So This Is War

To: Levi Posey

From: Will Wood

Subject: Your List

Don’t fuck this up, Posey.

Aside from regular tasks like social media, retrieving your food, arranging your calendar, and being at your beck and call, here are a few tasks you need to give her this week:

Hand her a copy of a book. I don’t care what book, but give her a copy of it. Tell her you don’t like the font it’s written in, and have her type it out in a different font. Yes, have her type up the entire book, word for word. Tell her you want it in a week for your away trip to the Northeast.

Spill something on your floor. Don’t care what it is. But make it disgusting. Tell her she needs to clean it up and make it seem like it was never there.

Ask her to get you ten pounds of Skittles. The Skittles must be divided into colors and placed in separate jars. But you want more reds than any other color. At least half a jar more.

Have her purchase you fifty number two pencils. Have her sharpen them just enough so they’re pointed but not too much where they’re splintering. Use them as a decoration for a day and then have her donate them to a local school, but she must receive a receipt for the donation.

Text her in the middle of the night that you need something, anything. Make her get it for you.

After each task, I expect you to take a picture and inform me that it’s been completed. Do not let her off the hook. Don’t let her skate by. I want you to make her life a living hell, got it?

And don’t forget the rules. Don’t forget why you’re doing this. And mainly, don’t forget that she’s completely off limits.

Your worst nightmare if you mess this up,

Coach Wood

I SIT on the edge of my couch, fully showered, dressed, and ready for the day as I count down the minutes until Wylie arrives.

Sleep was nonexistent last night, and not because the gash above my eye was throbbing, but because I couldn’t fucking believe that Coach Wood’s daughter is the woman I’ve been searching for. She fucking knew who I was and didn’t say anything. She played it off like she didn’t even know the sport of hockey existed.

And then just ditched me. Why?

I have so many questions and annoyed emotions over the situation that I’m trying to calm myself before she shows up so I don’t explode on her. I feel like I’ll pace the room angrily at any moment, demanding why she didn’t come looking for me when she knew who I was. I know she enjoyed that kiss.

So why did she bolt?

I push my hand through my hair and stand from the couch.

Get it together, man.

Forget about that night. It’s in the past.

Because now my coach has me by the balls, and one slip-up could cost me. I wouldn’t put it past Coach Wood to fuck with me if I screw this up.

I head toward the kitchen to grab a drink when my phone beeps in my pocket. Maybe it’s Wylie, and she’s changed her mind. Maybe she decided to go back to school rather than be my assistant. All would be right in the world.

Wouldn’t that be fucking great?

I take my phone out of my pocket and see that it’s a text from OC.

OC: So . . . are you going to share with the group how your meeting with the new assistant went?

And this is exactly why you don’t get involved in your friends’ lives because then they think they can treat you the same way. My buddies, they’re what I like to call incompetent nitwits when it comes to women. Granted, I’m still learning about OC, but from what I can tell about what’s going on between him and Grace, he’ll fall in the line of incompetency along with the rest.

My phone beeps with more texts.

Here we go . . .

Pacey: Wait, what assistant?

Eli: Coach Wood assigned his daughter to be Posey’s assistant.

Silas: Wait, you didn’t say she would be your assistant, just that she was looking for work.

Eli: Oh yeah, full-blown assistant. And let me tell you, she’s a piece of work.

Pacey: Why don’t I know anything?

Silas: Because you’re always with Winnie. You barely hang out with us now.

Eli: Says the guy who’s always with Ollie.

Halsey: As if you have any room to speak.

Levi: None of you have room to speak, you neglectful assholes. You’re all in happy, loving relationships because of me.

OC: Uh, I’m not happy.

Levi: Don’t worry, I’ll get to you.

Pacey: Back to Coach Wood. Why does he want you to hire his daughter?

Here’s the thing, I could tell my boys exactly what’s going on in my life, let them know that there’s been a girl I’ve been searching high and low for, that I’ve been desperate to find her because of one fucking kiss, and she just so happens to be our coach’s daughter. And now I have to act like an ass to her because her father wants to prove a point, and somehow I’ve been placed in the middle or . . .

I can tell them that it’s nothing and reveal nothing.

Telling them will lead to constant chatter, relentless text messages, because they’d absolutely LOVE to see me in distress over a woman, and I do not want to subject myself to the impending ridicule.

Therefore, I’m cutting them off.

Yup.

They don’t need to know all the details. It’s for the best. For my sanity.

Levi: She needed some experience, and Coach Wood knows I don’t have an assistant, so he asked if I’d hire her. I said it wasn’t a problem at all, so yeah, I have an assistant now. Please direct all your menial demands to her. Thanks.

Silas: Why is Hornsby saying she’s a piece of work?

Eli: Because she is. I’ve met her through Penny, and she’s just . . . on a different planet.

I didn’t gather that from my impression, but then again, Eli has a child, and maybe said child has sucked all the common sense from him. I’ve heard of that happening.

Maybe that’s why babies look like aliens when they’re fresh from the womb . . . mind suckers.

Pacey: Meaning . . . she’s going to give him a hard time? Because that would be amazing.

Levi: Why would that be amazing? Have I not been an absolute blessing to all of you?

OC: I have yet to witness the blessing personally so . . .

Levi: I said I would get to you. Patience, you fuck.

Halsey: I wouldn’t consider what you did to me a blessing. I could have figured out a way to be with Blakely without all the fanfare.

Eli: And Penny and I would have gotten together either way because Pacey made us live together.

Pacey: And I beg to see how you did anything to get me together with Winnie.

Silas: Not to mention, your texting nearly scared Ollie away.

Levi: Wow, I’ve never seen such a sad bunch of ungrateful motherfuckers in my life. If I have to recap . . . *clears throat* Pacey, you’re with Winnie because I didn’t make the first move. You’re welcome. Hornsby, if it weren’t for me, you’d still be texting Penny that you’re eating an apple. You’re welcome. Taters, don’t even get me fucking started. The reason you got tit pics from Ollie was because of me, and you know it. You’re welcome. Holmes, I stepped it up for you, lied, decorated your apartment, and practically placed Blakely on your ginormous dick. You are fucking welcome. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to train my new assistant. Go back to your happy lives.

OC: Uh . . . what do you want me to do?

Levi: Write me a synopsis of the history between you and Grace. Have it in my locker in a week. If you want happiness, don’t skip out on the details.

With that, I shove my phone in my pocket and pick up the email from Coach Wood that’s on my island counter. I look over the list a few more times, shaking my head at how stupid this all is. I’m an easy target for Coach Wood because he knows I’m a people pleaser. He knows I’ll do just about anything asked of me. Not to mention, he has me by the balls because sure, he helped me out with that one reporter, but that wasn’t the only night he’s helped me out. There have been many others when he’s pounded on my door just to get a clinger out of my hotel room. So yeah, he has me in a rough fucking spot.

I fold the paper in half just as there’s a knock on my door. In a panic, I slip the paper between the pages of one of my coffee table books—get rid of the evidence—and then move to the entryway.

Well, here we fucking go.

Keep it professional.

Don’t stare at her.

Don’t drool.

And keep it together unlike your nimrod friends who have no idea how to act around a woman.

Shoulders back, I open the door and feel my stomach immediately turn warm from the sight of Wylie.

Fuck me, she’s so hot.

The epitome of what I look for in a woman. Gorgeous face with those steely gray eyes, the lightest smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and she has bow-shaped lips that glisten under the lights of my entryway. Her dark red hair is silky smooth and long, enticing me to wrap it around my fist to see what kind of hold I can have on her. And her curvy and sensual body is out of this world.

Today, she’s wearing high-waisted wide-leg jeans, a black shirt tucked into the waist, and a blazer with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She’s professional but also casual at the same time. Her hair is down and straightened over her shoulders, and her eyes are highlighted by a thick coat of mascara.

What I wouldn’t give to grab her by the neck, pull her in close, and finish the night we shared.

“Hello, Mr. Posey,” Wylie says, knocking me out of my thoughts. “Is now still good?”

“Yeah,” I say, but don’t invite her in just yet. “But listen, you’ve got to cut it out with that Mr. Posey shit. It makes me feel ancient.”

“Well . . . aren’t you?” She smirks, and goddammit, it takes me back to that night when I was tasting those lips and looking for so much more.

“Ancient?” I shriek. “I’m not ancient. I don’t even have gray hair . . . or hair on my balls.” Her eyes widen, and I realize what I said. “I mean . . . not like in a prepubescent kind of way, like the testes haven’t dropped yet, because they have. They’ve dropped. I was just referring to my manscaping.” I pull on the back of my neck. “Have you heard of manscaping? Uh, well, I have nice balls because of how I take care of them and lotion them. Not that you needed to know that, but old men don’t usually manscape. They just let the hairs run wild, and that’s not the case here because I’m neither old nor ancient. So, to conclude, call me Levi, I have nice balls, and I manscape.”

Her smile is so bright as she says, “Don’t forget the lotioning.”

“Right.” I nod awkwardly. “The lotioning.”

She helps herself in and says, “And I meant in hockey years, you’re old.”

Ahh, yes, well, that makes more sense.

Trying to recover, I say, “Well, that just means I get to retire early on a mountain of cash.”

Ignoring my comment, she walks past me, and because I’m desperate and pathetic, I attempt to check out her ass, but her blazer covers it. That’s probably for the best. I shouldn’t be checking anything out.

She glances around my apartment, taking in the subtle decorations I purposely used to create a cohesive and well-put-together theme for my apartment. A theme I like to call electric thunder. I know what you’re thinking—how does one decorate with the theme electric thunder in mind?

Well, it’s a combination of dark, moody colors, pops of unsuspecting accent hues, and not too much texture where you think, whoa, my eyes are offended.

Unlike Halsey, who lived in a jail cell before Blakely came along, I have taste and a keen eye for interior design.

I have a personal Instagram account no one knows about, and I follow some of my favorite profiles, like Pottery Barn, Rejuvenation, and especially Joanna Gaines—I like her decorating style. Very neutral design style while she’s moved away from some of the farmhouse trends and taken a more modern aesthetic. I also follow a few baking accounts. One of my favorites is of a Turkish lady who makes the best bread-inspired recipes. When she punches that dough after it rises . . . fuck me, it’s chef’s kiss!

But back to my apartment. I went for the whole dark cigar-room vibe even though I don’t smoke cigars—see, electric thunder. Blacks and gunmetal grays span the walls and in tasteful accents while camel-colored leather furniture takes center stage. An oversized area rug adds a cozy feel, tasteful art decorates the walls, and cream-colored curtains add a touch of lightness to the space.

“This is really nice,” she says. “I half expected to walk into a bachelor pad, but this is a man’s apartment. Like a man’s man.”

“Thank you,” I say, smoothing my palms together. “I’d consider myself a man’s man.”

“You clearly have the lotioned balls to prove it,” she jokes while gesturing to my crotch.

Heh.

Yeah . . .

Glad we can bring that full circle.

I pull on the back of my neck. “I go through a lot of lotion.”

Not something she needs to know.

“I can imagine.” Her eyes meet mine. “Any special type? Perhaps a burnt mahogany scent. Make that sack extra manly.”

Christ. Change the subject, man.

“Just regular,” I answer while clearing my throat. “Anyway, I, uh, I take great pride in my apartment.”

“I see that. You should. It’s really nice in here.” Her eyes fall to the coffee table in my living room, where I have three books stacked with a candle on top. “Do you even read those books?”

“Nope,” I say. “It’s all part of the design and feel of the apartment.”

“Ah, so you’re trying to portray intelligence when, in reality, there’s very little intelligence in this apartment?”

“Pretty mu—” I pause, thinking about it. “Uh, no. There’s intelligence in this apartment.”

She turns toward me and smiles. “Well, there must be intelligence if you’re wise enough to pair a camel-colored couch with a gunmetal-gray wall.”

“Some might say brave,” I say.

“Very brave.” She pats my chest, and I let out the breath I was holding in one giant swoop. Her eyes meet mine as she says, “You know, I’m just trying to lighten the mood. Make conversation. No need to hold your breath . . . or your tongue. I know this is awkward for both of us, and I don’t want it to be awkward.”

It’s awkward, all right.

It’s never not going to be awkward.

But I’m not going to say that to her.

“I’m not awkward. Are you awkward? Because I feel fine. Great actually. Rip-roaring and ready to go.”

Her smile grows wider. “Oh yes, I’m rip-roaring and ready to go as well.”

“Great.” I stuff my hands in my pockets and rock on my heels. “Because I think if we keep everything super professional, we can make the most of this situation. Possibly excel as the best boss/assistant relationship.”

“Wouldn’t that just be fantastic,” she says. “Imagine the accolades we could win by not being awkward but rather rip-roaring professionals. People around us might be so impressed that they write to the Foreign Press. Tell them there needs to be an award made just for us.”

I know she’s being sarcastic.

I know she’s trying to lighten the mood.

But, Jesus fuck . . . I’d be fucking thrilled to win an award documenting my excellence in professionalism and managerial skills.

“What would the trophy look like?” I ask, feeling myself drift off in thought.

“Maybe a statue of a man with a woman at his feet, clutching his leg and looking for direction.”

I glance her way and scratch my jaw. “Uh, not exactly what I was thinking.”

She chuckles and places her purse on the coffee table, then pulls out a notebook and a pen. “Maybe we can brainstorm later, but for now, why don’t you show me around and tell me what I can do for you.”

Right, what she can do for me.

Focus, Posey.

If you want to mentally win the award, you have to act like the boss who’d win it.

But for the record, I’d like it to be known that everything I’m going to ask her to do are tasks I can do for myself. Things I’ve been doing for years with no problem. I want it to be noted that any wild or obscene shit I tell Wylie to do should not be held against me.

I’m merely a pawn in the battle between Coach Wood and his daughter.

And despite being a man’s man with perfectly manscaped and lotioned balls, I clearly have no idea how to say . . . no.

“Well, as you can see, this is my apartment.” I stretch out my arms as if showing off the place . . . even though she’s been here for the past few minutes.

She presses her hand to her chest. “Is it? Wow, I had no idea.”

“Cheeky,” I say as I continue. “This is the main living space, which is, uh . . . off limits for you. So no lounging around on this camel-colored couch.” I point at the couch. “And, uh, no watching TV on this gigantic screen. And, uh . . . no, uh, no rolling around on the area rug.”

“Ooo, really? I was really hoping to get my rolling done in here, but I can find a new place.” She makes a note in her notebook, then looks up at me. “Where should I do my morning staring? Should I keep that to my own space, or am I allowed to come in here and stare at the wall?”

I work my jaw to the side, seeing how easy it is for her to make fun of me. “Your own space will suffice.”

“Noted.” She marks something on her notepad again.

“But you are allowed in here for certain reasons.”

“Like restocking the lotion,” she offers.

“Yes,” I say tersely. “And cleaning, restocking the groceries, and delivering whatever I might need. Other than that, you must stay in your own space.”

“Got it. Don’t bother Mr. Posey.”

“Levi,” I say.

“Don’t bother Levi. Shouldn’t be a problem. I can manage whatever space you offer up. Like I said, it’s a real help.”

“Sure, yeah. Should I show you that space now?”

“That would be great. That way I know what I’m working with.”

I gesture toward the open-concept kitchen, and we both walk that way.

I hate this.

I hate how uncomfortable this is. Clearly, she’s trying to be grateful for the opportunity, and I’m preparing to rain down hell on her day. It’s the last fucking thing I want to do, yet here I am, about to introduce her to a hole in the wall that she can sleep in despite my lavish apartment.

And you’re probably wondering, did I spruce it up? Did I make it as inviting as I did when Blakely was moving into Halsey’s place? The answer is no. I didn’t even wipe down one cobweb. Not even sure what the hell is going on in the hole because the door hasn’t been opened in years. But I kept it untouched to help dissociate myself. Makes me feel like I’m taking on the boss role rather than the caretaker.

“The entrance to your room is right back here,” I say, leading her past the open kitchen, past the pantry off to the left, and down a narrow hallway toward a door at the very end. “Not sure the condition of the place because I’ve never used it, so, I’m sorry in advance.” I open the door and switch on a light, highlighting the small room, less than two hundred square feet. There’s a twin bed off to the right with no mattress—huh, she’s going to need one of those—and a nightstand with one dilapidated drawer. There’s one overhead light in the room, one of those traditional boob lights that every tract home has installed in a hallway. Just past the bed is a door leading to the bathroom, where you can wash your hands and sit on the toilet at the same time. I know this because I joked about it when I first viewed the apartment. There’s also a stand-up shower that I couldn’t really fit in, but she will do just fine. A separate entrance from the outside is at the other end of the room.

It’s much bleaker than I remember.

Maybe a touch spooky.

And definitely not up to my man-boy standards.

“Oh wow, this is bigger than I thought it was going to be,” she says, moving into the space with hopeful eyes, which feels surprising. Her father is a world-class coach. She grew up with money and has lived on the higher end of life, yet she can be positive about the space I’m presenting her? How?

“I can, uh, get you a mattress.” I point at the empty bed.

“No need.” She waves me off. “We actually have one in the spare bedroom at my dad’s house that I can grab.”

“Okay, and sorry about this nightstand,” I say as I reach down and tug the drawer open only for it to fall to the ground with a crash. “Shit, sorry.” I bend down to pick it up just as a furry critter skitters over my hand and across the floor.

Mother.

Of.

God.

The world stops spinning as the skin on my knuckles tingles with the sensation of clammy, claw feet. I stare down at my hand and then to the right, where the furry critter scurries around the baseboard of the tiny bedroom.

“Oh . . . my . . . fuck,” I scream like a man whose nuts just got lassoed off before levitating off the floor and right on top of the slats of the bed. “Mouse,” I squeal. “There’s a fucking mouse in here.” I point at it as it runs back and forth. “A rodent. Right there. Holy fuck, a rodent.”

Wylie turns toward the mouse just as it scurries toward me again and under the bed.

“Ahhhh, it’s under me,” I scream as I attempt to leap off the bed, but unfortunately, the bed can’t handle my weight, and the slat I’m standing on buckles together in a snap and my foot lands on the ground with a resounding squish.

I still.

My blood goes cold.

And I look up at Wylie, who is now wincing.

Please fuck . . . no.

Nope.

No.

Breathing heavily, I rest my hand against the exposed brick wall next to me as I very quietly and calmly say, “Is . . . is it under my foot?”

She shifts uncomfortably and cringes. “That would be a yes.”

I slowly nod, reality puncturing me.

“The whole thing?”

“Yes. Your very large foot carries quite the radial stomp.”

I gulp.

“Would you say it’s . . . dead?”

She glances down at my foot, then back up at me. “I would be surprised if it’s not.”

“Okay.” I swallow my building saliva. “Okay, everything will be okay.” I remain still, unmoving. “I’m, uh, I’m going to need some privacy.”

“If you need to scream in private, I’m going to hear it, so you might as well just do it now.”

“Right.” I take a deep breath right before a full-on shiver takes over my body from the tips of my toes to the roots of the hair on top of my head and I let out an ear-piercing squeal that echoes through the quaint space. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

When I’m done, Wylie takes a step forward. “Want me to help you out of your shoe?”

“I just, uh, I need a second.”

“Right, understandable.” She crosses her arms at her chest and looks around. “While we wait, I’ll tell you that this space will be perfect. I don’t need much.” She sticks her head in the bathroom, and for a moment, I catch her nose scrunching up in disgust. “Yup, lovely. It will be great.”

Foot still squishing the mouse, I say, “It’s a touch small.”

She pops her head back out and says, “It’s free, so it works.” She glances down at my foot, then back up at me, clearly noticing I’m not ready yet to address what’s under my foot. All I have to say is thank fuck I’m wearing shoes. “I assume you want me using this entrance here rather than moving through your apartment.”

“Yeah, that would be preferred.”

“Not a problem.” She sighs. “You ready?”

I squeeze my hands into fists. “I fear what you might hear when I lift my foot.”

“If you’re afraid I might judge you, fear not, I judged you when you said you lotioned your balls.”

I press my fingers to my forehead. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“So how about this. As my first act as your new assistant, I will hold your shoe down while you slip your foot out. Then you can just walk back into your apartment. I’ll take care of the remnants and wash your shoe.”

“Burn,” I say.

“Huh?”

“Burn my shoe. I’ll never be able to wear these again.”

She smirks. “Mouse traps as footwear. I don’t think that ever caught on as a popular fashion choice, so I can understand that. How about I donate them? The death history of the shoe will remain with us, but the shoes can live on.”

“I don’t care what you do with the shoe, but it can’t go back into my closet.”

“Consider it taken care of.”

“OH, look at all these baking supplies.” She looks through my kitchen cabinets, making herself at home while I remain shaken and stunned from rodent death by the size fourteen shoe incident. I squealed in front of her. I broke the bed. I killed a fucking rodent with my foot. The boys will NEVER hear about that. “What, uh . . . what’s going on here? Do you like to bake?”

“I do,” I say, trying to forget about the mouse I murdered. “When it strikes me, I like to have the basics on hand.”

“And what do you like to bake the most?”

“Bready items,” I answer.

“Like . . .”

I shrug. “Like a cranberry orange bread or a pastry. Just carbs.”

“Well, maybe if I do a good job as your assistant, you’ll bake me something one day.” She shuts the cabinet door.

Bake something for her? Hell, I would like to bake with her.

Both of us wearing nothing but aprons.

Me behind her as she sifts flour only to boop her nose with a little bit of it.

We’d chuckle.

I’d get hard.

And then I’d fuck her on the counter.

“Or you don’t have to,” she says. “Don’t want to overstep.”

“Huh?” I ask, being pulled out of my thoughts. “Uh, no, I can bake you something.”

She pats my chest and smirks. “Don’t let me pressure you.” And then she moves into the living room. “Do you have any plants I need to take care of?”

If only.

I think about Sherman . . . original Sherman. Long story short, Halsey had a bonsai tree. It was decapitated, and I tried to bring it back to life without him knowing because I felt bonded to it, but I did not succeed. And it wasn’t from a lack of me trying every trick in the book. His trunk was snapped as if his neck had been broken in half, and there was no saving him. I buried him alone in the park just outside of my apartment building in the middle of the night with a headlamp and a gardening shovel. I said a few well wishes and let him compost into the ground.

Devastating.

“No plants,” I say.

“Would you like a plant? Perhaps a ficus tree in the corner might add the green you lack in your living space.”

“You think I’m lacking green?” I ask. “I have some green right over there.” I point at my fake plant on the shelf.

“But that’s fake.” She scrunches her nose in this cute way. “You want some life in the apartment. I know Joanna Gaines is huge on having real plants around the home.”

I gasp as my hand presses to my chest. “You follow Joanna?”

She softly smiles. “Do you?”

“How could I not?” I reply. “That couch is from the Magnolia brand.”

She glances at my couch, then back at me. “You know, I thought I recognized it. Great taste, Mr. Posey.”

“Hey.” I point at her. “What did I say about that shit? Just call me Levi or Posey.”

“Oh, I could never call you Posey. That feels very bro-like. What about Mr. Levi?”

“What about just Levi and leave it at that?”

“Fine, but just remember, I’m the one trying to be professional here. You are my boss, after all.”

Don’t fucking remind me.

“I can still be your boss and be Levi at the same time.”

She shrugs and then writes on her notepad. “Buy a ficus.”

“What kind of ficus are we talking about? Because I honestly really like the looks of a fiddle leaf fig tree but haven’t had the time or energy to really look for one.”

“Oh, I can find you a nice one. Would you like a pot for it or a basket? Personally, I think a basket would add some nice texture to the space. We can put the tree over there in the corner where it will get some sunlight but also add an element to the space that softens it a little more, especially with the woven pot.”

I nod, envisioning the fiddle leaf fig tree. Fuck yeah, that would look amazing.

A piece of my design puzzle I haven’t been able to fulfill.

“Yeah, I think that’ll be nice.”

“Perfect. I’ll get right on that. Shall you show me the rest of the space?”

“Sure,” I say, thinking that maybe this assistant thing won’t be as bad as I thought. First, she takes care of the mouse—RIP, you mangy rodent—and now my very own fiddle leaf fig tree. Wow. I won’t let her know how excited I am about the prospect of having one. And in a fucking basket . . . talk about living the good life. My apartment will be unmatched compared to the other guys. Halsey might have a bonsai tree, but I’ll have a giant, and I mean leaves taking up the apartment space giant, fiddle leaf fig plant that will fill my apartment with oxygen and goodness.

None of them will have that.

None.

I internally cackle, knowing once again I’ll have a leg up on my nimrod friends.

I lead her to my office, which is more like a den. I had some sliding French quarter black-framed barn doors installed in case I ever wanted to shut them, but given that I’m the only one here, they’re more for show than use.

“This is my office. I usually answer emails here in the morning while drinking my coffee. So if you ever need me to look at something or adjust my calendar, you can leave Post-it notes along my desk.”

“Okay. Do you need my email so you can send me access to your calendar?”

“Yeah, just text it to me, and I’ll introduce you to everyone I work with.”

“Do you want to have morning meetings? I can bring you coffee, and we can discuss the day.”

“Uh . . . you don’t have to do that,” I say even though the thought of her delivering me coffee in the morning, and then sitting cross-legged on my desk has its charms.

“Not a problem. Just here to make your life easier.”

“Thanks.” I move her down the hall. “This is the spare guest room that no one ever uses.” She pokes her head in, and I know she spots the comfy bed and the large, decorated, cozy space. I feel guilt in my gut, knowing she has to move into the cold, brick-exposed dungeon where I just squished a mouse where she’s supposed to sleep. Lucky her. “I, uh . . . I just feel like if you’re in this room⁠—”

“You don’t need to explain,” she says. “I get it. We have to keep things separate. I’m seriously grateful for the space you’ve given me. Dead mouse and all.” I cringe, the feel of it under my foot still throbbing in my toes. “Also, I love what you did with the throw pillows and the comforter. Did you design the bedding yourself?”

At least she’s good at changing the subject. And has a good eye for style. Good taste in designers. Clothes . . .

“I did.” I stick my hands in my pockets and puff my chest with pride. “Spent a lot of time in West Elm, trying to figure out what I liked.”

“You did a fantastic job . . . Levi.” Fuck, that sounds good rolling off her tongue. “You really have an eye for design and colors.”

“Thank you,” I reply, letting the compliment go straight to my head.

It’s not very often I receive the praise I deserve. Lord knows my fucking friends don’t offer it up. I know the fans love me and shower me with accolades, but that’s hockey. What about the other parts of my life? Like my decorating sense. My baking. My ability to create love connections. What about the shit that really matters? Hockey is a game—okay, my job and livelihood—but I’m talking about life here.

After just a few minutes with Wylie, she has me feeling like the king of the mountain. Wait until she tries my coffee cake—what fucking dreams are made of. She’s going to be writing sonnets in my name. Shimmying her tits in satisfaction, moaning all over this goddamn apartment from the perfect ratio of yellow cake to crumble topping.

“And is this your bedroom down here?” she asks, moving down the hallway.

“Uh, yeah, but you don’t have to⁠—”

She opens my bedroom door, revealing the pitch-black room. It’s such a contrast to the rest of the apartment. Of course, I still have the dark tones, but instead of lightening up the space with soft cream tones and camel colors, I kept everything black—from the furniture to the walls to the curtains and the bedding. Not an ounce of color.

“Wow,” she says as she moves around my mid-century modern canopy bed. Her fingers draw along the dark wood up to the strategically placed hooks. Her eyes flash mischievously to mine. “Seems to me like someone enjoys a little kink in their lives.”

A little . . . okay.

Ignoring her statement, I say, “Not much you need to do in here.”

“I’d say, seems like the room carries its own agenda.” She drags her hand over the velvet comforter. “Soft.” She sits on the edge of my bed and crosses one leg over the other, testing the bounciness of the mattress. “Not too firm, not too soft. The perfect balance for better . . . thrusting.”

For the love of God, don’t say thrusting while you’re on my bed.

I can barely take the image of her propped up on my mattress, let alone her running her hands over my hooks or testing out my mattress.

“I assume I’m going to be doing laundry for you.” She hops off my bed and moves to my closet. “Oh, an in-closet washer and dryer. This will make it easy. Is there a certain way you want me to fold your clothes? Your underwear?”

“Uh, you don’t have to do that,” I say.

“I insist.” She winks. “Anything to make your life easier.”

She keeps saying that, but at the moment, she’s making things harder . . . if you know what I mean.

“And not that I was looking too much, but you did an impeccable job organizing your closet. Seems like someone has been paying attention to how to be efficient with space.”

“It bodes well for you that you’re noticing things others don’t. My friends seem to find my details in organizing pointless. I, on the other hand, find it soothing and valuable, especially when packing for an away trip.”

“Oh yes, I can see how that would be beneficial. Very smart, Levi.”

If I was wearing a suit, I’d be proudly gripping the lapels right now.

“Speaking of packing, that’s something I can do for you. Just give me a list, and I’ll throw everything together for you. We can even do a test run before your away trip so you feel comfortable with what I’m packing.”

“Yeah, that could be a good idea. I do hate packing even though I’m efficient with my organizing.”

She winks at me. “Very efficient. If you have time, we can go over that right now since we’re done with the tour.”

“Yeah, I think we can do that.”

She follows me into the closet, and I grab my suitcase.

“Oh,” she says. “I assumed you’d like a rollie bag.”

“Technically, I do,” I answer. “But now that social media has picked up and they’re using pictures and videos of us entering and leaving the arenas as well as on and off the planes, I saw one video of me with a rollie bag and nearly died of embarrassment. Now, it’s this handheld bag. Stylish and masculine.”

“That’s probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, but I get it.” She removes her blazer, leaving her in jeans and what I can only assume is a body suit from how skintight the damn thing is. With the blazer off, I’m reminded of just how voluptuous—to put it nicely—she is up top. “But also, I can see what you mean because my dad uses a rollie bag and looks like a total dweeb even though it’s matte black and what he considers to be cool. I, on the other hand, find it lame.” She examines my bag. “This is nice, though. Surprised you don’t have a luxury designer bag.”

“That’s because I care about animals.”

“Oh? Tell me more.” She opens the bag and looks inside, only to pull out my packing cubes. She holds them close to her heart in approval and smiles.

“You’ll be hard-pressed to find a luxury brand that doesn’t use fur, leather, down, exotic animal hair, the list goes on. And I’m not into torturing and hurting animals for fashion. So I found this duffel bag by Peak Design that has a sleek look but is also one hundred percent carbon neutral. I save my image and the earth at the same time.”

She chuckles. “Huh, who would have known the beast on the ice has a heart for animals?”

“There’s a lot people don’t know about me. Also, if I’m going on an away trip that’s more than just one game, we go for the Patagonia.” I pull down my Patagonia duffel bag, which is larger. “This one is more of a bitch to carry, but once again, it’s better than the rollie.”

“Can’t you . . . have like the equipment boys roll your suitcase to your hotel room? I know that’s what my dad does.”

“I . . .” I pause and scratch the back of my head. “You know, I’ve never thought about that.”

She laughs and lays out the black packing cubes. “And that’s why I’m here.” She then pulls out her notepad and writes something at the top. “Okay, tell me everything you need.”

“Clothes,” I say.

“Yes, but what kind of clothes are we talking about? Comfies? Suits? Casual wear? Do you have pajamas I need to worry about, or do you sleep naked?” She cutely wiggles her brows.

“Naked at home, but in hotels, I sleep in boxer briefs because something about laying my dick to rest on anything other than my sheets makes me feel disgusting.”

“Laying your dick to rest makes it sound like you’re putting it to sleep, you know . . . death.”

“If my dick dies, I die,” I say.

“Typical man.” She rolls her eyes. “Okay, so extra underwear. What about spare clothes? You need a suit for game day. What do you like to wear when it’s not game day or you’re traveling?”

“I’ll take care of my airplane outfit because I have to wear it there, but just some comfy sweatsuits, joggers, or long-sleeved T-shirts that go together. And a suit with a matching top and shoes. I’ll wear a watch, but if you can make sure that every outfit has shoes, that would be awesome.”

She writes it all down. “What about toiletries?”

“I can send you a list of things.”

“Great. And then we have chargers. Computers. Gaming system for the plane.”

“I’ll pack all of that in my backpack.”

“Great.” She checks that off her list. “What about condoms?”

I nearly choke on my own saliva. “What?” I ask.

“Condoms. You’ll need them, right? Or . . . oh . . . do you go bareback? You know, that’s risky with all the venereal diseases floating around. I’d suggest we wrap you up.”

Clearing my throat, I say, “I always wrap up.”

“What a great practice to take part in,” she says. “Good job taking care of yourself and the woman.”

“Uh, thank you?”

“You’re welcome. Now, where are they?”

“Where are what?” I ask.

“The condoms, Levi. I know you’ll want them on your away trips, and I want to be able to pack them for you.” She does? She stands from the closet and moves over to my nightstand, then opens it up before I can stop her. Her eyes widen with a smile as she looks up at me. “Man alive,” she says while revealing a well-organized drawer of silk ties, eye masks, vibrators . . . and condoms. She reaches into the drawer and pulls out my Orgaster Neo G-spot vibrator. “Do you use this? You don’t have holes, well, unless . . .”

I snatch it from her hand and accidentally press the on button in the process, causing the vibrator to start in my hand, which inevitably leads me to drop it on the floor.

We both look down as it jingle-jangles across the hardwood and right up against my foot, almost nudging me in a suggestive way to use it.

“Quite the vibration,” she says as the vibrator’s buzzing fills the silence. “Feels strong yet not too powerful where it could cause your innards to turn inward.”

I look up at her. “Is that a thing?”

She shrugs. “Feels like it could be. Is that supposed to hit the G-spot?”

I glance down at the flat side that is, in fact, supposed to massage the G-spot. It’s currently massaging the tip of my toe.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Fascinating. And that piece on the end there, is that for the clit?”

“The one that is currently sucking my pinky toe?” I ask.

“Yes, that one.”

“Yeah,” I answer. “That’s for the clit.”

“And how does it feel against your toe?” She taps her chin, studying me for my reaction.

“Humiliating,” I answer.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you’ve let it suck on your toe for this long. By now, I would have grabbed it, turned it off, and stuffed it back in my drawer.”

“That would have been the intelligent reaction,” I reply as I stick my hands in my pockets and let the vibrator rumble against the floor.

“So . . .” she says, “we’re just going to let this happen? That thing is going to suck your toe, and I’m supposed to act like it’s not and just have a normal conversation with you about your packing needs?”

“Not really sure how else to move on.”

“You could . . . oh, I don’t know, pick up the vibrator.”

“I think the moment has passed,” I reply.

“I disagree. I don’t think there’s ever a moment when you can’t remove a clit sucker off your toe. I think the window is always open for something like that,” she replies.

“But we’ve talked about it too much. It feels weird.”

“I’d assume getting your toe sucked by a vibrator in front of your new assistant would be even weirder, but I guess to each their own.” She stares at me.

I stare at her.

She shifts.

I pull on the back of my neck.

The vibrator rumbles.

She clasps her hands tighter against the notebook.

I nervously press my lips together.

And we continue to look at each other until she says, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She bends at the waist, yanks the vibrator off my toe, turns it off, and then puts it back in the nightstand where it will never be removed ever again.

She lets out a heavy breath. “There. I did it for you.”

With the tip of my toe, I shut the drawer and look her in the eyes. “That drawer is private.”

“You don’t say?” She chuckles and then gives me a slow once-over. “You know, I never would have guessed you’re a man of kink, although the hooks in your bed were a dead giveaway. Still . . . getting your toe sucked?”

I point at her. “I didn’t enjoy that. I just didn’t know how to react to the situation.”

“So you let the clit sucker continue to do its work?”

I drag my hand over my forehead. “You know, let’s get back to packing. Let’s leave it at I can pack my own condoms.”

“Fair enough.” She goes back to her notebook, and with her poised pen, she asks, “What about the vibrators? Are you going to pack those on your own as well?”

Jesus.

Christ.

“BEFORE I LEAVE FOR PRACTICE, I was hoping you could help me with a few things,” I say as I take a seat at my kitchen island.

We just went through a lot of things. I set her up with contact information for everyone she’ll communicate with. I gave her access to my social media, made her sign an NDA and a code of conduct so she didn’t make a fool of me on social media, told her what I expected, and showed her how I like my shirts folded. That was my own addition. I thought it was clever and demanding.

“Of course. Anything you need. Let me know. I’m here to serve.”

“Yeah, let’s not put it that way,” I say as I smooth my hand over my thigh. I grab my phone and look through the email that Coach Wood sent me, the one I printed out. “So there’s this book I’ve been wanting to read⁠—”

“Oh? Want me to pick it up from the store for you?”

“Not really, I already have it,” I say. “But I don’t like the font they used, so could you please type it up for me?” I hold back the wince because this is easily the douchiest thing I’ve ever said or asked for. I’ve had my douche moments and slip-ups—texting Oye my dick to Ollie, acting as Silas, that was one of them—but this, this tops them all.

“You want me to type up the book in a different font? Like the whole book?”

“Yup,” I say. My leg quivers with instant regret. “Uh, in Arial font please. Something about it is soothing to the eye and easier for me to read.”

“Okay, uh . . . I could get you a Kindle or something. You could change the font that way.”

“Oh, this isn’t on Kindle.”

“It’s not?” she asks. “What book is it?”

Yeah, Posey, what book is it?

If I were Halsey, I’d have a stack of books to choose from. But I’m not the group bookworm. I’m the kinky one—not that any of them know that. The only books I have are stuffed in my nightstand on how to properly tie a woman, and I’m not about to have her type up one of those.

That’s when my eyes land on the coffee table books.

Perfect.

“That one,” I say, pointing at the book on the top that I believe is about Vermont.

She glances at it, then back at me. “Is that a book about Vermont?”

“Yup,” I say. “Very passionate about the state. Did a fourth-grade report about it, and well, I just love me some maple syrup and changing leaves. Would love to know more about that sliver of heaven. So yeah, if you could type that up for me, I’d appreciate it.”

“Uh, sure. Can I give it to you in chapters? Might take me a while.”

“Installments will work,” I say even though I know that’s not what Coach Wood asked for.

“Also, I have this stain,” I say, lifting one of my placemats that I doused in barbecue sauce this morning. To hell if I was about to stain my rug or carpet not knowing her stain defense techniques. A placemat is easy to let go of if she royally fucks it up. And it’s not like Coach Wood will be able to tell the difference from the picture I took of the stain. At least I hope he won’t.

“Oh, that is quite the stain. Looks like you smeared barbecue sauce all over your placemat.” Yup, pretty much.

“I can be a clumsy eater,” I say. “Think you could get this stain out? I have an attachment to this placemat. I eat best when using it.”

Her brows raise in question, and I don’t blame her. That’s something one of my idiot friends would say, not me. I don’t say stupid shit. I correct stupid shit. Except when I’m nervous or I’m put in an uncomfortable position. Like making myself look like an absolute dick.

“Well, have no fear. I’ll take care of the stain, and you can eat your best once again.”

“Thank you,” I say while putting the placemat down. “I also have two other things that are meticulous but necessary. You know, superstitions and all.”

“Oh, I know all about them.” She leans a little forward and whispers, “Did you know that my dad has to do the sign of the cross over his underwear before he puts it on every game day?”

Oh fuck, that’s amazing.

I hold back my snort, but it makes my eyes water. I try to blink away the tears of amusement, but God, that’s great intel.

Coach Wood, blessing his fucking underwear. If hiring Wylie as my assistant means I get special snippets about Coach Wood to make him less . . . scary, then this was one of my best decisions.

Blessing his fucking underwear. *mentally shakes head* That will be shared with the boys.

“Oh yeah, blessing the underwear, I totally get it,” I say even though I don’t. What does blessing your crotch have anything to do with the game? The man must think very highly of his penis—like it has magical powers on how the game plays out. To each their own, I guess.

“So what can I do to help you with your superstitions?” she asks.

I clear my throat and hope she doesn’t judge me for this. “Well, now that school is in session, it reminds me of my elementary days when we would go back-to-school shopping.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. Nothing smells better than a new box of crayons.” She smiles up at me.

“That and number two pencils,” I say, hating myself and Coach Wood. “I like them so much that I like to fill the apartment with them.”

She shifts and stares at me quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I just think they’re nice to have, you know, around the house, on display.”

“Ohh-kay. So do you want me to get you some pencils?”

“Yes,” I say, feeling like an idiot. “Fifty.”

“Fifty?” Her eyes widen.

“Yes, fifty. And I’d like them to be sharpened. But not with a motorized sharpener. I don’t like the burnt smell that it gives off when you sharpen a pencil. I’d like them to be sharpened manually and placed in a vase.”

She slowly nods. “And where do you want this vase placed?”

“Uh, dining room table, like flowers.”

She glances back at the dining room table with nothing on it, the one space I’ve yet to decorate, mainly because it’s a forgotten space. I never use it. The only reason I have the table is for . . . well . . . extracurricular activities, hence the hidden hooks underneath for, well, you know, restraining someone.

“So you want fifty manually sharpened number two pencils placed in a vase on the dining room table?”

“That would be correct.”

She writes it down on her pad as she says, “Feels like You’ve Got Mail.”

“Huh?” I ask.

“You know, when Tom Hanks says he’d send Meg Ryan a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if he knew her name and address since she loves New York in the fall.” I stare at her, and she shakes her head, continuing to write on her notepad. “Never mind. Anything else?”

“Skittles,” I say.

“Skittles,” she says flatly. “Do you want some?”

“Yes—”

“And let me guess, you want them sorted by color with a certain ratio?”

Shocked that she’d guess that, I nod. “Yes. Fifty percent red, the rest I don’t care.”

She winks. “Red is my favorite too.” She writes down a note. “Anything else?”

“Uh, I think that’s it for now. I’ll have Blakely send you my social media clips so you can start working on posts, and I’ll get Penny involved with you on the calendar stuff. I have it so they just input my events on the calendar, but now you can approve them and prepare me for what I have going on every week.”

“Sounds great.” She smiles brightly. “And as for moving in, am I allowed to paint? Hang things?”

“Yeah, whatever you want to make it comfy.”

“Okay, great. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take part of the day to set up my space, so I’m free for you moving forward.”

“Yeah, that works,” I say.

“Great.” She holds out her hand, and weirdly, I take it. She gives it a good shake. “It’s a pleasure to work for you, Mr. Posey.” I lift a brow, which causes her to laugh. “I mean, Levi.” She winks and then heads back through the kitchen toward her hole in the wall.

I lean against the counter and let out a deep breath.

I can do this.

I will probably barely even see her.

And in the meantime—because I cannot ever fuck my hot-as-hell assistant, who I want more than my next Cup win—I have to find someone to fuck. I need to get this raw and exasperating energy out of me.

LEVI: I’m unwell.

Eli: Is it the bologna? Dude, we don’t want to hear about it.

Halsey: I told you not to eat that shit.

Pacey: Remember when he got sick in Banff from eating five sandwiches within two hours?

Silas: Remember when I got sick just hearing him say he devoured the whole package of bologna while doing it?

Levi: This has nothing to do with my precious bologna. Stop hating on it, you fucks.

OC: You know, we really shouldn’t be food shaming.

Eli: OC, you have some brown on your nose.

Silas: Yeah, dude. If you’re sucking up because you’re looking for love help, just act like you don’t want it. He’ll insert himself then.

Levi: PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I’m unwell because I stepped on a mouse and killed it today. I can still feel the squish.

Pacey: Why the hell did you step on a mouse?

Silas: Ew, were you wearing a shoe?

Eli: I don’t understand why you feel like you need to share this with us.

Halsey: That’s . . . gross.

OC: Guess I’ll be the only one who asks . . . are you okay, Posey?

Levi: No. Mentally distraught. Thank you, OC, for being my only friend. Also, yes, I was wearing shoes, and it was an accident.

Silas: Seriously, OC, chill, man.

Levi: Does anyone care about the mouse? Or me?

Pacey: *deadpans* Yes, we care so much. We hope everything is okay with your life.

Eli: Sending you well wishes and sorrows.

Silas: Prayers for the mouse.

OC: May he rest in peace . . .

Halsey: Moment of silence.

Levi: Thanks, guys, that means a lot. Now that we’ve celebrated a mousy life of living among the dust and baseboards, let’s move on to more important things. Coach blesses his underwear before every game. The sign of the cross right over the crotch. I’ll never be able to look at him the same.

Eli: That’s what you should have started out with. Holy shit.

Silas: Did you hear this from your new assistant?

Levi: Directly from her, without even asking. It was handed to me on a silver platter.

Eli: You know, this new assistant thing might be a great idea. Can you find out if he squeals when he’s excited as well?

Pacey: What kind of question is that? You know he barely smiles.

Eli: But maybe when he’s alone, he squeals.

Halsey: Do you want him to squeal?

Silas: Better question . . . do you want to make him squeal?

Eli: Yes *deadpans* I want to make our coach squeal.

Pacey: As the brother of your future wife, I’m going to say I’m not happy about this.

Silas: You know, I never thought of you as someone who likes to make a man squeal in delight, but now that I think about it . . .

OC: What the hell am I reading?

Levi: Eli wants to bless Coach Wood’s underwear for him.

Eli: Oh fuck off, all of you.

OC: Maybe he wants to eat an apple while he blesses the underwear. (See what I did there?)

Pacey: Bringing it full circle. I approve.

Silas: Clever.

Halsey: I think I need to leave this group chat.

Levi: You’re slowly becoming my favorite with every passing day, OC.

Eli: You must have low standards, then.

OC: Ouch, quite the burn, but it doesn’t quite compare to the burn you feel in your loins over wanting to make Coach Wood squeal.

Silas: Oh shit.

Halsey: Okay, that was good.

Pacey: I snorted on Winnie. She’s not happy.

Levi: Appreciate the use of loins.