by Aven Ellis
“But because you’re real,” Beckett says, interrupting my thoughts, “and you’re honest, I want you to handle my accounts. You won’t post stupid shit. You’ll find a way to make me interesting.”
I realize Beckett doesn’t think he’s interesting. Good Lord, why would he think that?
“I don’t have to ‘make’ you interesting,” I say.
“I’m not interesting, Aubrey,” Beckett says firmly. “I mean, not in the way Landy is with his modeling on the side or Pierre with his cool French accent, or any other guy on the team. The guys in the locker room, they talk to the media, talk to fans, and it’s so easy for them. For me it’s painful. I panic about what to say. Even in a setting that’s supposed to be fun.”
Physically I ache for him. I can tell from his words this has been a struggle, something I do without even thinking. Talking to people is easy for me. And I never realized how I took it for granted until this moment.
“Tell me one,” I say, encouraging him.
“Tell you what?”
“An episode where you felt uncomfortable,” I urge.
Beckett tugs down on his beanie. “Okay. Casino Night. Last month. I had to man a table and talk to season ticket holders as I dealt cards. I panicked the whole night about what to say. So I ended up barely talking except to say idiotic stuff. Then they interviewed me on camera and I became all serious and halting, and I know people thought I was a dork. I saw the comments on social media the next day.”
Oh, God. I can see how he put that label square on himself, then reading asshole comments people left for him—
Right now I hate social media.
“Beckett,” I say reassuringly, “if I handle your accounts, I’ll manage everything. You’ll never have to read those comments because you don’t need idiots like that getting in your head. You’re shy. That’s what is driving your awkwardness. Not being a dork.”
Beckett shakes his head. “I’m a dork, Aubrey.”
“The only thing you’re a dork about is thinking you’re a dork,” I tease.
That does it. Beckett laughs, and I see the light come back into his eyes.
“But this is where I can help,” I say. “I’ll post things on your accounts and get people excited to see a glimpse into your life, and all I have to do is take a picture. That’s it.”
Beckett exhales. “I can’t tell you what a relief that is. I don’t want to think about it. Or read comments or worry that I sound stupid in my posts. I just want to play hockey.”
“I know you do,” I say, nodding. “That’s your priority. Let me handle growing your awareness. Trust me, it can be as simple as me taking a picture of you eating pizza. That easy.”
“When you say it, I believe it,” he says.
“Then believe it.”
“I believe you,” Beckett says.
Oh, I’m going to need to start ripping pages out of rule book, I can feel it.
“You’re so confident,” Beckett says.
“You’re super confident on the ice,” I tell him. “And you weren’t shy the day we met.”
“No, I wasn’t,” Beckett agrees. “You make me laugh. You’re fun. And I feel with you, things are easy. I can say things and you get them.”
I do, I think. I do get them.
“By the way, you’re known on social media as more than a hockey player,” I say, setting him up.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“For all the women who yearn for you on Tumblr, you’re a life-ruiner.”
Then I see it. Beckett begins to turn red, and I can’t believe how adorable he is in his current state of embarrassment.
“Stop that,” Beckett says.
I laugh, and he shoots me a dirty look.
“Don’t worry, Becks, I won’t acknowledge those comments, even if they are complimentary.”
“Ugh,” Beckett groans. “Remind me why I’m doing this?”
“You know why,” I say firmly. “So you can build a brand name. So you have more opportunities while you’re playing for sponsorships and to further make money. To set yourself up for a career after hockey, too. And so I can take this off your plate.”
“That part I like.”
“I told you, I won’t let it this be painful for you,” I assure him.
“So the only pain involved will be if you hit me in the face like you did earlier?” he quips.
“Beckett!” I cry, but I’m already laughing.
He laughs with me, and once again, I find myself enjoying the moment with him.
“I should probably go,” I say aloud, although I really don’t want to.
“Okay,” Beckett says, standing up. He extends his hand to me, and I take it, letting him pull me up. I love his hands, they’re so big and strong, and it takes all my willpower to let it go.
We both pick up plates and glasses and carry them into the kitchen. I grab my tote off the countertop, and I’m ready to leave.
“Come on, I’ll walk you home.”
“What? That’s ridiculous!”
“No it’s not. I’ve seen you fall in an elevator. What if you knocked yourself out or something? I’d feel horrible.”
I know I’m turning bright red, but at the same time, I’m deliriously happy he’s going to do it.
We leave his condo and head to the elevator. I punch the down button, and the whole time there’s this electric feeling between us. Or at least on my part. I mean, he could have kissed me on the couch if he wanted to, but he didn’t. But then there’s the things he said, the way he looked at me—
The doors chime, and I decide not to fixate on it. Or what the consequences will be from what I’m doing with Beckett.
We ride in silence to my floor. I lead him to the unit I’m living in, and I take a moment to fumble around for the key in my bag.
“Should I go get us some coffee?” Beckett teases. “It might take you a while to find it. I might even have time to grab some Timmy’s up in Canada.”
“You’re such a smart ass,” I say, laughing as I continue to feel around in my cavernous bag for my stupid keys.
“Captain Smart Ass, you keep forgetting my title.”
I locate my keys and glance up at him. Beckett is leaning against the wall next to the door, giving me that crooked smile, and, oh Lord, I have no chance keeping any kind of rules in play with this man.
Zero.
I turn the key in the lock. “Well, Captain Smart Ass, thank you for the escort home.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And thank you for dinner. The fries were amazing. And it was really thoughtful of you,” I say quietly.
Beckett stares at me. My heart begins pounding again. I know this is crazy, but I physically ache for him to make a move right now. I know I’ve said I can’t. I know I’ve said I shouldn’t. But my heart is screaming over my head and I know what I want.
Beckett.
“You’re welcome. Goodnight, Aubrey.”
“Night,” I say, nodding at him.
I push open the door, and he begins to walk away. I take a moment to study his massive frame, the way he’s so broad across the back, and quickly avert my eyes before he catches me staring.
I’m about to close the door behind me when I hear my name.
“Aubrey!”
My pulse leaps. I pop my head out my door and see that Beckett has turned around.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Wanna try some Belgian beers with those fries on Thursday? I can bring them back here so you can come by when you’re done with work.”
Oh my God. He invited me over, but with no business attached.
Okay, so I don’t know if it’s as friends or getting to be something more than friends but aaaa
ah!
But I decide to play it cool.
“Only if I can take pictures for a future tweet,” I counter.
“Urgh, you’re impossible.”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes,” Beckett says, flashing me a smile. “I’ll allow it.”
Happiness washes over me. “Okay. Thursday it is.” Then I decide to tease him. “And text me when you get home. I need to know you got back safely.”
He bursts out laughing. “Will do.”
I step inside the condo and close the door. I’m shaking with excitement. I don’t ever remember feeling like this, even with guys I thought I loved.
There’s something about Beckett that’s different.
In all the right ways.
But something in my heart tells me to take this leap. Cautiously, of course, but to take it all the same.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do on Thursday night.
Chapter 11
The Aubrey Rules To Live By, Rule #11: Don’t waste time looking for a potential boyfriend who doesn’t have the qualities you have listed. Date with these specific things in mind, and cut loose guys who don’t have these qualities immediately.
**Amendment** Upon further review, I think my list is old and outdated.
**Amendment #2** Since meeting Beckett, that is.
**Amendment #3** Perhaps the rule book needs to be updated and revised accordingly for Beckett.
I should be freaking exhausted.
I’m sitting at my desk at work, waiting for some kind of direction from Mallory. But then again, maybe I don’t want it. It’s only day two of gainful employment, and instead of having me retrieve a banana, I was told to go to a smoothie bar and fetch a blended drink for her flagging energy level.
Of course, she tells me this after I’ve swapped out my snow boots for heels, un-layered myself, and just sat down to have a cup of coffee.
I think I will be out of red flags well before lunch on my second day of work.
So I trudged back out, walked 10 minutes in the snow, came back, and was told to “take a cab next time, I was about to pass out from hunger.”
Oy.
Now I’m sitting at my desk, with no direction and no assignments. I push my chair back ever so slightly from my desk so I can peer into Mallory’s office. She’s on Nordstrom again. But at least she’s branching out and studying scarves.
Fantastic. I wonder what time today I should plan to take a taxi to Nordstrom to pick one up for her.
Buzz!
My pulse leaps as soon as my phone vibrates. That’s because I’ve done nothing but text Beckett since he left my door last night. We continued our conversation via text, and the last thing I remember was waiting for his response when I fell asleep on the couch, in my clothes, mouth open—the drool spot confirmed that—and I didn’t wake up until 4am.
Hence why I’m tired.
But a very good tired, I’m finding it to be.
I glance down at my phone. It’s Beckett. We’d resumed our conversation around six this morning, and now he’s texting before his 11 AM practice.
Can you get me a Starbucks and swing by the Buffaloes training facility with it? I’m feeling fatigued.
I grin, as he knows my whole adventure in nourishing Mallory this morning.
I think you would have many groupies who would grab your coffee. Maybe we can tweet that you are searching for a person to do this. Bet you’d get a million applicants.
I hit ‘send’ and wait for his reply.
I’m going to let that comment slide because you didn’t mention exploding ovaries.
I nearly burst out laughing at his response. But I bite down on my lip to hold it in. I quickly text back.
The day is early.
“Aubrey, can you come in here, please?” Mallory calls out.
Oh, could I actually be getting something to do? I hope so. Because I don’t want my first job to be working as Mallory’s food runner.
I put my phone into my purse, grab my tablet and a pen, and head into her office.
“Yes, Mallory?” I ask as I enter.
She still has her back to me as she clicks on a scarf.
“Have a seat, please.”
I slip into the chair on the other side of her desk. Mallory continues to study scarves, and I wait for her to finish.
“I have a project for you,” she says without even turning around.
Yay! Real work!
“Sure,” I say, feeling eager.
“Please find me a good kale Caesar salad for my lunch,” she says, clicking on another scarf to inspect, “preferably one where you can add a protein, but I will only eat salmon or tofu. Make sure you have it here by one, as if I don’t eat by then I’ll feel weak.”
Pop! My eagerness deflated like a balloon with a pin stuck in it.
“Okay,” I say, forcing my voice to be cheerful. “Anything else?”
Mallory still hasn’t moved away from the computer screen. “Mmmm, have you read the employee manual yet?”
“Yes, on my first day,” I say.
“Oh.”
A silence falls between us.
“Well, work on lunch and I’ll have something for you to do when I get back.”
I frown. I get the feeling that Mallory wanted personal staff more than someone to do work for ChicagoConnect, because apparently she doesn’t do anything except show up at meetings.
As I stand up, her phone rings. Her eyes still don’t leave her computer screen, and I watch as she clicks on a scarf and adds it to her shopping cart.
“ChicagoConnect, this is Mallory,” she says.
I leave the office and sit back down at my desk. Okay, I know I should have more patience. I know it’s only my second day but shouldn’t I have something work-related to do? Study a client’s tweets? Search for key words? Study competition on Instagram? File papers? Anything?
But my gut tells me this job is going to suck. Mallory doesn’t want to see me learn and flourish in the position. She has no desire to be a mentor. Mallory simply wants someone to run her errands and to feed her ego by having an assistant do this for her.
Which makes me want to kick a wall but I won’t go down that road again.
As I open Google and begin the quest for the Holy Grail of kale salads, I reach down into my purse and fish out my phone. I see that Beckett has left a few more texts for me, which makes butterflies shift in my stomach again. I quickly read them.
I will pay you never to mention exploding ovaries again.
What, is Mallory making you work at actual WORK?
Going into practice. Will try to message you before my game-day nap.
Nap? He takes freaking naps? Oh, this is too good to resist.
I’ll have you know my current assignment is to find the best kale salad in Chicagoland. I think I want your job instead. Where it’s cool to get pissed and punch people. And what, you have NAPTIME? What are you? Five?
Then I hit ‘send,’ knowing I’ll hear from him later. I find a five-star-rated kale salad and place an online order for pick-up. Then I decide to make my own work. I’m going to do some research on other hockey players and see who is represented well on social media. I’ll study Beckett, too, of course, but I’ve kind of already done that.
A lot.
But nobody except for Google and Livy need to know how many hours I spent in the social media jungle “studying” Captain Beckett Riley.
I stare at his name as Google provides me with Beckett-related results. And that’s who I did study, the strong, quiet captain who is passionate about winning and building a winning team for the once-mediocre Chicago Buffaloes, the team which is starting to show flashes of greatness since Beckett arrived
. The one who is quietly leading by example on and off the ice.
But the Beckett I know—Captain Smart Ass—is funny when he wants to reveal that side of himself. Easily embarrassed. Thinks he’s boring. Thoughtful. Shy.
And is cute and sexy all at the same time.
I swallow hard. What am I going to do? I want to see what could happen with Beckett. I’ve never felt such a strong pull toward someone I just met. But I’m on the edge of disaster here. He’s going to be a client. But am I ever going to have a career here anyway? Good Lord, I’m researching freaking salads. Yet I have my reputation to consider . . .
Okay. Time to work on some rules. I love the structure I feel when I give myself a guide to life. I know I can make the chaos in my head make sense if I write it out. I reach inside my tote for my notebook and open it up.
I flip to the first blank page, toward the back, and begin writing out my rules for Beckett. Stuff like I know he could be a player off the ice, so to be on alert for signals of that kind of personality. If I think he could cheat, I won’t get involved. I need to get to know Beckett better and weigh out if the risk is worth the reward. If he could be worth giving up my job for. I need to keep our relationship discreet, and if we do go further, then we have to be very private. I can’t take a chance on being seen in public with him in any capacity other than friend. Nothing romantic.
I put my pen down. For the first time in my life, I find myself hating my rules. It makes everything I’m feeling with Beckett sound cold and clinical, when in reality I feel so happy and excited to be with him.
And if you were to ask my heart, I’d say screw all that, I’m an adult, and if I want to date Beckett and if—big huge if—he wants to date me, then we’ll date and not hide it. Shit. That makes me think of another rule.