Nolan Throws a Wrench in the Works

 

I wish I could call my sister and tell her everything. I texted her when I first arrived in Las Vegas like she asked me to, and we’ve traded a couple of long voicemail updates back and forth since then, but she’d die if I called her now and told her the supposed baseball player who hosted that party in Minneapolis is really a hockey player who’s on his way to capturing my heart.

Oh, boy!

Talking with Lainey, though, even if I were permitted to tell her everything, would so not be a good idea. It would only make things worse. My sister is a sucker for a forbidden love story. And let’s face it—falling for Brent Oliver is strictly forbidden. As in, it can never happen. I’d be terminated for sure if my boss ever found out. And then I might never work again. ’Cause, really, talk about unprofessional!

Besides, I’ve truly been helping Brent, as demonstrated by his exemplary behavior of late. There’s been no drinking, no partying, and no women in his life. He’s also skating every day and working out rigorously. All of which is good since training camp starts up this week.

A creep of dread works its way up my spine, and I have to address the glaring observation that Brent staying on-course is due, in part, to his not associating with his rowdy teammates.

That’s all about to change though, and real fast. The team e-mailed me something this morning—almost like a warning and a heads-up rolled into one long memo—informing me that Brent’s linemates, Nolan Solvenson and Benjamin Perry, who also have the distinction of having been his summer party pals, are back in town. Nolan apparently lives in the same gated community Brent’s house is in, so I suspect he’ll be stopping by soon enough.

Let’s hope it’s not to recruit my protégé for a night of partying and puck bunnies.

Benjamin, I’m less worried about. Though the e-mail indicated he was quite the party animal this summer, he made it through rehab with flying colors. I can’t imagine he’ll be any trouble, except in one area—women. He could very well try to talk Brent into partaking in a hockey whore orgy or something just as sleazy.

I shudder at the images that flash through my head like a bad porn movie. With these horndog hockey players anything’s possible. I have to be prepared, and so should Brent.

As I venture around the house, searching for him so we can discuss new parameters for dealing with his potentially bad influence friends, the doorbell chimes.

And chimes…

And chimes…

I’m apparently the only one around—where the heck is Brent?—so I have no choice but to go see who it is.

When I open the door, I come face-to-face with a handsome, dark-haired man, one who oozes coolness and sophistication. He also happens to be built like a world-class athlete, much like Brent, so I suspect right away he’s a teammate.

“Hello,” he says, all James Bond-like. He lowers his dark sunglasses and gives me the ‘ole once-over.

“Hi,” I reply, rolling my eyes at his flirtatious demeanor.

He chuckles, unaffected by my blasé attitude toward him.

Dismissing me just as summarily as I did him, he takes off his glasses and cranes his neck to peer past me. “Is Brent home?” he asks, distractedly, like I’m the help or something.

Well, I kind of am, but he doesn’t know that.

“Who wants to know?” I ask as I cross my arms and try to block his view.

God, you’re acting like your Brent’s mother.

“I’m Nolan,” he states dryly. “I play with Brent.”

I’d kind of like to play with Brent too. Yikes, now I sound like I’m his girlfriend.

“No!” I exclaim, as I perish the thought.

“No, he’s not home?” Nolan asks, the first crack in his cool demeanor revealing itself when he looks a tad confused.

“Uh, actually, I’m not sure,” I admit.

“And who are you, exactly?” he asks, back to sounding suave and collected.

I hold out my hand. May as well make nice with the guy, right?

“I’m Aubrey, Brent’s life coach.”

“Ahh, yes.” He shakes my hand firmly. “I heard about you.”

Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “You have? From who? Brent?”

I try like hell to tamp down the inner total-girl part of me that’s secretly jumping up and down at the idea Brent may have mentioned me to this obvious friend. If he did, then that must mean something, right? Like maybe he’s really into me.

Those burgeoning hopes are crushed to smithereens when Nolan responds, “No, nothing from Brent. I just heard about you through the team grapevine.”

“Oh, okay.”

So there’s a team grapevine? Probably the same grapevine that passes around info on which puck bunny is the best lay. Or maybe who gives the best blow jobs. I hope it’s not a grapevine I have to worry about with Brent. Though I suspect I probably do.

Just then the man I’m thinking of appears, saving me from any further embarrassment with Nolan.

I move out of the way quickly. That way there’s no physical contact when Brent wedges his hard-bodied self in the doorway.

“Hey, man,” he says to Nolan. The two linemates then do some kind of bro-hug, fist-bump ritual. “When’d you get in?”

“Last night,” Nolan replies.

“Cool. Come on in.”

Brent steps back to make way for Nolan.

Feeling suddenly left out, I swish my hand through the air and announce, “Well, I guess I’ll get out of your hair. I have a few company reports to work on. I’m just going to head on upstairs to my lonely little room.”

I point in the direction of the stairs, but I make no move to go. I’m secretly hoping Brent will stop me. I’d like an invitation to wherever they’re going for two reasons. 1) I kind of want to hang out more with Brent, and 2) I can keep an eye on him if I’m with him.

But no such luck. He nods distractedly and says, “Okay, yeah, work reports. Great. Have fun.”

“Nice meeting you, Aubrey,” Nolan adds, effectively sending me on my way.

“Yeah, you too,” I mutter as I turn away.

So much for discussing parameters for dealing with friends. So much for invitations. Looks like Brent’s on his own till I can get him alone.

Oh well. I actually do have reports to work on and turn in, both for my firm and for the team.

I work on those assignments until evening, and when I venture back downstairs I’m surprised to discover Nolan is still at the house. He and Brent are out back by the pool, grilling hamburgers, laughing, talking, and—wait, what?—drinking beer.

I’m out the sliding glass doors leading to the backyard in less than a minute. Picking up one of at least a dozen bottles snuggled down in a tub of ice on the red sandstone patio, I point the thing at Brent and say, “I hate to ruin your little get-together out here, but you absolutely should not be drinking.”

“Uh-oh,” trouble-maker Nolan chimes in, chuckling. “Looks like your life coach”—he shoots me a challenging ice-blue glare—“is on the warpath.”

Brent laughs right along with him. What? “You’re not kidding, man.”

What happened to my star client? And I don’t mean as in superstar, which he clearly has down pat as indicated by this out-of-the-blue display of attitude. What I want to know is where’s the sweet guy who made me dinner? The great guy who talked with me late into the night? You know, the guy I’m freaking falling for.

I scowl at both men, shooting Brent an especially disappointed look. He, at least, has the decency to turn away.

Amazed by how quickly things can change, I ask, “Where did this beer come from, anyway? I thought I dumped anything even remotely resembling alcohol down the drain?”

“You did,” Brent mutters.

Nolan, still looking smug, says, “Wow. That was harsh. Good thing I thought to throw a case into a cooler and toss it in the back of my SUV.”

“How very thoughtful of you,” I snap, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

Nolan narrows his eyes at me and then, turning to Brent, says, “Maybe we should move this over to my house. There are no life coaches over there.”

Yikes, but there could be hockey whores.

I try to stop them. “Wait, no.”

Paying me no heed whatsoever, Brent downs the beer he’s drinking in two seconds flat, then says to Nolan, “Sounds good to me, man. Let’s go.”

In that moment, I feel all my work, all the progress I’ve made with Brent thus far, crumbling around me.