CHAPTER 15

Helena

I only realized I was in a hospital when I opened my eyes to see white ceiling tiles and a heart monitor beeping slowly.

My hand was in Jarrett's hand while he was in the chair next to the bed, one elbow on his knees, and his dark hair a mess like he had run there.

“How long have I been out?” My voice was like sandpaper as I asked.

“Four hours.” His green eyes flicked to mine. “You lost a lot of blood, Hel. I had to carry you out of the apartment.”

I tried to sit up. Everything in me was hurting. “Don’t call me that.”

“Helena.” He corrected immediately. Like he had memorized every way I hated him. “The doctors said you were going to be okay, physically.”

I pulled my hand out of his. “What are you doing here? I need you to leave.”

"You need me." Jarett responded.

I closed my eyes. “I don’t need you.” I said to him.

“You need a job.” My eyes snapped open.

He held up a manila folder. Inside was a contract; BROOKS WOLVES HOCKEY CLUB. TEAM MANAGER.

Salary. Benefits. Start date was on Monday.

“And an apartment,” he added. “Above the arena. You won't be required to pay rent for 6 months.”

I laughed so much, it hurt. “You really think you can buy me?”

“I think you’re blacklisted. I think Brent told every GM in the league you’re unstable. I think you had 43 dollars in your bank account and a lawyer who worked pro bono.” He leaned forward. “And I think I owe you.”

“Owe me?” The word came out sharp. “You disappeared, Jarrett. The night after...” I couldn’t bring myself to say it. The night after we had kissed in my parents’ driveway. The night before they were found. “You don’t get to come back with a contract and pretend we’re even.”

“I’m not.” He looked wrecked. “I’m asking you to work for me. And...” He hesitated, then ran a hand through his hair. “And to be my girlfriend, and I want it to be public.”

Now I was staring.

“PR,” he rushed. “Brent’s already spinning this. If we’re together, it kills the ‘unstable ex-wife’ story. It gives you leverage and it gives us both cover while we take him down.”

“Us?”

“I know what he did. Mara sent me everything.” He tapped the folder. “Emails. Texts. The funds he moved. I want to help you burn it down, Helena. But I can’t do that if you’re sleeping on my couch and he’s calling you crazy on ESPN.”

I should have said no to him, I should have thrown the folder at his head and called an Uber.

But I knew that I had a lot to lose if I didn't accept this.

“Fine.” The word tasted like ash on my tongue. “A job, an apartment and you want a fake relationship.”

“And?” Jarrett prompted.

“And nothing.” I said.

“And you let me drive you home,” he said.

I didn’t argue, I was too tired to.

******

48 HOURS LATER - BROOKS WOLVES PRACTICE FACILITY

The arena smelled the same. It smelled of ice, sweat and old tape.

It hit me in the chest and I almost turned around.

Jarrett walked beside me, without touching me. I was in a team hoodie and joggers while he looked smaller off the ice and younger, like the 18 year old who had taught me how to tape a stick.

“This is where you’ll run everything,” he said, pushing open the TM office door. “Schedules, travel, media, player issues with full control and no Brent.”

The office was clean. My name was already on the door. HELENA CALLAHAN - TEAM MANAGER.

My throat tightened. “You did this so fast.”

“I had help.” He jerked his chin to the glass. The team was on the ice. 20 guys in red and black, watching us.

Jarrett stepped to the door and opened it, cold air rushing in.

“Boys,” he yelled and they all dropped their skates and stopped. “This is Helena Callahan. She’s your new Team Manager. She ran a Stanley Cup contender’s bench at 24. She knows more hockey than half of you. So you will respect her or you’ll answer to me.”

There was silence. Then the captain, Davies, nodded. “Coach said you’re tough, Ms. Callahan. We’ll see.”

It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t hostile, either. It was hockey.

Jarrett turned back to me. “You good?”

I nodded. I was lying.

Practice started a few seconds later. He was on the ice 2 minutes later. 6 '4 of muscle throwing checks, yelling plays, bleeding from a cut over his eyebrow and not noticing.

Halfway through, a rookie took a dirty hit. Jarrett was across the ice before the whistle. He dropped the other player, gloves off, fists up. Penalty box. 5 minutes.

He looked through the glass at me while he sat there, smirking and bleeding at the same time.

And I felt something from my wrist instantly, a hazy pull Iike static under my skin, like the air got heavier when he was mad. My chest ached and I had to grip the desk.

I told myself, it was just stress.

After practice, I was in the office at 2am going through old game tapes, trying not to think about hospital beds or Brent’s voice or the empty apartment upstairs.

The door opened and Jarrett entered, holding two coffees.

“You’re still here,” he said.

“Someone had to be.”

He set a coffee down and sat in the chair across from me. We didn’t talk for a while.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” he said, finally breaking the silence.

I looked at him. “I don’t trust you,” I said with all the honesty I could muster.

“I know.”

“But I’ll take the job.” I said.

He nodded like that was enough for him.