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)
“In what capacity?”
“She’s voiced concern about professional consequences.” My jaw tightens. “For herself.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“And for you?”
I shrug once. “I hardly need to be concerned about fallout.”
What are they going to do, fire me?
Ha.
Tara nods. “And your reason for disclosure today?”
“I want to be transparent, should the relationship progress and become serious.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The assistant’s typing slows.
Tara’s face remains composed, but there’s the faintest softening around her eyes.
“You understand,” she continues, “that disclosure does not guarantee immunity from review.”
“Sure.”
“And you understand that if this relationship creates conflict of interest, it may require reassignment or structural adjustments for her.”
My chest tightens. “It might?”
I imagine Juliette packing up her desk because of me. Fielding whispers. Becoming office gossip.
Shit.
Tara folds her hands. “Mr. Bishop, you’re not the first athlete to disclose a workplace relationship. Nor will you be the last.”
That surprises me enough that I actually look straight into her eyes.
“We don’t punish people for honesty,” she continues. “We assess risk. Power imbalance. At this time, none of those factors suggest immediate action.”
The assistant nods once without looking up.
“Off the record,” Tara adds, giving her assistant the side-eye. “I am required to walk you through worst-case scenarios.”
I exhale slowly.
“I do not foresee this being an issue,” she says. “Provided it remains professional in the workplace.”
Professional.
My brain flashes to locker-room tension. To my conflicts with Declan, on and off the ice. To me throwing my helmet across a bench like a caveman. To Storm, having to mediate the two of us during a game.
“I can handle that,” I say.
Tara studies me for a long beat.
“We’ll have something for you to sign. Penny should have it drafted within the hour, and I can have those sent down.” Her smile is pleasant. “Is there anything else we can help you with?”
“No.” I pause. Remember my manners. “No, thank you.”
I rise.
Reach my hand out to shake Tara’s.
She takes it. “Thank you for coming in.”
“Yeah.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “Appreciate it.”
Penny saves whatever digital paper trail now exists tying my name to Juliette’s in neat, bullet-pointed documentation.
Done.
No fireworks. No lecture. No corporate hammer dropping.
I step back into the hallway, exhale through my nose, and check my phone out of habit.
Still nothing.
Which is fair.
If I were her, I’d tell me to fuck off and never want to see me again. But I’m not a quitter, and I have to give it a shot, see if she’ll at least hear me out.
Keeping it professional in the workplace will have to wait, because she won’t agree to see me if she’s not taking my calls, or responding to my messages.
I square my shoulders and start walking toward her office.
Paperwork handled.
Now comes the hard part.
Her desk is vacant.
Crap—what if she didn’t show up for work?
My shoulders drop. What if she’s gone home? Or is hiding from me?
Then I notice the glass-walled conference room at the end of the hall. The lights are on. The blinds are half-closed.
And she’s inside.
Alone.
She’s seated at the far end of the table, elbows on the surface, fingers pressed to her temples as if she’s mustering the energy to do whatever she’s in the room to do.
She looks up when I open the door.
Our eyes meet.
There’s no smile, no greeting, no teasing.
Juliette looks tired, her face free of make-up except for a small bit of mascara.
She looks like she’s probably been up crying all night.
I close the door behind me.
“This won’t take long.” I hold my hands up, praying she doesn’t call security or something.
She nods, crossing her arms.
“I went to HR,” I start, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans. Rock back on my heels, nervous as hell.
Juliettes mouth falls into a straight line.
“I disclosed our relationship,” I go on, unencouraged by her silence. “I wanted it documented, you know—so there are no surprises.”
A beat passes.
Then another.
“You came here to tell me that?” she asks flatly.
I blink. “Yeah.”
She lets out a breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a scoff. But if sarcasm had a sound, it would be that.
“Alright.”
Silence hums between us, she on one side of the table, me on the other, the glass walls making me feel exposed to prying eyes so soon after my meeting with Tara.
“I thought—”
“You thought going to HR would suddenly make what you did less shitty?”
No. “Not for a second. But I thought it was a start.”
“A start?” she repeats. “Oh, so we’re rewinding to the beginning now?”
When I don’t answer, she studies me for several long moments, then sets her hands on the table.
“Okay,” she says, leaning toward me. “If this is your big reckoning, let’s do it properly.”
My stomach drops.
“I want the ugly version,” she continues. “This entire situation, all the not knowing, has had my stomach in knots. I’ve been sick about it, so the least you can do is give me the gory, gross details. Leave nothing out.”