Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Too late.
My plan is already being built, brick by vengeful brick.
Juliette Kennedy isn’t my type.
She’s better.
FIVE
JULIETTE
I may be the only person in existence who’s ever been thrilled by the idea of sitting in a human resources meeting.
New job. New badge. New life!
Look at me go!
We’re two hours deep into a PowerPoint presentation labeled Workplace Conduct and Professional Boundaries, trapped inside a glass conference room that resembles a fishbowl, but fortunately there are bagels and other snacks.
Boundaries.
Is that corporate speak for “Don’t be an idiot at the office!”
Allison clicks the remote again, and the slide changes.
Big, bold letters:
ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIPS IN THE WORKPLACE
My spine straightens and suddenly, she has my full, undivided attention.
“Now,” Allison continues. “The purpose of the No Fraternization Policy is to maintain a professional environment for everyone. For you, for our coaches, for our players—and the entire staff. No Fraternizing can include the following, but is not limited to…” The slide moves again. “‘No romantic or sexual relationships, i.e.: dating. In this digital age we also discourage…’” She glances at the screen, then around the room, looking everyone in the eye. “‘Sliding into DMs on the Wolves network, or on social media.’”
A few people chuckle as if the idea were absurd.
I do not.
Not only did I fraternize, I orgasmed.
Oh god, what happens if I get caught?
Embarrassment heats up my entire body as the next slide appears:
CONSEQUENCES
“‘All violations will be taken seriously, especially if not reported to HR through the appropriate channel,’” Allison continues, unaware that I am internally drafting my own professional obituary.
Juliette Kennedy. Dropped dead from fraternizing. Former new hire with good hair and an even better attitude. Brings her lunch in reusable containers with environmentally friendly plastic. Propositioned player number 8 outside a bar, and seduced him at her apartment, after spreading her legs and letting him lick her dry.
“‘… will result in termination.’”
Termination!
I reach for a bagel for emotional support and pull it apart, jamming one chunk into my mouth.
It’s stale.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
Allison moves on, outlining more policies and procedures. The dress code. Explains confidentiality, workplace safety, and other communication expectations. The drug and alcohol policy. Social media and time-off requests, but the only thing I can think about is Aaron Bishop walking out of my apartment.
The look in his eyes when he slid across the couch to kiss me.
Touch me.
Career suicide, apparently.
I swallow and fixate my attention on a new chart about email privacy protections, while my brain replays everything I’ve officially labeled a terminable offense.
Allison keeps talking.
The slides keep changing.
Two more hours pass in a blur of policies, bullet points, and the realization that my shiny new career may already be on thin ice—no pun intended!—held together by an HR handbook, a stale bagel, and the desperate hope that Aaron Bishop knows how to keep his mouth shut.
Back in the hallway, my boss Whitney is waiting for me.
She’s tall.
Polished.
Smells like expensive shampoo, expensive perfume, and gives off a quiet authority I quite admire, and am a bit terrified of.
“How was your training?” she asks.
I consider faking my enthusiasm.
“Thorough,” I say instead. “They leave no stone unturned.”
She smiles patiently. “You’ll appreciate that there are no gray areas. Only black and white.”
I nod.
She laughs and gestures down the hallway. “Walk with me?”
I fall into step beside her, still trying to regain the circulation in my legs. When they wobble, I’m grateful for the ballet flats on my feet.
“I wanted to talk to you about the annual foundation fundraiser. It’s not for another ten months, but we’re touring the ballroom again this afternoon,” Whitney says as we slow near the elevators. “I want to see the flow for cocktail hour and the stage setup in person.”
Butterflies begin fluttering in my stomach. Is she going to invite me along?
My boss taps her security badge absently against her hip. “I thought it’d be good experience for you to join the walkthrough.”
“I’d love to,” I breathe, doing my best not to sound so eager.
“Good.” She smiles, checking her watch. “We’ll head over in fifteen?”
The elevator dings behind us.
And because the universe is a cruel bitch and has a flair for horrible timing, Aaron Bishop materializes out of thin air as if I manifested him through sheer anxiety, and the fact that I haven’t been able to get him out of my head.
It’s one thing to see him in a hallway, it’s another to suddenly have him hovering over me, breathing my space…
“Hello Aaron.” Whitney radiates pleasure at his presence. “Can we help you?”
She’s so professional and composed.
He shifts the strap of his gym bag higher on his shoulder. “I think I left a folder here after my meeting earlier. Came to grab it.”
Then his eyes move to me.
Whitney turns to me, cheerful as ever. “Aaron, this is Juliette! She just joined our player engagement team. Juliette, this is Aaron—the Wolves’ secret weapon.”
Not such a secret, considering he’s one of the league’s best defensemen, but he nods politely anyway, his eyes looking everywhere but at my face.