Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I push through the doors. He doesn’t acknowledge me immediately, finishing his set with a grunt that reverberates through the cavernous space. When he finally racks the bar, the clang of metal on metal splits the silence and he spots me in the mirror’s reflection.
“Wasn’t sure you’d show up,” he says, still not turning around.
“I always do. You’ll learn that about me.”
He grabs a towel from a nearby bench and wipes his face, finally turning in my direction. Up close, in this space, he looks even bigger than I remembered. More solid. A presence who commands attention without asking for it. He must be six foot three, maybe four. Far taller than I am at five six in my highest heels.
“I’ve got to get a workout in before the team leaves for our road trip this afternoon,” he says. “So, if you want to talk, we need to do it now.”
I adjust my bag on my shoulder. “That’s fine.”
He points to a large plaque mounted on the far wall, black letters on green: “This room is for WORKERS only. Anyone not working out must leave.”
I look at the sign, then back at him. The challenge is implicitly written all over his face, not just explicitly on the wall.
“Sorry,” he says with a shrug that’s anything but apologetic. “I don’t make the rules.”
I’ve been tested by better men than him. “I’ll go change,” I say. “Where can I find some workout clothes?”
His expression shifts. Surprise, maybe. Or disappointment that I didn’t back down.
“Equipment room down the hall has extra gear. Might find gear there that fits you.”
Fat chance.
But twenty minutes later, I’m back in borrowed athletic shorts that are too long and a Vipers T-shirt that hangs off me like a tent. The equipment manager—a portly, weathered man who clearly finds this whole situation amusing—hooked me up with a pair of sneakers and a hair tie to keep my hair out of my face. I feel and look ridiculous. But I’m here.
Grizz is at the bench press now, warming up with what looks to be a moderate amount of weight—moderate for him, anyway. He glances up when I approach, his eyes rounding with surprise. “Shirt looks a little big, huh? And how’re you keeping the shorts up?”
“Safety pins work wonders,” I say.
I head to the treadmills and start with a light jog, more to warm up than to impress. The gym falls into a rhythm—his breathing, the clink of weights, the steady thumping of my feet on the belt.
“So,” I say after a few minutes, slightly breathless but determined to power through. “We need to talk about your upcoming commercial shoot for the league.”
He doesn’t respond right away, too focused on his lift. When he finishes the set, he sits up and reaches for his water bottle. “What about it?”
“You can’t misbehave or try any antics.”
He laughs, a mocking sound that cuts through the air. “Misbehave? What am I, twelve?”
I stop the treadmill and move to the rowing machine, adjusting the settings with more confidence than I feel. “I know how the last shoot went. The one for Forge Hockey equipment. Ring any bells? Langley gave me the debrief.”
A muscle feathers along Grizz’s jawline. “I did nothing wrong.”
“You showed up two hours late,” I say, pulling on the handle and settling into a steady stroke. “When the director asked you to smile for the camera, you told him to go fuck himself. You walked off set when they asked for a second take.”
“The script was garbage.”
“It was thirty seconds of you saying ‘Forge Hockey. Gear up to win.’ That’s not exactly Shakespeare.”
He moves to the free weights, selecting two fifty-pound dumbbells. “The director was a prick.”
“The director was doing his job.” I keep rowing, my breathing starting to labor but my voice steady. “You cost the team a seven-figure endorsement deal because you couldn’t be professional for half an hour.”
“They still aired the commercial.”
“They had to use footage from practice because the actual shoot was unusable.” I pause my rowing, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Do you know how that made Langley look? How it made the team look?”
Grizz starts his biceps curls, the large, bluish veins in his forearms protruding with each rep. “I’m not here to make anyone look good. All that matters is winning. Optics and popularity contests are distractions. It’s plain and simple, always has been. The one thing my dad taught me that never failed… winning solves all problems, and I’m here to win hockey games. The rest is irrelevant.”
“That’s quite a mouthful. But I’m here to make sure you can keep doing that without destroying everything around you.”
The tension in the room ratchets up a notch. We’re both working now, both sweating, both pushing against more than just resistance.
“You’ve been on the job for what, five minutes? You read some files, watched some game tape, and now you’re an expert on Grizz McAvoy?”