Right Man, Right Time

From my purse, I pull out the picture frame I bought last night and filled with a picture of Silas. It was a random thought after he left, and I couldn’t think of anything more perfect for Candace to see while she walked by my cubicle this sunny Monday morning. Sure, we have a few weeks left before the school year starts, and I won’t be in the office that much longer, but it felt . . . apropos to solidify this boyfriend thing with a picture. Really shove it in her face.

And I must admit, I picked an amazing picture.

Shirt pulled up halfway, showing off the deep V in his waist and his endless stack of abs. His wet hair hanging around his shoulders, the scruff on his face defining his sharp jawline, and those freaking eyes of his, crystal blue and sparkling, as they dangerously look at the camera. He’s fucking hot.

Yup, I said it.

So hot.

Like take me to the hardware store to purchase an A/C unit for my nether region hot.

And broad. Huge actually. I didn’t notice it until he was in my dorm yesterday, soaking up what little space I had.

Tall.

Muscular.

Just overall, a very large presence of body mass and attractiveness.

And he just so happened to leave his sweatshirt at my place yesterday, so I might have tried it on, you know, just to see how things fit. It was the most luxurious piece of clothing I’ve ever put on my body. Oversized, it came down to my thighs and smelled like high-end cologne that makes women weak in the knees.

Good thing I’m immune to it.

There are no weak knees where I’m concerned.

I can admit when someone is sexy, and he is. And I can admit that wearing his sweatshirt felt nice because it did. But I also know where to draw the line, and no way in hell will I be mixing any business with pleasure.

For one, the man seems complicated. Let’s face it, he’s looking for a pretend girlfriend to make an old girlfriend jealous. He probably still has feelings for said old girlfriend, and that’s a tangled web I want nothing to do with. It’s messy, and I don’t do messy.

Also, he’s on a different path than I am. It seems that playing professional hockey sucks all the time from your life. Even though I have school and an internship, I still very much like having fun. I like to go out and party and have a good time. I’m pretty sure his good time is staying at home and fiddling around with knitting needles—this has not been confirmed, just an assumption.

And finally, I’m not sure we have a lot in common besides an appreciation for gym equipment. You can only talk about your favorite kind of racking system so many times. Therefore, to sum the last few paragraphs up, there is no way, on my two perfect nipples, that I will ever find myself in the arms of Silas Taters—unless it’s for business.

Glad we’re on the same page.

I glance at the picture, focusing longer on his abs. His regimen must be insane to have such little body fat. It’s hard to hold back my smile because in all honesty, I feel like I’m getting the better end of the deal.

“My, oh my, what do we have here?” Ross asks, coming into my cubicle space. He picks up the picture and stares at it for a few seconds. “I don’t think this is suitable for work. At least, that’s the angle Candace will take to get you to remove this brain-melting picture.”

“Ew, do you really think she will?”

Ross raises his brow. “Please, she’s probably already figuring out a way to tell you what she saw last night was an illusion and not reality.”

“You’re probably right.” I reach into my purse and pull out a stack of photos. “Good thing I printed multiple copies yesterday.”

Ross chuckles and shakes his head at the same time. “God, I love you so much.”

I wave the pictures in front of my face. “Always come prepared. You never know what the tyrant Candace might throw at you during any given day.”

“Did I hear my name?” Candace says, appearing out of nowhere.

Good God!

Evil!

Who does that? Who can hear their name and quickly appear out of thin air?

Witches, that’s who.

Tacking on a pleasant facade, I say, “Why, yes, Candace, you did.”

“Hopefully all good things.” She offers me a smile that seems more condescending than anything.

Good things . . . I’m not sure I can utter one nice thing about the woman. Even her precious Post-it Notes are an irritating color. Seafoam green? Always go with neon. Post-it Notes are meant to be SEEN, not used as an aesthetic.

“Of course, we only ever say great things about you.” I smile back.

“Oh, is that a picture of your boyfriend?” She points at the picture of Silas.

“Yes, it is. Since we’re now out in public, I figured it would be okay to bring in a picture to remind me of what a fine piece of ass I get to grab every night.”

Ross coughs and hides his grin. Candace is not amused.

“Were you hiding your relationship before?” she asks.

I nod. “Yup. Since he plays professional hockey, we figured we’d keep it quiet until we were ready to announce.”

“I see.” She folds her arms and stares at the picture. “Seems a little crude for the workplace, don’t you think?” Ross called it. Candace, the pearl clutcher, ruining everyone’s life.

I glance at the picture and then back at her. “I don’t think so. It just reminds me how I get to lick those abs every chance I get.”

Ross chokes out a laugh while Candace’s eyes narrow. “That’s inappropriate, Ollie.”

“Oh, did I offend you?” I ask. “Is it because Yonny doesn’t have abs to lick?”

“He’s actually put on some muscle.” Oh please, the man has ramen noodle arms, and we all know it. “Now that he’s shed an old relationship, he can focus on himself and not play second fiddle to the ego he used to date.”

Oh.

My.

Fuck.

No, she did not.

Where the hell does she get the nerve?

I lean back in my chair, nostrils flared. “I know you’re talking about me, Candace.”

“Good, because I was.” She folds her arms tighter and juts out her hip. What does she plan on doing with that stance? I could take her down with one swipe to the leg. One knife-hand to the throat. One sharpened pencil straight to the tit.

My hand itches for an attack, something she’s not expecting. Teach her a freaking lesson on who to mess with.

“Ehh, you know, maybe we should all get to work,” Ross says, clearly aware of the building tension. But guess who doesn’t want any part in calming down? The Post-it Note Prostitute.

She leans forward, coffee ripe on her breath, and says, “I don’t buy it for one second that you’re dating Silas Taters. You either know him or struck up some sort of deal.”

What sort of wizardry does this woman possess? Has she bugged my dorm room? Tapped into my text messages? Become a mind reader and can hear and see my every freaking thought? In all seriousness, I fear for Yonny because this woman has the potential to take down empires.

But of course, being the prideful woman that I am, I can’t possibly show her that she’s right. I will take this secret to my grave.

To the freaking grave! *pounds finger into table* There is no way in hell Candace Roundhouse will ever know that I struck a deal with Silas Taters. She will only think that he is the love of my freaking life.

“Wow, what a fantasy you’re living in,” I say. “Does it make you feel better, trying to come up with some sort of storyline like that?”

“I’m not coming up with a storyline. You know how I know you’re lying?” she says, taking a step closer, her burgundy wool skirt scraping across my knee. Hideous, Candace, just hideous. “Because you were panicking the moment you saw that I assigned you hockey. If you were really dating Silas Taters, there wouldn’t have been an ounce of panic in your eyes.”

If only she weren’t so clever—cunning—it would make fighting with her so much easier.

“There was no panic. There was shock because I assumed I would be assigned something in lifestyle, not sports. Also, the last thing I want to do is bother my boyfriend with hockey questions. He has better things to do like . . . win championships.”

“Your boyfriend is a hockey player?” a deep, recognizable voice says.

Oh no . . .

All our heads turn toward where Mr. Roberts is standing, cup of coffee in hand, a permanent crease in his brow. Known for wearing only dark gray suits, he combs his slightly thinning salt-and-pepper hair neatly to the side while his well-trimmed mustache twitches with his question. Some interns in the office have believed that his mustache is its own organism that just lives on Roberts’s face. I’m not a believer . . . at least that’s what I tell myself.

“Mr. Roberts,” I say, my body wavering between sitting, standing, and possibly curtseying. We never see him down here among the company peons. He’s a high and mighty kind of dude, not one with the people. “Uh, good morning.”

He sips his coffee, scanning all of us. “Good morning.” He glances at the name tag on my cubicle and says, “Ollie, is it?”

“Yes, that would be me.”

He nods. “You wrote that piece about romance books and how they apply to everyday life, didn’t you?”

Good God, he knows of my work. The curtsey is feeling more and more necessary.

“Guilty,” I reply while raising my hand.

“My wife liked it.” Oh, the wife you cheat on with the head of the journalism department? How lovely.

“Oh . . . well . . . thank you to your wife.” I dip my head in a slight bow, hating myself.

“What’s this about a hockey player?”

Smiling a devilish gleam, Candace says, “Our very own Ollie Owens is dating Silas Taters from the Agitators.”

Roberts’s eyes widen as he takes another sip of his coffee. “Are you, now?”

I swallow hard and nod, suddenly feeling the pressure of this lie. It was all fun and games when it was just to make Candace jealous, but I don’t particularly enjoy the look on Roberts’s face. He’s . . . beaming with excitement.

“Yes, Silas and I are dating,” I answer because what else can I say? Candace is watching my every move.

He nods again, and it’s the kind of nod that says he’s thinking, not just taking a general interest in my life. And that’s terrifying. You should never have your boss think about you . . . not in the conspiratorial way Roberts is.

Finally, he taps the top of my cubicle wall. “Make an appointment with my assistant. I’d like to speak to you today.”

And my nipples just shriveled up.

“Oh sure, I’ll, uh, get right on that,” I say, stumbling over my words.

He doesn’t offer me a reassuring response. Instead, he takes off down the hall, leaving me in a wake of “oh fuck.”

“Well, that should be a fun conversation,” Candace says while adjusting the waistband of her skirt.

“Why do you say that?” I try to hide the panic in my voice, but I do a poor job of it.

“Roberts has a vendetta against the owner of the Agitators. Despises the man. Did you not know that?” Candace smiles again. “Roberts is also a huge Agitators fan despite hating the owner. Looks like you should do some more research, then you wouldn’t be put in these situations. Have a great day.”

She’s vile.

When the know-it-all is out of earshot, I turn to Ross. “Oh my God, do you think I’m fucked?”

Ross folds his hands together, and I can sense some uneasiness in his shoulders. “What could Roberts possibly do? Not give you internship credit because you’re dating an Agitator? That’s not a thing.”

“Are you sure? It’s Alan Roberts we’re talking about. He once fired someone for wearing cologne that smelled too much like his late father.”

“For the record, it was not an appealing cologne. I think everyone was happy with that decision.”

“Ross, I’m being serious. Do you think this is going to mess with me? Should I call it off with Silas?”

“Can you?”

“We didn’t sign a contract or anything. Just kind of shook on it.”

“Do you think you could cut things off with him? Would he be okay with that?”

I think back to the way Silas looked at the bar, then at my dorm, like this was the lifeline he’d been looking for. Even though I barely know him, I feel like I also owe him for what he did for me at the bar.

Goddammit, look at me having a conscience. This is why I’ll never be a killer businesswoman. I don’t have the instinct to only take what I want and not let emotions get in the way.

“I don’t think he’d put up a fight if I called it off, but I’d feel guilty.” Really guilty.

“Then why don’t you figure out what Roberts wants first and go from there. Because thinking up ideas of what he might possibly say to you is not going to get you anything other than a stomachache and anxiety.”

“You’re right,” I say. “I need to make that appointment as soon as I can, then I can worry after the meeting.”

THREE HOURS, five cups of coffee, and four nervous pees later, I’m sitting outside Roberts’s office, waiting for him to call me in.

I considered texting Silas at least a dozen times while I waited. I drummed up every possible way I could break the news to him that I couldn’t go through with the deal, but every time I came close to considering sending him a message, I chickened out and told myself to wait it out. No reason to ruffle feathers if I don’t need to.

“Mr. Roberts will see you now,” his assistant says while buzzing his door open.

I quickly stand, pen and paper in hand, and open the door to his expansive office.

I’ve never been in here . . . ever . . . but I heard he has the best view, and whoever I heard that from was right. It’s a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows, rich mahogany furniture, and a wet bar to the right decorated with cut-glass tumblers and beautiful decanters. Fancy . . . just like his combed mustache.

“Miss Owens,” he says while lifting his head. “Please, take a seat.” He gestures toward the black leather chair in front of his desk. His office reminds me of an old-timey cigar salon. Not that I’ve been in one, but this is what I would envision. Deep, rich woods and leather, the smell of success in the air, masculinity oozing from the floor, seeping into your feet. Lowly interns like myself don’t belong here.

Once seated, I rest my pad of paper on my leg and poise my pen, ready to take down any notes.

“I see that you have chosen hockey as your final assignment.”

Chosen, ha!

More like rudely forced.

“Not to brazenly correct you, but it was assigned to me. As I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve focused more on lifestyle while working here. Sports hasn’t necessarily been my thing.”

“Some might challenge you that hockey is a lifestyle.” He picks up a pen and clicks it as he leans back in his chair.

Uh, I beg to differ, but then again, who am I to argue with the boss?

“I suppose you’re right, Mr. Roberts.”

He stares at me for a few moments. “How long have you been dating Taters?”

I always find it odd when people use last names when talking about individuals. Probably a boys club kind of thing.

“Just a few weeks,” I answer, my palms starting to sweat.

“A few weeks. Why haven’t I seen anything in the news about it? You know who the Agitators are dating is always circulating.”

“Yes, well, we wanted to keep it really quiet at first.”

“I see. What made you want to come out with your relationship?” Is this really appropriate work talk? Feels more like a gossip sesh.

Like, where’s the HR representative? I have no idea what my fake personal life has to do with my job. If I wasn’t so terrified about fucking up this internship opportunity, I would ask him what his intentions are with this conversation. You know, really stick up for me and “my man.”

“What made us come out with our relationship . . . well, we were spotted out in the world and figured we couldn’t hide forever.” That is somewhat true since we were spotted kissing in the bar by Candace, Yonny, and Ross. There was no hiding after that.

“Well.” He leans forward and rests his forearms on the desk. “Were you aware that I was going to purchase the Agitators?”

Huh, that’s news to me.

“I was not aware of that. Are you a hockey fan, sir?”

“I am. I played my entire childhood and a little in college on a club team until I hurt my knee.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Empathy is a beautiful thing in moments like this.

“It was always my goal to stay within the world of sports, but somehow, I deviated from that and ended up in print and now online journalism.”

“You’ve done a wonderful job in providing a safe place for people to visit for information and fun articles,” I say, feeling my head start to slip right up his ass.

He must notice it as well because his brows turn down as if he disapproves of my compliments. Maybe tone it down a bit, Ollie.

“Either way, I’m not a huge fan of the owner of the Agitators. We’ve had our quarrels in the past, and I’ve always wondered how he’s operated and managed the team. How he’s been able to keep the media at bay when it comes to his players. There is never a scandal. He also has a winning record, more championships than any team in history. The refs seem to always call penalties in their favor, and I believe he’s doing something to maintain relationships so his team is always in favor of the winning side of the ice.”

But aren’t you a freaking Agitators fan? Who cares? Praise the man if he’s paying off the refs.

“Oh, really?” I ask. “Yeah, I truly know nothing about hockey. I didn’t even know the Agitators were that good. I don’t think I’ve ever watched a game, so I don’t have much input on what you’re talking about.”

“Well, you will,” he says while moving his mouse around. “I want you to focus your assignment on the inner workings of the Agitators. I want you to immerse yourself into the team and dig up any information you can.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, I don’t really feel comfortable doing that, given I’m dating one of the players. It might be a conflict of interest. Best you give this assignment to someone else.”

His eyes flash to mine. “You’re dating Silas Taters. You’re not dating the organization or the owner. There’s a difference.”

Is there? Because it seems to all fall under the same umbrella if you ask me.

“I don’t know,” I say. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Are you saying you’re not going to complete the assignment?”

“What? No,” I say quickly. “I just . . .” I chew on the corner of my lip, feeling all my hard work slip from my fingers. “Maybe I could take a different angle. You know, one that doesn’t impose on my relationship with Silas.”

“Then don’t involve him. Simple as that. The less he knows, the better. We can even change the byline so it’s not reflecting you as the writer.”

“That doesn’t sound ideal,” I say, feeling my stomach churn at the thought. “What if there’s nothing to find?” I barely know Silas, yet for some reason, I feel this sense of loyalty toward him.

“Well, it’s up to you, Miss Owens,” Roberts says as he directs his attention back to his computer. “But I would tread carefully because your journalism career and graduation depend on this internship. So I would make the decision that’s best for you.” Threaten much? Jesus. He clicks his mouse a few times and then says, “You’re excused.”

Oh . . . well, okay. I guess that’s that.

Awkwardly, I thank him, not sure why, and head out of his office. I offer a wave to his assistant, then take the elevator back to my floor, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders.

When I signed up for this internship, it was for the fluff. I wanted to write about the best aftercare for a hangover. Or what books can get your motor running when experiencing a drought. Or even how to balance the pH on your scalp for better hair growth.

I didn’t come in here thinking I would break the code on the underbelly of a national hockey team. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I’m not an investigative journalist when it comes to real-world problems—if you consider refs falsifying games real-world problems. I came here to talk about the things that interest me, and I don’t know, spread a little joy. Not overturn the sports mafia—if that’s a thing. Who knows, I sure as hell don’t because I know nothing about this!

“How did it go?” Ross asks, coming up to me in the break room, where I took a quick detour. I grab a bag of Skittles from the snack drawer and hold it close to my chest.

“He wants me to write a ‘gotcha’ article about the Agitators and how they’re cheating the system.”

“Stop. What did he really want?” Ross asks, clearly assuming I’m joking. If only.

“That’s what he wanted. He said I could get the inside scoop.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Uh, yeah. And it also breaks all trust I have with Silas. Which sure,” I lean in and whisper, “I’ve known him for a weekend, but still, I’m not that person. I don’t step on people to get ahead.”

“So what did you say?”

“That I wasn’t comfortable doing that, and then he of course reiterated that this was for my school credit.”

“That’s some shady shit.”

“Tell me about it.” I open my Skittles and pop a lime and grape one in my mouth.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m not about to overturn the Agitators organization. I just need to think of a different angle that will appeal to Roberts and one that doesn’t lose me all credibility with my fake boyfriend.”

“Sounds like a task. I don’t envy you.”

“I don’t envy me either.”

AFTER A LONG RUN TO clear my head and a cold shower to appease my muscles, I lie flat on my bed and stare up at the ceiling, my mind still whirling about my conversation with Roberts today. I wrote down some ideas of what I could write about, one having promise. I kind of liked how he spoke about the media not covering any player scandals. There could be a story that doesn’t include some dark alleyway money shuffling.

There is probably a good reason for it, and I plan on figuring that out.

In the meantime, I pick up my phone and text Silas.

Ollie: Hey, not sure what your schedule is like, but I just realized I know nothing about you. People were asking about you at work today, and I was talking out of my ass. Maybe we should, I don’t know, go on a fake date to at least get our stories straight.

Once I press send, I reach for my water bottle and down half of it just as my phone dings with a text.

Silas: People were talking about me at your work? Why?

Ollie: Um, maybe because I put a picture of you on my desk, you know, as a way to solidify the relationship.

Silas: What picture?

Ollie: Some picture I found on the Internet of you lifting your shirt up. It really put a bee in Candace’s bonnet.

Silas: Are you pleased with yourself?

Ollie: Massively. Anything to make her mad is a win in my book. I might have mentioned licking your abs whenever I want, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, can we go on a date? Or you just come over here?

Silas: How about you come over to my place? I can give you a key, and you can check out the gym. Get you situated, and then we can talk.

Ollie: That sounds perfect. When?

Silas: You available tomorrow?

Ollie: I can be. Send me the time and place, and I’ll be there.