who he is. He doesn’t take “no” for an answer very easily.
“I am never going to go on a date with you,” I say firmly, deciding to just cut to the chase. “So if you will just accept that and start tailoring your account to reflect—”
“I’ll make a deal with you,” he interrupts me with a roguish grin, and I’m so caught off guard by the dimple I can see poking out through the scruff on his face, I don’t shut him down.
He takes my momentary silence as permission to proceed. “Let me take you out to dinner. You spend some more time helping me understand how to be genuine in my posts, where I promise to follow your instructions, and I will never ask you out on a date again.”
My eyes narrow. “You’re saying if we go out for a meal—really a business dinner—you’ll legitimately let me teach you how to use your social media and you’ll follow my instructions, then you won’t ever ask me out again?”
Jett nods with a resounding expression of determination. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“You promise you’ll leave me alone,” I press.
“On a personal basis, yes. On a professional basis, I imagine we still have to work together.”
I settle back in my chair a minute, letting my brain search for some sort of loophole.
Some means by which he’s tricking me.
I also remind myself I won’t let myself get charmed by him at this dinner, and that I am going to stick to my absolute policy of not only not dating co-workers, but not dating anyone for that matter.
I’m not interested at this point in my life.
It’s still a little too personal, so I make a counteroffer. “I’ll agree to dinner with you, solely in a business capacity to help you learn more about how to do your social media in an authentic way. But I’m paying for dinner.”
“Deal,” he says quickly.
Too quickly.
Did I miss a loophole?
“Tonight?” he queries hopefully. The Vengeance doesn’t have a game.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I already have plans.”
Jett isn’t dissuaded. “Saturday night.”
I don’t have any reason to say no. My Saturday nights are relatively boring, and I’d just as soon get this over with.
“Fine,” I clip out. “But business only.”
“Business only,” he agrees.
CHAPTER 3
Jett
Coach Perron doesn’t believe in whistles while coaching. He has a booming voice he prefers to use if necessary, but mostly he just observes us while we do practice drills. The assistant coaches are more involved during practices and they carry out Perron’s coaching philosophies to perfection. If a comment is needed, Coach won’t hesitate to make it, but his most important words are usually reserved for strategy discussions while watching game film and pre-game pep talks.
But when he deems practice over—meaning we have sufficiently met his expectations for the day, he’ll call out, “That’s enough for today.”
As he did just now. We file off the ice, a few hanging back to get some extra practice in or just goof off with some extra drills.
I’m gassed, however, as I got in a workout before practice, and I want to get home to relax a bit before my “date” tonight with Emory.
In the locker room, I shower and change into fresh clothes at my cubby, while intermittently chatting with various teammates. The locker room is a place where many of us take the time to get caught up on the day-to-day lives of our teammates, and it’s been affectionately dubbed The Euchre Club by our captain, Bishop Scott. He told us his parents belonged to a neighborhood social club where their purpose was to play the card game of euchre, but really it was a way to get together with friends to have some drinks, chat, and sometimes even gossip.
Outside of the drinks, our locker room often resembles just such a social event.
“Mollie is being such a hippie,” Kane says as he stretches out on one of the benches, hands clasped behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.
I cut a glance to Bain, who smirks back at me. We both recognize Kane’s tone. He’s getting ready to wax poetic about his fiancée and wedding planning.
While deep down, I’d never begrudge my friend if planning a wedding was bringing him joy, as a man, I simply can’t do so without giving him a little bit of shit in return.
Kane’s eyes move from the ceiling to me. “Do you know what she wants now?”
I withhold a laugh, because although Kane’s words alone sound as if he might be