Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“All that aside,” he continues. “If Reese thinks the relationship is something solid and something worth the work that goes into maintaining such a thing, then they’d have to go on record with not only me but the owner, Mr. McLaren, about said relationship. It's not illegal, and it wouldn't be the catalyst for losing her role as social media manager, but if the relationship affected her quality of work or his quality of play or created massive turmoil between team members...” His voice goes silent, and he looks at me without one ounce of humor in his eyes. “Then that would be cause for termination and justly so. Either on her end or on the player’s end, he'd likely be traded immediately.”
My stomach churns. Lawson may have wanted to be traded in the beginning of all this, to the Sharks no less, but now I knew he didn’t have any interest in that. The idea of me being the reason he’s traded makes me feel a little sick.
Anger, possibly irrationally so, replaces the nausea, bringing me back to what happened on the ice.
Lawson had no right to throw Waller down just because he said some misogynistic shit to me. It didn't give him the right to lay hands on him. And now look at the mess we’re in. Could he not control his instincts for a couple hours of practice? And what would happen if somebody said something worse to me someday?
The possibilities swirled in my mind, each scenario making me angrier than the next.
“Hypothetically,” Dad says, bringing me back to the present. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
I bite my lip, stopping the truth from spilling as I shake my head.
“All right then,” he says, drumming a little beat with his hands on the desk before he motions to the door. “You're free to go, Coach Wren,” he continues. “I gave a good stern talking-to to Waller and Wolfe, so that shouldn't be a problem again, but if you get even a whiff of a comment like that from anyone on this team, I want you to come straight to me.”
I push away from the desk, my hand on the knob of his front door. “Yes, Coach,” I say, hurrying out of his office before I can say anything else that might get me in trouble.
Besides, there is only one person I'm interested in talking to right now, and quite possibly directing some of this rage that's bubbling beneath my skin, and that's Lawson fucking Wolfe.
I send him a quick text asking if he's at home, and when he says yes and that's all, I take that as invitation enough.
I make it to his apartment in under fifteen minutes, and he's opening the door before I even have time to knock.
I hesitate a couple steps into his place, knowing that this is usually the time that I’d crack a joke or that he’d scoop me into his arms and whisk me away for some much-needed cosmic bliss between the sheets.
But this visit isn’t about that, and suddenly I feel like I’m stranded in uncharted waters.
“You look like something's about to bust right out of you,” he says, taking up a lean against the bar that connects his living room and kitchen.
I mimic his position, leaning against the back of the couch just across from him.
“You might as well get it out.”
“What the hell was that?” I release the pent-up question.
Lawson folds his muscled arms over his chest and shrugs.
The man fucking shrugs.
I copy the shrug but add a dramatic flair to it because I'm just a little bit peeved. “That's it? That's your entire response?”
“What do you want me to say, Blakely?” he asks, and I think it's the first time I've ever heard him have even a hint of anger in his usually super chill and cocky tone. “He was being a dick to you.”
“That's to be expected,” I snap, taking a few steps closer to him. “I knew the second I took this job that it’d be hard to convince a bunch of burly, arrogant, chip-on-their-shoulder NHL players that a figure skater might be able to help them with their game. Do you think I care that he accused me of fucking a Shark? It certainly didn’t give you ground to put hands on him—”
“You think I don't know that?” he cuts me off, pushing away from the counter and meeting me to where we're only a breath away from each other.
I have to arch my neck to hold his frustrated gaze.
“I know that just because he was flying off at the mouth didn't mean I could take his head off, but what do you want me to say? I fucking reacted. Do I regret it? I don't know, maybe. I haven't had enough time and distance from it to see if I do. But he's an asshole, and he always has been, and when he said that you were fucking a Shark when you were just trying to help us, it flipped a switch in me.”