Page 33

When the black SUV pulls up in front of my building the next morning, it should not be a surprise to see Charles’ smiling face hustle around the side to open the door.

“Miss Grant, I’m Charles. Lovely to meet you. I’ve been instructed to take you to the arena by eight-thirty. Did you need to make any stops?”

My brow pinches. “Lovely to meet me? Do you have a twin who also drives professionally and is named Charles?”

Charles’s round face leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Not that anyone walking past could give a shit as they hustle by, eyes on phones, late for work.

“Dalton asked that I pretend like I haven’t met you before.

Now that you’re working together, he didn’t want to risk your job. I don’t want that either, Miss.”

A pang lands deep inside me, too close to my stupid heart. Both at the man’s kindness and that Dalton preemptively warned Charles to keep our date on the down-low.

“Thank you, Charles, but you only have to do that when others are around. When it’s just you and me, no need to pretend we’re strangers. And it’s Jenna, please.”

“It will be my pleasure, Jenna.” Charles slips me a sly wink, stepping back and gesturing to the open door. “Is there anywhere you need to stop on the way to practice?”

“I would love to stop for a coffee, but there’s no way I’m risking being late.” My coffee maker took its last breath this morning, barfing out a spray of steam with a worrying pop before dying a slow, gurgling death. The sad amount of coffee it eeked out couldn’t fill an espresso cup.

The thrift store is a must on the way home for a replacement.

“That has already been taken care of.” Charles’s smile widens.

I poke my head inside, half expecting to find Dalton lounging in the back, but the car is empty except for the low beat of some top ten song playing over the radio and a to-go cup poised in the rear holder. I’m fully aware the pang of disappointment I feel at his absence is ridiculous.

“Medium latte from a secret admirer. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.” He holds up his hand in what I assume is a Boy Scout salute.

“Is this secret admirer still kissing ass for the white pants spillage incident the other morning?” I ask, sliding into the back seat.

“I am neither confirming nor denying anything. But possibly, yes. That’s correct.” Charles shuts the door, leaving me to reach for the cup.

There’s markered scrawl peeking out from under the sleeve. I slip the cardboard down to find Dalton’s handwriting. The loose lettering is already too familiar.

You’re amazing. Don’t let the guys give you shit.

There’s an arrow prompting me to rotate the cup.

PS: this is platonic, professional coffee, no strings.

And I swoon. Like a middle-grade schoolgirl with a crush, swoon.

“All good?” Charles asks.

I take a sip. “Perfect.”

The guys are already on the ice when I arrive.

A blur of pads in red, white, and blue zipping past the glass at an impressive rate.

They hit a line, cut a hard stop, then tap it with a gloved hand before taking off back across the ice to another line, starting the whole process over.

Dalton is dead center of the line-up, shouting encouraging jibes at his team as he leads the pack.

“Ladders.” Nathan, the administrative assistant who met me at the front doors, says with a look that’s equally impressed and intimidated.

He’s a tall, portly man with black slacks and a blue button-up.

I smooth a hand over my tailored waistline.

We both look out of place in our office chic attire compared to the sports gear and sweatsuits.

Tomorrow, I might tone down the admin bombshell for something more athletic.

“Looks like torture.” I narrow my eyes, taking in the men’s reddening cheeks and heavy breathing.

“Oh, it is.” He rocks on the balls of his feet. “Coach Bell said practice was a shit show yesterday. Half the guys did that bachelor’s auction this weekend and had too much fun.”

A whistle blows and the guys slide past the line this time, gliding to the boards.

Most doubled over as they suck in air. I eye the crew, running through the list of names and faces I spent the night trying to memorize.

Several men pull up their jerseys, wiping sweat off their faces and flashing an impressive amount of toned abs.

Damn, that’s a nice view. Nathan pats his soft round stomach as if thinking along the same lines.

Although I doubt he is imagining running his tongue over the Captain’s muscled ridges, relishing the moment they flex under his touch, like I am.

Shaking off the vivid memory, I note the guys who are candidates for sponsors who like to show a little skin.

“The guys have about an hour left. Would you like to stay and watch or continue on the tour of the facility?”

As badly as I want to see them at work, Nathan’s feet have already angled back down the hallway. Honestly, it’s better I don’t stay, hot and bothered isn’t the best way to start the work day.

“Tour would be great.” I gesture for him to lead the way, glancing back at the team.

Dalton’s gaze is locked on me from across the ice, cementing my feet to the ground.

The hint of a smile pulls at the corners of his lips.

His jersey is still pulled halfway up as he runs the fabric over his angular jaw, lingering over his lips before dropping it back down.

It’s impossible not to take in every sculpted ab I was just fantasizing about.

My fingers squeeze tighter around the empty coffee mug.

Dalton’s brow quirks, as if he’s reading my dirty thoughts.

I blink in an attempt to break the magnetic hold, but the air rushes from my lungs, core clenching, leg muscles locking in anticipation as my heart gives a lurch.

Stupid, traitorous body. His smile widens, my skin flushing. Oh, he knows what I’m thinking.

“Miss Grant?” Nathan calls from somewhere. I jump.

“Coming,” I force the word out, snapping my eyes shut and turning to follow. The heat of Dalton’s eyes lingers all the way out of the stands.

After the tour, it’s easy to understand why Ramona has gone after a sports team.

If the facility represents their net worth, I guarantee our contract with The Vortex makes our other clients look like peanuts.

Plus, not only are we gaining a high-profile sports team as a new client, we are also gaining each individual player.

The potential for expansion and signing percentages is huge.

If this goes well, I should get a bonus large enough to take care of my dad’s medical bills for the next few months, at least.

Nathan offers me a glorified closet with a table that can’t legally be called a desk that reeks like gym socks.

Not wanting to smell like swamp ass all day, I opt for holding our meeting in the Press Room instead.

With the room set up and allowing ample time for the guys to shower, I skim a nervous hand down my slacks, then bang a fist on the locker room door.

“You guys decent?”

“As decent as we’re going to get!” a male voice calls, followed by a round of laughter.

“Well, most of us!” another shouts.

“Depends on your definition of decent!” More laughter.

“Come on in, Miss Grant.” A booming voice calls over the din. The door swings open to the assistant coach—Brad Kent, according to his profile—waving an arm in invitation. “Mind yourself guys, or I’ll have your ass in training every day this week.”

The urge to keep my eyes on the ground is overwhelming.

Meetings with ridiculously rich clients in swanky restaurants where I can’t even afford a glass of water, fine.

A room full of half-naked men, likely in alpha jock mode, not my comfort zone.

But Dalton’s advice to not take any shit the first day floats to the forefront of my thoughts and I force my eyes up, tamping down a relieved huff.

Almost all the guys are already showered, dressed, and waiting for my arrival.

Dalton’s sitting on the bench in front of his locker, arms folded across his chest, a frown turning down the corner of his mouth.

I narrow an eye, but he just shakes his head in what looks more like a twitch.

The announcement that we’re moving to the press room is on the tip of my tongue when a guy swaggers out of the shower stalls.

All the clothed athletes in the room fade into the shadows as a focal spotlight lands on the epic amount of skin on display.

The oversized towel the player could have wrapped around his waist is instead being used to towel off a mop of red hair and leaving the rest of him on full display.

I try to focus on the player’s face, but of course the first place my gaze lands is on the modestly endowed dick swinging between his legs with each purposeful step.

When I do meet his eyes, a name flashes into place from the profiles.

Trent Belanger is grinning like a wet, naked fox.

A quick side glance at Dalton, who’s watching me and not his teammate, speaks volumes.

So this is the shit he was referring to on my coffee cup.

Trent is testing me, pushing at the boundaries.

There’s a challenge in the set of Dalton’s jaw.

Do you want me to handle this, Jenna? As a boyfriend, I have no doubt Dalton would rip his teammate a new asshole for flashing me some dick, but he’s not my boyfriend.

We’re not even supposed to know each other.

Plus, I don’t need a hero. I can stand up for myself.

I’m not tipsy at a bar recovering from a day of catastrophic circumstances and poor decisions. Today, I’m a sober boss ass bitch.