CHAPTER 3: You Came To Do His Dirty Work

MILA'S POV

I stick out my hand. "I'm Mila Santiago. I'm a junior agent on Rick Hernandez's team at Prime Sports. Rick had something come up, but I'm here to speak to you on his behalf."

His grip is surprisingly firm. My fingers feel small and soft wrapped in his, and I try very hard not to notice the warmth that travels up my arm.

Jax Kingston laughs. But it comes out more like a grunt and feels more like a stab wound.

Because it's really not funny.

I see the first man who's made my stomach flip in god knows how long.

And he's already dismissing me.

"So Rick sent you to do his dirty work," Jax says, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulls his compression shirt tight across his shoulders, and I catch another glimpse of dark ink curling up his neck. "He too busy to deal with me anymore?"

"Rick will be joining us later. He always has time for his clients."

I keep my voice steady, professional. The same tone I use when Spencer tries to undermine me in meetings.

Jax scoffs. "Sure. That's why he sent some junior agent fresh out of college who probably has no idea who won the Stanley Cup pre-2010."

I arch an eyebrow. The dismissal stings, but I've been underestimated my whole career. I'm used to it. Doesn't mean I have to take it lying down.

"First of all, I'm twenty-seven. College is unfortunately an increasingly distant memory for me." I shift my weight, my sunflower-yellow heels clicking against the concrete floor. "And second, pre-2010? Please. I'm literally always thinking about when Jim Lorentz killed a bat on the ice in the fog game of the '75 finals."

That shuts him up for a moment.

His green eyes widen slightly, maybe just a flicker, but I catch it. The tattoos on his forearms shift as he uncrosses his arms, and I notice a lighthouse peeking out from under his sleeve.

I know that lighthouse. It's the one from Cliffside, Maine. His hometown.

I've seen pictures. Not that I'm admitting that.

"Sorry," he says, voice gruff. "That was.... sorry."

For a second, I think I'm imagining it. Jax Kingston, apologizing?

"It's fine." I shrug it off with a smile, even though something warm flickers in my chest. "Would you mind if we spoke privately for a moment? How about in one of the free offices?"

His mouth hardens back into a line. "Right here is fine."

Of course it is.

"Okay... well." I straighten my back, placing my iced coffee on the table next to us so I can open the crisp, white pages of my notebook. The same notebook I've used for five years, filled with my cramped handwriting and color-coded tabs. "This might come across better hearing it from Rick. But I'm afraid he has some concerns about you this season. He's suggesting a media strategy plan to reset your image. This will help get you back into the good graces of the team's front office."

Irritation clouds his face. Those dark brows draw together, and I notice a small scar cutting through the left one. "Sorry, but no. I'm not interested."

"I understand it's not what you want to hear. But he's trying to do what's best for your career."

I'm going to continue, to lay out the specifics of Rick's proposal, but my eyes drop to his chest and I get distracted.

There's a smudge of white on his black compression shirt, right near his collarbone.

"You've got a little..." I reach out on instinct, and my finger comes away powdery white. "...flour?"

Jax looks down at my finger, then back at my face. His expression shifts to confusion, then something that might be amusement.

"Oh." I feel heat rise to my cheeks. The sensation of blushing under his intense green stare sends warmth through my whole body. "I was, um, baking this morning."

He snorts. "Of course you were."

I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean, but I choose to take it as a compliment.

"You're nothing like Rick," he observes. "I've never met an agent who smiles this much before."

I blink, half a second of surprise at his tangent, before I compose myself. "You say 'smile' as if it's a dirty word."

His lip curls up. "Trust me, I know dirtier words."

My professional, sweet smile doesn't budge an inch.

"I know. We all heard you call the paparazzi a lot of them two weeks ago."

He huffs a laugh as if it's been tugged from him. "Not my finest hour."

"Not at all. But you're right, though. I do smile a lot. I'm an optimist." I gently close the notebook and pick up my iced coffee, taking a sip. I try not to watch how his eyes follow the movement of the straw to my lips. "I like to look at life from a 'glass half full' perspective."

He picks up his water bottle and drains the rest, holding it up as counterevidence. "Empty. No arguments there."

"You're very cynical," I say, almost cheerfully.

"You're very naive," he counters.

"I might be naive, but I'm also trying to help your career, and I think you should be open to listening to Rick."

I hold his stare. He's all hard edges and suspicion, but there's something underneath. Something sharp and wounded that makes me want to dig deeper.

Annoying. Definitely annoying.

He crosses his arms again. "Do you have a problem with me?"

"On the contrary. I grew up here. Every hockey fan in Boston loves the Bay Blades."

I note his careful phrasing. He's testing me.

"You like the team. But you don't like me."

"I work for a sports agency. My personal feelings about any specific client aren't relevant."

"So there are personal feelings. And they're negative." He takes a step closer. "Want to fill me in on what the hell that's about? Because we've never even met, and you've already decided you don't like me."

My stare flickers under my soft lashes.

God help me, I want to tell him exactly why. Exactly what's going on inside my head.

But before I can answer, one of the venue staff walks by some overeager intern. "You guys doing okay? Jax, you need a refill on your water?"

"No, thanks," Jax replies, his stare not leaving my face. "But the junior agent over here could use another iced coffee, if you're offering."

"Oh, sorry." The intern turns red and starts to babble at me. "Didn't mean to be rude by not asking you. It's just that I thought you were still drinking. Your coffee's still half full."

Half full.

I raise an eyebrow. My lips ease up into a smile that makes something flicker in Jax's expression.

I politely turn to the intern. "Don't worry. I'm all good, but thank you so much."

"All right," Jax grumbles, after the intern has hurried away. "You've made your point. But I'm still not interested in Rick's plan. I might be less fixable than he thinks."

I look at him. Then lean forward.

"Hey," I say, my fingers lightly skimming his wrist for a brief, heart-clenching second. His skin is warm, and I feel the raised lines of tattoos under my fingertips. "I don't know what's going on with you this year, Jax. But it'll be okay. I promise."

The smile on my face is soft, sincere, reassuring.

His eyes widen. Just a fraction.

And then he pulls his wrist away from me and heads for the main exit of the arena, his heart thumping loudly enough that I can almost hear it.

I follow after him. Despite my height and my curves, which make running in heels an adventure. I'm surprisingly swift.

"You're just walking off? Very mature."

"Yep," he replies, not turning back. "Pretty much."

He pushes through the nearest doors and jogs down the stairs outside the arena. The night air has a sharp bite of fall cold. A few groups of people turn to stare as he strides away.

"Jax, stop."

He turns back to face me, and I nearly bump into his chest.

"Listen to me," I say, backing up a step. "You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. Let's go find Rick so you can talk this over properly."

"You suck, man! Tonight was a total fluke!"

We both glance behind Jax. There's a man decked out in Florida gear down the street pointing at us, holding up his phone like he's just started recording. He's clearly pretty wasted, swaying on his feet. But he's lucid enough to be shooting Jax a steady stare of hatred.

"I'm trying to have a conversation," Jax yells back at him before he turns to me.

"Just ignore him," I urge. "Come on, let's go back into the arena."

But the drunk Floridian cuts off my sentence. "I've got you live on stream, dude. Say hi to the internet! We're gonna rock your shit in the playoffs!"

Pressure pushes in at Jax's chest—I can see it in the set of his jaw, the clench of his fists.

"How about you and Rick just let me handle my shit on my own?" His voice is sharp. "This isn't any of your business."

"You guys see this?" The drunk shouts at his phone. "Kingston's yelling at some cute office lady on the street. Stay classy, New England. Keep going, Kingston, Hockey T*****r is gonna love this one!"

I exhale. "Come on, let's go back inside and keep talking. I'm on your side here, Jax."

His jaw tenses. "I don't want to talk."

"Have you heard the trade rumors?" The drunk yells. "New England's gonna ship you off because you're such a mess!"

I see Jax's fingers flexing.

Stay calm, I will at him silently.

"Your girlfriend over there is cute," the drunk leers, pointing at me. "How about I show her a good time for you?"

And, well.

I don't know why that's his breaking point.

But suddenly, Jax's hand is grabbing the plastic cup out of my grasp, and he's turning around.

And though he's no baseball player, his throw is pretty fucking great.

He launches my iced coffee at the drunk as hard as he can.

It nails him right in the face.

The coffee explodes.

All over him and his stupid phone.