So This Is War

“Who the fuck keeps eating my bologna?” I yell as I toss the empty bologna bag in the trash. “And who leaves the empty deli bag in the fridge? That’s fucking rude.” I turn toward OC who is sitting at one of the tables in the cafeteria, eating a protein bar. “Is it you?”

His nose crinkles. “Dude, I know better by now not to touch your bologna.”

“Please tell me when you say bologna, you’re talking about Posey’s disgusting sandwiches and not something else?” Silas asks as he walks into the cafeteria and grabs an electrolyte drink.

Silas Taters is one of my very best friends and our right wing. A quick motherfucker, he practically tiptoes across the ice, nearly outskating all our opponents. He was a grumpy asshole for a bit before he met Ollie, who is now the most important person in his life. He lives and breathes to see her, and they’re together, thanks to me.

And before you get confused and ask who the other best friends are, let me just give you a quick rundown.

Pacey Lawes is our goalie. Ten out of ten in the stretching department, he can do the splits without cracking his nuts in half. He’s probably the most levelheaded out of all of us and is currently engaged to Winnie. They’re in love and happy . . . because of me.

Then there’s Eli Hornsby. Our other defenseman besides myself. He has the prettiest goddamn face you will ever lay your eyes on, likes green apples and French silk pie, and got Pacey’s sister, Penny, pregnant. They had a baby, named him Holden, and now they’re living happily ever after and in love . . . because of me.

Rounding it all out is Halsey Holmes. A book nerd, the quiet one, the mysterious center with the speed of a goddamn gazelle, he holds the record for most goals in Agitators history and has the girthiest dick on the team. We’re talking a thick motherfucker that scared me once in the shower. He’s currently married—got married over the summer—to Blakely, who works for the Agitators and Cane Enterprises. Yeah, both. Blakely is so good that after the wedding, the Agitators front office asked her to do some contract work and gave her office space so she could work both jobs while being close to her husband. Talk about fucking power. She’s also Penny’s best friend. But Blakely and Halsey are happily married and in love . . . because of me!

Are you seeing a trend here?

All these assholes are head over heels, living in their lover era, because of me.

OC, Oden O’Connor, is the only lonely one left besides yours truly because I haven’t had the chance to dig my meaty claws into him yet. But word on the street is he has a thing with one of our athletic trainers. We got drunk one night and shared some secrets. He told me about Grace, and well . . . we don’t have to talk about what I told him.

“I have a hell of a lot more respect for bologna than to refer to my dick as the most delicious meaty substance ever formed,” I say. “So no, I wasn’t talking about something else. I was talking about my fucking bologna. Someone has been eating it.”

“You sound like one of those bears from that Goldilocks story,” OC says. And then in a deep voice, he carries on, “Someone’s been sleeping in my bed. Someone’s been eating my bologna.”

“If only someone has been sleeping in my bed,” I mutter. Been a bit of a drought as of late. I blame these teammates of mine. I’ve been so busy taking care of their lives that I haven’t been able to take care of mine.

But that stops today.

After tonight’s game, I’m going out, and I’m going to pick someone up. We are going to fuck. My dick will be happy. And then everything will be right in the world.

“You really should get yourself a girlfriend,” Taters says as he kicks back and puts his feet up on one of the tables. I quickly push his feet off.

“Show some respect. Pacey nervously eats his protein bar on that table before games,” I chastise.

“Seriously, though, wasn’t it last season when OC let the cat out of the bag and told us that you’re crushing on some girl? What ever happened with that?”

OC slowly sinks into his chair, knowing full well he broke our drunk-guy code that night. It was in a text thread. He was getting all riled up, probably trying to gain likes since he was the new guy at the time, and blurted it out. He received a stern talking-to after that and was put on probation.

He has yet to be fully trusted again.

“Nothing happened,” I answer. “And it’s nothing you need to concern yourself with. That is private information that never should have seen the light of day in the group chat.”

“Says the guy who butts into everyone else’s love lives,” says Taters.

“Oh fuck off,” I say as I take a seat at the table, bologna sandwich-less. “The only love life I butted in on was Halsey’s, but that’s because it was low-hanging fruit, and there was no way he was going to pluck it. Other than that, I was a savior to the rest of you. And you’re welcome, by the way. I take presents as thank-yous. Expensive watches, fancy shoes, and tailored suits.”

“You’re delusional,” Taters says.

I glance over at the fridge, contemplating what to do. I need a sandwich before my game, but I’m not one to send an SOS to the staff. If this were Taters or Hornsby, they probably would have already sent someone to the store to buy more bologna.

Not me. I’m a gentleman, not a diva.

“It looks like he’s thinking about his sandwich,” OC says.

“That’s because he is. He needs one before every game.”

I stare my two teammates down. “It gives me protein and energy,” I say. “It makes me skate harder and faster. It gives me comfort and ease. Bologna is the reason I’m able to accurately dig the puck away from our opponent from behind the net. It isn’t just any sandwich. It’s magic. So excuse me for needing that fucking sandwich.” My fists grow tight as I try to take calming breaths and . . . wait. I turn toward OC and Taters and say, “Did one of you motherfuckers take my bologna? Because if you did, it’s not funny. So just bring me my bologna, and no one will get hurt.”

I hold out my hand, but Taters and OC don’t move.

Finally, OC says, “Dude, although it’s slightly entertaining watching you spiral over processed meat, I know better than to fuck with your bologna.”

“Same,” Taters says, holding his hands up in defense. “The whole team knows better.”

I slam my fist on the table. “Then who the fuck did it?”

“Posey!” I nearly fly out of my chair at the sound of my coach’s voice. I turn to see him standing in the doorway of the cafeteria, looking like he’s ready to blow his fist through the wall.

Did he . . . did he take my bologna?

“Coach Wood,” I say, straightening up. “Can I help you⁠—”

“My office. Now.” He walks away, his bald head glistening under the fluorescent lights in the hallway.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “I think my dick just shriveled up.”

“If yours didn’t, mine sure as hell did,” OC says.

“What the hell could that be about?” Taters asks, looking concerned.

“I don’t know, but will you come with me and hold my hand?” I ask.

“Fuck, no.” Taters shakes his head. “You’re on your own.”

I glance over at OC, and he shakes his head as well. “Sorry, man. That’s a you thing.”

“And here I thought you were my friends. My family.” I push my chair in and head down the hallway toward my coach’s office.

Sure, I might be a thirty-two-year-old man with plenty of life experience under my belt, but that will never change the fact that I still want to weep into my pillow when my coach demands I join him in his office. From college to professional, I’ve always feared the dreaded office visit because nothing good comes from it.

Nothing.

It means they’ve found out about something you did, and you have to sit there and get lectured and berated about how you need to be a better example. How you need to be a better representative for the team.

Like, don’t fuck your teammate’s sister.

That was college.

Don’t get wasted the night before a game and sit your bare ass on the coach’s car windshield that’s covered in snow.

Also college.

Don’t run around the locker room naked and towel-whip your teammates in the ass.

That was last season before the playoffs, and to be honest, the zip in the ass propelled us to win the Cup . . . so once again, some thanks would be appreciated.

I probably have two solid years left on the ice, but that doesn’t lessen the anxiety ramping up in my chest over what Coach Wood will say to me.

I have this sick and twisted feeling in my stomach about what’s going to happen.

I very much want to do anything to please my coach because that’s how I was raised. Respect your coach, do what he says, don’t fuck up.

Well . . . looks like I’ve fucked up, and I don’t know how.

It’s not like I’ve fucked anyone recently, which is what most of my infractions are, despite not mentioning them above. I fuck the wrong person, and it comes back to bite me in the ass.

The reporter.

The opposing team’s social media manager.

The owner’s wife.

Oye, that one nearly got me kicked out of the league.

But in my defense, I wasn’t aware of these things, and it wasn’t until later that I found out my dick was in the wrong pussy.

The very wrong pussy.

But this can’t be that. Lately, I’ve developed a difficult case of blue balls.

So what could it be?

When I reach his door, I give it a knock only for him to yell, “Get your ass in here.”

Yup, dick is completely shriveled.

I’m in trouble.

Is this a baby mama situation?

Please no, please no baby mamas. I’m not ready for diapers and bottles. I’m still as immature as a twelve-year-old.

On a shaky breath, I walk into his office and find him sitting in his chair, leaning back, hands crossed over his stomach.

I nervously lift my hand at him in a wave.

“Sit,” he says tersely, so I quickly take a seat and look him in the eyes. If I know one thing about Coach Wood, he doesn’t like squirrely men. He likes confident players, so even though my innards shiver in fear, I’ll still pay him the respect he demands. “Do you remember the time I saved you from making a grave mistake in Washington?”

Ehhh . . . what?

I mean, yes, I do, but that is not the first sentence I expected him to say.

I shift in my chair. “Uh, with that one girl at the bar?” I ask.

He nods. “She was an undercover reporter, and you had no idea. You were about to take her up to your room, and I stopped you.”

I nod. “Yes, you really did me a solid there,” I say, unsure of where this is going since that was over a year ago.

“I’m glad you see it that way.” He leans forward and places his hands on his desk. Looking me dead in the eyes, he says, “I’m going to need you to return the favor.”

“Uhh . . . you want me to stop you from taking an undercover reporter up to your room?”

“No, you moron.” He sighs with irritation. “I need you to do me a favor.”

“Oh.” I nervously chuckle. “Well, that I can do.”

“Good.” He clasps his hands together. “I need you to teach my daughter a lesson.”

“You have a daughter? When did that happen?”

“Twenty-two years ago.”

“Huh, interesting.” He has a daughter? How many years has he been our coach? How the hell did we not know he had a daughter? I cross one leg over the other and casually say, “You know, we don’t get to talk much. What is she like? Are you close with her? Do you⁠—”

“Can you shut the fuck up?”

I uncross my leg and sit up straight. “Yup, of course. So . . . you were saying . . .”

“I need you to teach my daughter a lesson.”

Confused, I tilt my head to the side and say, “Uh, what kind of lesson, sir? Because I’ll be honest with you, education and school really weren’t my strong suit. Wasn’t really into the whole learning thing or tutoring. Although I do excel at meddling. Perhaps I can offer you some help in that regard.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly growing increasingly more frustrated with me by the second. Too bad for him, I grow more irritating the more nervous I am. “Not an actual lesson. Jesus fuck, Posey, you need to stop getting into fights on the ice.” He picks up a pen and clicks it a few times. “I need you to hire my daughter as your personal assistant. I know you don’t have one, correct?”

“Correct,” I answer. “But how is me hiring your daughter as my personal assistant going to teach her a lesson?”

“Glad you asked.” He leans back in his chair now, looking more like a manipulating mastermind than the scary coach who screams at me daily. “My daughter, Wylie, has recently told me she wants to quit school, even though she has one year left in her master’s program. She’s been taking business classes, setting herself up for a great future, but instead wants to pursue graphic art.”

“Ah.” I nod, not quite understanding. “And that is a . . . bad thing?”

“Yes, it’s a bad thing. Do you really think I want my daughter to be a struggling artist?”

“Well, to be fair,” I say, “she does have you as a father, so would she really be struggling?”

His eyes narrow, and I realize that maybe I don’t debate him on the welfare of his child but instead go along with whatever plan he has in mind.

“Although.” I nervously laugh. “It would be a great life lesson to learn if she sees what kind of hardship it would be to be a struggling artist in a world of capitalism.”

That lightens the scowl in his forehead. Despite the many fights on the ice, that was a pretty impressive comeback if I do say so myself.

“Glad you see it that way.” He clears his throat. “To keep things short, I told her she could have one semester off to prove to me that she could handle making a life for herself as a graphic artist. If she can’t make a life for herself, she must return to school. The caveat is that I’ve cut her off completely, but I told her I’d offer her a job that she’d probably have to take as a graphic artist to pay the bills. She agreed, which leads me back to you. You are the job. You will pay her minimum wage, and you will be demanding.”

“Uh, what now?” I ask, blinking a few times.

“As your assistant, I require you to make her run around town, do illogical tasks, and work at all hours of the day. I want you to make her life a living hell, Posey. Show her that finishing school would be better than being a struggling artist.”

“Wow, that sounds great. Quite the lesson to be learned,” I say, trying to hide the sarcasm from my voice. “But I have to say, I’m not that high-maintenance.”

“Then find a way to be high-maintenance. Have her clean your apartment. Make you meals. Do your shopping, your laundry. For fuck’s sake, make her feed you your dinner because you’re saving your energy for your games. Be respectful, as this is my daughter, but make her life hell.”

“Uh-huh, I see where you’re going with this, and wow, what a great plan.” I slowly clap for him. “But I’m slightly hesitant because I do have a reputation and⁠—”

“I already have an NDA for her to sign.”

I nod, trying to come up with another reason as to why I don’t want to be an asshole to my coach’s daughter.

“What if I upset her?” I ask. “I don’t want her going to you, and you getting pissed at me.”

“If you upset her, I’ll give you a goddamn bonus. I’ll cover any fines you might incur through the season. I’m asking you to upset her.”

“Yup, I hear that.” I point at my ear. “Just feel uneasy about that aspect of it. I’m a pretty nice dude. Not one to hurt someone’s feelings.”

“Jesus Christ, Posey,” Coach yells. “You beat men up on the ice for a living. I’m asking you to be a little demanding with my daughter. Is that something you really can’t fucking handle?”

I quiver from the anger in his voice.

“No, I can.” I swallow hard. “For sure I can, but you know, there’s also the aspect of paying her. I tend to invest my money, so I’m not sure I can afford⁠—”

“If you can’t afford to pay my daughter minimum wage for a semester, then we need to talk about your spending habits.”

“Quite right, quite right.” I nod, starting to come up short with excuses. I snap my finger and point at him. “You know, I actually enjoy the mundane tasks of life, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to give them up. Nothing gives me more joy than picking up a pack of batteries from the corner store because I forgot to write them down on my grocery list. So you know⁠—”

“For fuck’s sake, Posey. Are you trying to tell me you can’t do me this little favor?” His eyes bore into me, like lasers trying to blow my head off my neck. “Because I would hate to see what happens if you can’t.”

And this is why I should stop sleeping around. This very reason.

Because people hold it against you at the most inopportune time.

Also, I’m pretty sure Coach Wood doesn’t really understand the definition of a favor. It’s a simple ask like, oh hey, can you help me move? Or heck, I have an itch on my back, can you get that for me? Or egad, I forgot my underwear, mind if I grab a pair of yours?

Those are favors. This is . . . this is a chore.

This is a task.

This is an objective.

A mission.

A secret operative.

A goddamn developing nightmare that I want nothing to do with.

But that doesn’t seem like an option for me.

“Uh, no,” I say, tacking on a smile. “I can help you. This won’t be a problem at all.”

“Good.” He picks up a piece of paper and hands it to me.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Ground rules.”

“Ground rules?” I ask, staring down at the paper.

“Yes, ground rules.” He picks up a piece of paper as well and starts reading. “Rule number one, you are not to become friends with my daughter. You are her boss, and that is it.”

“Yup. Understandable. Establishing a⁠—”

“Rule number two.” Okay, moving on. “You will pay her minimum wage and offer her no bonuses.”

“Bonuses, pffft, who likes those anyway?”

“Rule number three,” he continues with a force in his voice. “You will not offer her a place to live.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. But just so I’m aware, will she be homeless?”

“Rule number four,” he booms. Okay, so possibly homeless. Good to know. “There will be no perks to the job. No feeding her. No car service. No transportation. No credit card. She will have to figure all of this out on her own.”

“So you want me acting as a ruthless dictator. I haven’t practiced such a thing in my life just yet, but I’m up for the task. There’s always a time for a first.”

“And most importantly, rule number five. Under no circumstances will you have any sort of physical contact with my daughter.”

“What do you mean⁠—”

“Fucking her. You will not fuck her, Posey.”

“Ahh . . .” I smile. “Well, no worries there. Pretty sure if she looks anything like you, there will be no need for rule number five.”

His brow lifts, and I realize what I just said.

“I mean, shit, I didn’t mean that. You’re actually, wow, you’re a good-looking guy, very attractive. The bald thing really accentuates your . . . uh, steely eyes, and the tan you’ve been able to procure while coaching a winter sport is really impressive. Not to mention your physique, just oof, what a bundle of muscles that are not wrinkly. Some people your age might look wrinkly, but not you. You’re firm. Firm in all the right places. So much firmness. Just look at those forearms and the sinew and firmness. Lots of firmness. And you know, just to throw it out there, not that you asked, but if I were a woman, then hell yeah, I would be talking to you about a date, or maybe a kiss or⁠—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Yup.” I nod. “Thank you for that.” I bow my head as a courteous thank-you.

“There will be no fucking her. No touching her. Don’t even look at her if you can avoid it.”

I make a check mark in the air with my finger. “Got it. No plans to go anywhere near your daughter. There will be no touching, no sexual encounters, completely and utterly platonic.”

He eyes me suspiciously, then finally says, “Good. Now sign on the line at the bottom.”

“You want me to sign this?” I ask.

“Yes, I want you to agree to these terms and sign it.”

Jokingly, I flip to the blank back page and then to the front again. “I don’t know, sir. I think I might want my lawyer to look this over. Possibly my agent.”

“Sign the fucking paper, Posey.”

“Yup,” I say, nearly jumping out of my seat from his booming voice. I grab a pen off his desk, sign quickly at the bottom, and then hand the paper back over to him. “Should we shake? Hug it out? Grab a whiskey and cheers?”

“Get the fuck out of my office.”

“Sooo, that’s a no on the celebration?”

“Get out,” he yells while pointing at the door.

“Great, yup, I wanted to leave anyway.” I stand from my chair and grip the handle to the door right before I pull away and ask, “Uh, when do I meet her?”

“Tonight, after the game. Come to my office.”

“Got it. Okay, see you then. Yay for teaching lessons.” I raise my fist in celebration.

He just points at the door. I get the hint and leave his office and head down the hallway toward the locker room, feeling like I was just put through the wringer.

So I have an assistant now.

I’d be sort of thrilled if it wasn’t the coach’s daughter.

Really thrilled if I didn’t have this sick feeling that I’m being set up to fail.

Incredibly thrilled if I wasn’t the one who had to teach this twenty-two-year-old a lesson on responsibility and career building.

What the hell am I in for?

“JUST PUT A BUTTERFLY BANDAGE OVER IT,” I say as blood drips down the side of my face.

Grace, our trainer, holds a towel to my face. “This needs to be cleaned up. I can’t just put a butterfly bandage on it.”

“I need to get back out on the ice,” I say.

“You’re winning by two goals and have one minute left in the game. You’re going to the training room. Now move.”

Irritated, I take the towel from her, press it against my face myself, then let her guide me back to the training room, fans on either side cheering me on as I leave the game. Surprisingly, this was not from a fight. Instead, it was an elbow to the head. Must have been a hard as shit elbow because I’ve never broken skin like this before.

Just my luck.

When we reach the training room, Grace tells me to take a seat on one of the benches, so I do as I’m told, sit down, and then pull my jersey up and over my head while Grace gathers the supplies she needs.

She glances over at me and says, “I’d appreciate it if you hold the towel to your head to help with the bleeding and not disrobe yourself.”

“Sorry,” I mutter as I bring the towel back up to my forehead, right above my eye.

When she comes over with her supplies, she sets them down on the bench and says, “You seem a bit off tonight. Any reason?”

“Off?” I say. “How so?”

“Well, normally, if someone elbowed you in the head, you would have tossed your gloves and gone after them. You wouldn’t have stood there, stunned. I think the fans were just as confused as your teammates. Think they were looking for a Posey Brawl.”

“Oh,” I say. “I guess I didn’t think about it.”

“Which means you were thinking about something else. Care to share what that is?”

“Not really,” I say because I’m not sure I’m even aware of what’s going on.

When I went back to the boys, they asked what Coach Wood wanted, and I told them that his daughter was looking for work and wondered if I needed an assistant. I left it at that. I felt like if I got into the details, they’d ask a lot of questions, and I wasn’t up for it.

“Well, if you need someone to talk to about it, I’m here. You know, if it’s girl troubles or something like that.”

“Thanks, Grace,” I say as she starts cleaning my cut. “I do have a question for you.”

“Yeah?” she asks as she picks up some gauze. “What is it?”

“Do you happen to know who is eating my bologna?”

She pauses and lifts away from me to look me in the eyes. “That’s your question?”

“Yes,” I groan. “Someone is eating it, and I didn’t get to have my pre-game sandwich today and I think it made me sluggish. I rely on that sandwich.”

“Bologna is terrible for you. How many times have we gone over this?”

“Bologna is my savior. Wait . . .” I look at her. “Is it you? Are you taking my bologna away because you think it’s bad for me, therefore you’re eliminating it from my diet? That’s really something we should discuss, Grace, before you start taking my bologna. Don’t you think?”

“I’m not taking your freaking bologna, Posey. I might think it’s terrible for you, but I understand the importance of rituals. I wouldn’t mess with that.”

“So then who is taking my bologna?”

“You just got a gash in the head, and that’s what you’re worried about?” she asks.

“Yes, because I don’t get hurt. But I didn’t have a bologna sandwich today, so maybe that’s the reason.”

Grace shakes her head as she finishes. “That’s not the reason, but nice try. Okay, you’re all set. Do not touch the tape, as you know, and wash your face with a washcloth. See me tomorrow so I can look at it.”

I hop off the bench and grab my jersey. “Thanks, Grace.”

“Not a problem,” she says. “And hey, if you ever need to talk, I’m here.”

I offer her a smile and then head into the locker room just as the guys start filtering in, smiles on their faces. We secured the win.

“How’s the head?” Eli asks as he walks by me.

“Fine,” I answer. “All bandaged up.”

“You looked stunned out there on the ice. Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yup. Everything is fine,” I answer. “Just have a headache.”

“Posey,” Coach calls out from the entry of the locker room. “Ten minutes, my office.”

Jesus, can’t give a guy a goddamn second?

I nod, but he’s gone before he even sees me agreeing.

“What’s that about?” Eli asks.

“Meeting his daughter, who is going to be my assistant.”

“Wood’s daughter is going to be your assistant?” Eli asks. “Dude, how did that happen?”

“Wait, you knew he had a daughter?”

“Everyone knows he has a daughter.”

“Not everyone,” I mumble. “But anyway, he knew I didn’t have an assistant, and his daughter was looking for some experience.” It’s not a total lie. “Could be nice.”

“So clearly, you’ve never met her,” he says.

“No.” I take off my skates and pads, being careful of my head. “Have you?”

“Yeah. Penny introduced me once.” Eli smirks. “Dude, you have your work cut out for you.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“You’ll see.” He chuckles, then nods toward the showers. “Better wash up. Wood doesn’t like it when you’re late.”

I eye Eli for a few more seconds, but all he does is smile, so I move toward the showers and clean up. The entire time as I work through the process of trying to de-escalate my adrenaline from the game, I try to come up with a scenario where none of this will be weird and awkward, but the more I think about it, the more I regret agreeing to hire Coach Wood’s daughter.

Like . . . really fucking regret it.

And it doesn’t help that Hornsby tells me I have my work cut out for me. What the hell does that even mean?

I power through getting dressed, ignoring the chatter in the locker room, and avoiding reporters. I pocket my wallet, phone, and keys and then head toward Coach’s office without a single goodbye to my friends. It wouldn’t be the first time I snuck out.

When I reach Coach Wood’s door, I give it a knock.

“Come in,” he says.

I push through the door, half expecting his daughter to be in there, but when I see two empty chairs in front of his desk, I realize it’s just me and him again.

He looks up at me from his tablet. “How’s the head?”

“Fine,” I answer. “Good win today.”

“Could have been better,” he says. Under Coach Wood’s regime, there is always room for improvement. It’s why we won last season, and it’s why we’re on track to win this season.

I take a seat. “Is your daughter here?”

“Does she look like she’s here?” he asks.

“No, but I thought I would, I don’t know, engage in small talk.”

“Posey, does it seem like I’m the kind of guy who wants to engage in small talk?”

“Nope,” I answer, rubbing my hands over my thighs.

“She’s on her way. And when she gets here, I want to remind you of the rules we went over.”

“Trust me.” I tap my head. “They’re engrained here. I’m here to teach her a valuable lesson about earning an education and nothing more. I don’t house her. I don’t feed her. We are not friends, and I certainly don’t fuck her.”

“Correct.” He taps away on his iPad. “Because I don’t want you fucking this up, I thought it might be easier on you if I send you a list of things for her to do every week on top of her tasks. That way, you don’t slip up.”

“Oh, shit, yeah, that would be helpful. Nothing too crazy, right? Like . . . getting me adult diapers. Because I know that might seem funny to you, but it’s not funny to me.”

“I don’t have time to joke around, Posey.”

“Right,” I say while nodding. “That was foolish of me to think you would take advantage of the situation and try to embarrass me.” Or that you have any hint of a sense of humor.

“If you slip up, I will embarrass you. Keep that in mind.”

“No need to worry about me slipping up. I’m as solid as they come. Probably the most trustworthy on your team. Well-respected among the team, I’ve led the charge in many missions. I have this in the bag.”

Just then, there’s a knock on the door, and Coach Wood and I sit a little taller.

“Come in,” Coach Wood says.

Yes, please come in. Can’t wait to start this misery.

I hold my breath as the door cracks open, and a very familiar redhead pokes her head in. With a smile to her father, she says, “Is now a good time?”

“Perfect time,” Coach Wood says, his voice a touch lighter than the screaming banshee he is when we’re out on the ice.

And even though there is a distinct difference in the softness of Coach Wood when his daughter steps into the room, that is not what makes my heart beat faster.

Or my skin break out in sweat.

Nope, it’s Coach Wood’s daughter, and it’s not just because she’s insanely hot with her dark red hair and light gray eyes or her killer curves.

Nope, it’s the fact that I know that face. I know that voice. I’ve touched those legs. I’ve kissed those lips.

It’s the redhead from the bar.

The girl I’ve been searching high and low for over the better part of a year. The girl who haunts me in my sleep. The girl I think about whenever I consider hooking up with another woman. The one I compare everyone to, who no one ever comes close to matching.

The girl I hired a fucking private investigator to find. That’s how goddamn desperate I was.

Wasted money, since all I had to do was ask Coach Wood to meet his daughter.

Because holy shit, she’s here.

“Posey,” Coach Wood snaps, and I’m quickly tossed out of my reverie.

“Yes, hi.” I clear my throat and hold out my hand awkwardly. “I’m Levi Posey, your new boss.”

With a devilish smirk on her lips, Wylie—now I know her goddamn name—sits down in the chair next to me and takes my hand in hers. Just like last time, a bolt of electricity shoots up my arm and straight to my cock.

Mother of fuck . . .

“Great to meet you, Levi. I look forward to tending to your every need.”

She lets go of my hand and turns to her father, who doesn’t seem too pleased.

Maybe it was my staring.

Maybe it was her sexual innuendo.

Maybe because this office now feels like a pressure cooker.

Either way, he looks back and forth between us and says, “Wylie, you understand your job responsibilities, correct?”

“Oh yes, to be at Mr. Posey’s beck and call.”

“Levi,” I croak out. “Levi is fine.”

“To keep things professional, I prefer Mr. Posey,” Wylie says with a glint in her stormy eye.

Jesus, is it hot in here? Because it feels really hot. Is it just me?

“Posey, you recall what we spoke about with boundaries?” Coach Wood asks, still eyeing me.

“Yes,” I squeak. “Yup, all good there.” I clear my throat. “Is there a, uh, start time⁠—”

“Tomorrow would be great,” Wylie says. “Actually, I’d love to go over what you need from me and your expectations if you’re free.”

Unsure if that’s a smart idea, I glance over at Coach Wood, who gives a slight nod. Since I have the go-ahead, I say, “I’m free. Do we want to grab a⁠—”

“One of the media rooms will be fine for your use,” Coach Wood says.

“Yup, I was going to suggest that,” I say even though I wasn’t. I was going to say grab a drink, but he doesn’t need to know that. “We can grab a media room.”

“Perfect. Let me snag us a couple of drinks from the cafeteria, and I’ll meet you in media room B. Does that work?” Wylie asks.

“Sure,” I reply.

She stands from her chair and taps on her dad’s desk. “Thanks for the opportunity, Dad. I really appreciate it.” And then she’s off, skipping right out of his office.

When the door shuts and I start to stand, Coach dangerously points his finger at me while his brow contorts into a valley of crevices. “Listen to me, you fuck,” he starts, apparently forgetting his bedside manners for people doing him a favor. “I saw the way you just looked at her, and if you even think about her in any way other than your coach’s extremely off-limits daughter, I will personally slice your dick off with a rusty pair of skates. Got it?”

I swallow the lump in my throat and attempt an even smile, but it feels more deranged than welcoming and reassuring. “You won’t need to worry about me when it comes to your daughter,” I say as fear pulses up my spine. Because holy fuck, he’s right. Wylie isn’t the redhead I’ve been thinking about for a year. Wylie is my coach’s daughter.

But not just that.

She is my scary coach’s daughter.

Meaning, despite the kiss we shared or the way she made me feel that night, she is completely and utterly off limits.

“I’m counting on you,” Coach Wood says. “I’ll email you tasks for her to complete. Don’t fuck this up.”

“You can count on me,” I say with a fist pump, feeling like a complete asshat.

Coach Wood ignores my enthusiasm and goes back to his tablet, silently excusing me.

Probably best.

I leave his office and make my way down to the media room, where I part the door only to find an empty room. I step inside and take a seat on one of the leather couches. I rub my sweaty palms across my pant legs and try to work this out.

I’ve been a decent human. I donate time and money to charitable causes. I’m a good teammate and an even better friend. Sure, I’ve slept around a bit, but every woman has been a more than willing participant. I wouldn’t say that’s a black mark on my name that would put me in such a position where I need to repay my coach by hiring his daughter—who I’ve secretly been trying to find for a year—the one and only woman who has actually made me think I want more.

I drag my hand over my face.

What are the fucking chances?

Pretty good apparently.

The door to the media room opens, and Wylie comes in, holding two coffees, each with a cookie resting on top. The door shuts behind her, and she saunters over to me in a pair of jogger pants and a crop top. I try to avoid looking at her exposed stomach, but I’m a guilty fucker as she moves closer. I can’t help it. I’ve never found a woman as attractive to me as she is. She checks all my fucking boxes. Every single one of them.

“Thought you might want a little treat after such a great win.” She hands me the coffee with the cookie on top, then empties her pocket of sugars and creamers. “Not sure how you take your coffee, but I’ll learn.” Taking a seat, she turns toward me, propping one leg up on the couch just like the night we spent together. “How’s your head? Looks like a nasty gash.”

Is she really not going to address the giant elephant in the room? I know she knows who I am. There’s no way she didn’t know who I was that night. And she sure as hell can’t fake it now. So I decide to break the silence on the past.

“So we’re not going to talk about the first time we met?”

She presses her hand to her chest. “You remember that night?”

I nearly crumple my coffee cup in my hand as I say in a low voice, “Of course I remember that night. I sought you out. I wanted you. We kissed. It was phenomenal. You took off before I could even find out your name. You’ve left me wondering about you for a goddamn year.”

“Technically,” she says, holding up her finger, “it wasn’t a full year, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“And the reason you didn’t tell me your name, was that because of who your dad is?”

“That and protection. How did I know you weren’t going to be some creep who took me back to your hotel room to do freaky things to me like tie me down and smell my feet?”

“Does it look like I’m that kind of man?”

She casually shrugs. “Never can be too sure.”

“And then you took off, out of nowhere.” I lean in even closer and say, “You were palming my dick.”

“Was I?” she asks, sipping her coffee. “I can barely remember.”

“Well, I fucking remember,” I say. “I’ve remembered almost every goddamn night.”

“That’s sweet,” she says. “And I love this reminiscing, but I truly think we should keep this professional, so if you could not talk about me palming your dick, I would appreciate it.”

“Excuse me for trying to wrap my head around all of this. You knew who I was that night. I had no fucking clue who you were.”

“And now you do, so everyone is in the know. Should we talk living arrangements?”

“Uh, what?” I ask.

“As your assistant, I’m assuming you’ll need me at all hours, so I’m guessing you’ll need me to live with you.”

Live with me? Is she fucking insane? I couldn’t think of a worse situation. Shacking up with Wylie Wood? Nope. Not when she’s off limits. The last thing I need is for her to be walking around my place in nothing but a towel, all wet from her shower.

Nope. Not going to happen.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll need you that much,” I say. “Feel free to stay wherever you are.”

“I really don’t mind,” she says. “I want to be the best assistant I can be.”

“And I’m sure you’ll be the best assistant ever . . . from your place of residence.”

Her eyes bore into me, the same fucking eyes as her father, but whereas his are scary . . . hers are mesmerizing.

Oh, fuck me . . .