert: it’s not a short one.

But it eventually ends, and I start to leave again.

The fuck of it all is that when I’m attempting to make my escape—this time with Colt passing me, now completely geared up—my cell rings a-fucking- gain.

His eyes come to mine and he winces.

I just drop my chin to my chest, walk into my office, and answer, listening to an update from a scout.

The best thing is that it’s short.

When it’s done, I hang up and glare down at my phone. “Don’t you fucking ring again.” It stays silent. “That’s right, asshole,” I mutter.

I shove it in my pocket and…wait.

When it doesn’t immediately ring again, I release a relieved breath, gather up the rest of my shit, and push out into the hall again.

There, I wait again, half expecting my phone to go off.

Because that’s my day today.

When it doesn’t, I turn down the hall.

Unfortunately, my escape is stymied yet again.

Not by a phone call.

But rather, by a voice.

“Damon?” I hear.

Biting back a curse, I turn to see that Colt’s back a third time. He’s still dressed in his gear—which means that, thank fuck, I haven’t lost a year to the fucking phone calls, just a few hours.

“Yeah?” I ask him, hoping that I sound patient.

Based on the way he smiles, I have the feeling I fail at that.

Though, he doesn’t seem offended. Instead, he grins as he holds up a stick and pair of skates.

“I think you may need these more than me.”