It seemed like such an easy request at the time.
After all, it’s part of my employment contract, and I can’t go back on my word any more than I can break a legally binding document.
It’s too risky. I worked too hard to get here, and I will not throw this opportunity away for orgasms.
It’s more than just orgasms.
I try to shove the thought away, but it sticks like mold.
Knox is the standard by which all men should be judged. He’s sweet, attentive, and a good conversationalist to boot.
I’ve never connected with anyone, physically or emotionally, the way I connect with him. He makes me feel safe in all the ways that matter, and when I’m with him, it feels like we’re the only two people in the world.
But we’re not, and giving him false hope would be wrong.
If I walk away, it will be the biggest mistake of my life.
His words echo in my head even now, and my heart cracks just a tiny bit at the thought of what might have been. At the realization that he wants me as much as I want him.
This isn’t the time to get caught up in your feelings. You have a job to do.
I check the time on my watch. Nine-oh-one.
Way to be late on your first day.
It’s one minute. I doubt Dr. Banks will even notice.
I push through the doors of the Gliders’ practice facility, and I’m hit with the scent of industrial cleaners, stale popcorn, and damp. Does damp even have a smell? Today it does.
The facility is far nicer than I could have imagined, with a spacious lobby that features a glass atrium, a large concession stand, and a pro shop. Thankfully, the Iceplex is currently closed to the public, making it far easier to spot my new boss.
He stands on the opposite side of the lobby, looking thoroughly unimpressed as he stares at the big, fancy watch on his wrist.
I cross the lobby as fast as my legs will carry me.
“Dr. Banks, I’m so sorry I’m late.” I offer him an apologetic smile. “I left early, but the traffic was terrible, and there was an accident on 85.”
“There’s always an accident. You should’ve done your research.” His words are cold and clipped. There’s no sign of the warm, southern gentleman who interviewed me for the position. “Atlanta is notorious for its traffic.”
Note to self: Banks is a stickler for punctuality.
“It won’t happen again.” I adjust my bag, which hangs heavy on my shoulder. It’s stuffed with player profiles, notebooks, and various other tools of the trade. “I’m excited to be here and ready to get to work.”
He gives me a once-over, taking in my black pants and Gliders polo. Disapproval flashes in his eyes. Compared to his tailored dress pants and starched button-up, I probably look like a slob, but there was no dress code, and team apparel is the standard uniform in my line of work.
“Good. Let’s go meet the team. They’re waiting for us in the locker room.”
The subtle dig smarts, but I paste on a smile and follow him down the concourse.
Dr. Banks and I have only spoken a handful of times. From what I’ve gathered in our brief conversations, his role as the team psychiatrist is basically a six-figure side hustle. He has a private practice in Buckhead that seems to be his primary focus, and he’s already warned me that his time on-site will be limited.
I don’t mind. Honestly, I welcome the autonomy. At least I won’t have to worry about anyone else taking credit for my work, which happened regularly at the Ivy League where I was previously employed. When I told Knox it was difficult working in a male-dominated field, I wasn’t exaggerating.
Good vibes only…even if Dr. Banks is proving to be a pompous jerk.
The door is propped open when we arrive, and the instant I catch a whiff of moldy socks, the reason is apparent.
Adam—Coach Carlyle—greets us with a smile, and the room falls silent as all eyes turn our way. I do my best to avoid Knox’s stare as I survey the room, which is at full capacity.