I wonder what the hell that guy’s problem is. Sure, I made a lot of noise that first night, but I don’t think it warrants his continued disdain. Whatever. It’s not like I have to be friends with him. I don’t even have to acknowledge him.
The bus ride to my new job is blissfully uneventful. The clinic is located at the edge of the university campus. They opened a brand-new center, which required a mass hiring in part because of the new expansion team in Seattle. Put a hockey team in a city, and all of a sudden hundreds of college kids want to go pro and are looking for every possible advantage to get them there.
I could’ve cashed in on my brother’s connections and scored a position at one of the clinics that works directly with the professional teams, but I wanted to get the job on my own merit, not my brother’s name.
I have a master’s in physiotherapy with a specialization in sports rehab, and I graduated at the top of my class. That, along with the glowing recommendation from my professors and my clinic placement, as well as my interview skills, got me the job. And I didn’t need my brother to do it.
So here I am, day one at my new job, praying I don’t run into Joey and end up in tears. The good thing about starting two months after him is that he won’t be part of my orientation. Also, the clinic is massive: there are more than a hundred people on staff, including physiotherapists, massage therapists, acupuncturists, chiropractors, and even a doctor, as well as a team of personal trainers—that’s what Joey was hired for. I’m hopeful the size of the clinic means I won’t run into him often—better yet, not at all—since I’m with the physiotherapy team.
I’m about twenty-five minutes early, so I sign in, pick up an orientation package of paperwork, and take a seat at one of the many empty desks in the seminar room. It’s strange being in a university as something other than a student.
The seats around me fill with nervous bodies as I complete the forms. I’m not necessarily an introvert, but new situations where I don’t know anyone apart from my cheater ex make me nervous.
Two women who look roughly my age take the empty seats next to me. One of the girls is tall and willowy with a pixie cut, and the other one is short with an athletic build, her long hair pulled back in a ponytail. We exchange hellos and names as they settle in. The willowy one is Jules, and the athletic one is Pattie. Apparently they’re cousins.
My phone vibrates on my desk with new messages, but I ignore it. RJ sent me one this morning wishing me luck, as did my mom and my brother Kyle. I slide the device into my bag so it’s not a distraction, but before I do, I catch the new name I’ve given to Joey’s contact: Douche-Hole. His most recent message, sent seconds ago, reads look up.
The last thing I need or want this morning is to see his asshole face. I don’t look up. Instead I flip distractedly through the orientation booklet.
“Hey! Stevie!” Joey whisper-shouts from the end of the row.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter.
“Do you know that guy?” Pattie asks on a whisper.
“Unfortunately, yes.” I keep my head down, determined not to give him any kind of sign that will make him think he has half a chance of getting back on my good side. Ever.
“Psst, Stevie.” His voice is closer now, like right beside my ear.
I glance at Pattie and mouth, Is he behind me?
She nods.
The tiny woman made of 100 percent muscle standing at the front of the room looks beyond me, her mouth twisting into a frown. “Mr. Smuck, did you need a refresher? Is that why you’re gracing us with your presence?”
Yes, Joey’s last name is Smuck. The irony is hard to ignore.
Every single person in the room is now looking at him, and I’m a sitting duck for whatever his response is going to be. I can feel the heat in my cheeks.
His hand, the one that was slapping the bare ass of someone other than me, lands on my shoulder. “Just saying hi to my—”
Embarrassment collides with incredulity and rage. I drop my arm, stabbing him in the shin with my pen. To his credit, he only half chokes on a groan, finishing with a cough and “Friend.”
The room is pin-drop silent. I want to melt into the floor and disappear.
“Save your social calls for off-work hours, Mr. Smuck.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” He lowers his voice and whispers, “You can’t avoid me forever.” Then he shuffles down the row and saunters out of the room with a slight limp.
Once he’s gone, our orientation leader gets down to business as if the interruption never happened. And by business, I mean icebreakers. It’s like being back in high school with the games she pulls out. I almost feel bad about everyone’s complete lack of enthusiasm with how excited she is.
She has one of the new recruits in the first row pull a card from a top hat. We’re supposed to shout out the first thing that comes to mind after it’s been read aloud. Whoever gets similar responses will end up working in groups together for the rest of the day.
“What food is an absolute no-no on a first date?” the poor guy who pulled the question asks the room.
Several people shout out “Garlic!” or “Onions!”
I yell, much louder than necessary, “Bratwurst!”
At the same time, Pattie beside me shouts, “Hot dog!”
Jules follows it with, “Penis! I mean banana!”
Suddenly I’m not the most embarrassed person in the room anymore, and I think I’ve found my girl squad.
CHAPTER 4
UNDERWEAR CHALLENGE
Stevie
After orientation Pattie and Jules invite me out for dinner, but I’m supposed to go to my brother’s for a combined post-birthday-new-job celebration, so I ask for a rain check. I join them for a quick drink, though, since we finished up with the orientation-day activities earlier than anticipated. It’s nice to have friends already, especially with Joey working there and apparently wanting to be my shadow, based on the number of times I ran into him today.
My sister-in-law, Lainey, picks me up from the pub on her way home.
Kody, my nephew, is harnessed into his car seat, babbling away as he bangs two squishy hockey pucks together. “Evie!” he yells when I get into the SUV.
I twist in the passenger seat and tickle his foot, which is missing a shoe. “Hey, little man! I can’t believe how big you’ve gotten!” I give Lainey a side hug. “Thanks for coming all the way out here to get me.”
“It’s no problem. We were already running errands, and this way you don’t have to take the bus.” Lainey’s nose wrinkles. She’s not a fan of public transit—not because she thinks she’s above it but because she has an aversion to large crowds and confined spaces.
Lainey asks me how my first day at work was, and if I ran into the-jerk-who-shall-not-be-named. I skirt the uncomfortable parts of that conversation, mostly because the topic makes me want to cry.
Once we get to my brother’s house, I play with Kody while Lainey prepares his dinner. When it’s ready, I put him in his high chair and watch him shove food in his cute little face.
Lainey starts talking about preseason training, because it’s safe conversation and that’s where RJ is right now. She keeps trying to convince me to come to the arena with her, and while I love my brother and I’m actually a fan of hockey, I tend to shy away from attending his games.
I’ve had issues in the past with people using me to get to my brother. Being part of a brand-new expansion team in a city like Seattle is a big deal, so it’s easier if I’m settled with friends of my own and the excitement of the start of the season has died down before I entertain the idea of going to games. I love my brother, and I don’t begrudge him his success, but it can be hard to handle, and sometimes I succumb to inferior-little-sister syndrome.
Lainey gives me a sly look. “A lot of RJ’s teammates are really nice. I know you’re not ready to jump back into the dating pool yet, but there are a few cute ones who are probably close to your age, and single.”
&nbs
p; “Thanks, but I have zero interest in dating any of those guys.”
“Dating what guys?” RJ appears in the kitchen, having just arrived home.
“The ones on your team,” I reply.
RJ arches a brow. “No way in hell any of those guys would date you anyway.”
“RJ!” Lainey smacks her spatula on the counter, an inch from his fingertips.
My brother raises both hands in the air. “Whoa, whoa, I don’t mean because you’re not datable, Stevie. If anything you’re too datable.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I’m not easy and I never have been. I get emotionally attached quickly, which isn’t ideal, so I don’t jump into bed with a guy right away, to avoid making it worse for myself if it doesn’t work out.
RJ wraps his arms around me from behind in a big bear hug. “You’ve got the Bowman dimples, Stevie. They’re lethal to the opposite sex. Isn’t that right, Lainey?”
She nods somberly. “The dimples are hard to resist. I think what your brother is trying to say, however ineloquently, is that you’re stunning and he would pull the big-brother card on any guy from his team who tries to date you.”
Thankfully, no one mentions dating or RJ’s teammates as viable options for the rest of the evening. RJ spoils me with unnecessary and extravagant birthday presents and my favorite cake, but the real highlight of my night is getting to put Kody to bed.
It’s late by the time my brother drives me back to the penthouse. “You need me to help you get your rent money back from Assface?” he asks.
Every time he references Joey, it’s with another creative insult.
“I can handle it.” I smile, but it feels flat.
“I know you can, Stevie, but you shouldn’t have to. I really hate that you’re going through this. You can come stay at the house with us so you’re not alone.”
“Uh, that’s sweet, but probably not something you should suggest without consulting Lainey first.”
“We already talked about it. The pool house could easily be converted into a separate apartment, so you’d have your own space.”
The idea of not being alone is alluring, but RJ’s new house is a good forty-minute drive from the clinic, and I don’t have a car; nor do I want my brother to buy me one.
“As nice as the offer is, RJ, you’re newlyweds. I get that you have a baby and that you’ve been living together for a year already, but Lainey mentioned that you’re looking to give Kody a brother or sister, and I would really rather not be in your living space while you’re working on that.”
“It’s not like we’re going to get it on at the dining room table.”
“Not the point, and thanks for the totally unwanted visual. Besides, the penthouse is close to my work. Unless something has changed and I need to find somewhere else to stay?” The thought makes me suddenly panicky.
Despite my loathing of his neighbor and his ridiculous underwear, I’d rather deal with that than apartment hunting. And it would mean having to confront Joey about the rent I paid up front. I’ll take care of that eventually, but I wouldn’t mind a couple of weeks of mental preparation before I have to deal.
“Nothing has changed. The apartment is yours for the season.”
“Okay, that’s great. Can I pay you rent or something?”
“Absolutely not. It’s part of my contract, and it would be sitting empty otherwise, so you can stay rent-free.” He pulls up in front of my building, puts the car in park, and turns on the four-ways. “You want me to walk you up?”
“I’m good, but thanks.” I give him a side hug. “Thanks for dinner, and for the upscale accommodations.” I motion to the building as I get out.
“No problem, Stevie. And if you change your mind about needing my help with the asshole, let me know. I’d be happy to make him crap his pants for you.”
“I know, and I appreciate it.”
I use my card to enter the building and then again to get into the elevator, arms laden with bags of presents as I ascend to the penthouse floor. I love my brother, and I know he feels as though he has to step in and be like the dad we both lost a few years ago. Most of the time I need RJ my brother, not RJ the pseudodad, but I don’t know how to tell him that without hurting his feelings.
The elevator dings when I reach the penthouse floor, and the doors slide open as a woman steps out of Jerkwad’s apartment. Her black dress clings like a second skin and doesn’t cover much. Her long dark hair is tousled, and her cheeks are flushed. She looks like she’s been riding the orgasm train very recently. Of course my neighbor is that guy. I bet he’s a walking, talking, womanizing cliché with a flavor of the week.
“Oh! Can you hold that for me?” she calls as she sashays across the foyer.
I don’t know why I would need to hold the elevator for her, since there are so few people who use this one, but I smile, say “Sure,” and keep a hand on the door to prevent it from closing.
“Thanks!” I exit the elevator as she brushes by me, her lipstickless smile firmly in place as she gives me a once-over. “I hope you had as good a night as I did!” She winks as the doors slide closed.
I throw a mental middle finger at my neighbor’s door, irritated that despite his horrendous personality, he’s getting action, and from someone who looks like a model. I assuage myself by imagining that he has a really small penis, even though she looked way too happy for that to be even remotely true.
Over the week that follows, several different women rotate through Jerkwad’s penthouse. I also run into him twice more in the mornings. Well, run into probably isn’t the right phrase. It just so happens that when I’m leaving for work, he conveniently appears in his weird underwear. It seems a lot like he’s flaunting the fact that he has several different women who enjoy riding his joystick. At least that’s what I assume he’s doing. We don’t exchange more than leering glares, so I’m going purely on speculation.
By the time I’ve been living in the penthouse for two weeks, I think I’ve gotten a handle on his schedule. The same blonde woman has been at his place on consecutive Wednesdays, so she must be his midweek screw. One afternoon I’m standing by the door, flipping through the mail, when I hear a woman’s voice in the foyer. So I have a look through the peephole.
The jerk is nowhere in sight, but another woman, this one petite with a short brown bob, struts over to the elevator, phone in hand as she waits for the doors to open. It irks the shit out of me that this asshole screws whoever the hell he wants, whenever he wants, and none of these women seem to mind. Maybe he pays them. That would make sense. He seems like too much of a dickhead to have booty calls without compensating them somehow.
We fall into a routine of sorts over the week that follows. He collects his morning paper on Tuesday and Thursday at exactly the same time—as I’m leaving for work—always in his damn underwear. On Wednesday and Friday, it’s already gone by the time I leave—those are my late-start days.
So the next Tuesday I wait with my eye pressed to the peephole for him to pick up the paper, to see if it’s coincidental or not. The minutes tick by, and his door stays firmly shut, at least until I open mine. I don’t step out, though. Instead I let it fall closed as his opens, revealing his ridiculously toned body wrapped in a pair of psychedelic boxer briefs.
What the hell is with this guy and his underwear?
He glances in the direction of my apartment, frowning as he picks up his paper. He’s slow to disappear behind his door.
Today I decide to up my game, because it’s obvious we’re playing one. I’m not exactly sure what the point is, other than this guy seems to be an exhibitionist and a complete playboy. Normally I’m dressed for work by this time, but today I go as far as throwing on a pair of athletic running shorts—the kind that barely cover my butt cheeks—and my sports bra. Then I put a hold on completing my outfit.
As a physiotherapist I stay in good shape. I’m curvy but fit. Waif types look great in magazine spreads, but I’ll own the hell out o
f every single one of my curves.
He opens the door at 7:03 on the nose as always—apart from the one time when he opened it at 7:05 because I’d held off until then—so I open mine. His underwear is Hawaiian print.
His gaze shifts my way, and his self-satisfied smirk slides off his face. It’s ridiculously gratifying to watch his eyes nearly pop out of his head. I twist slightly so I’m giving him a rear view and bend at the waist to retrieve my paper. It’s absolutely a blatant attempt to taunt him the way he’s been taunting me, and based on the way he’s gawking, it works well.
I toss a condescending grin his way. “Nice panties.” And then I return to the safety of my apartment and press my eye to the peephole so I can see his reaction.
He’s still standing there, mouth agape. He runs a hand down his chest and rearranges himself before he slowly bends to grab his own paper, eyes still on my closed door. He says something I can’t hear as he looks over his shoulder once more before disappearing.
“So much for being a boner-killer.” For the first time since I started my new job, I get ready for work with a smile.
CHAPTER 5
NEIGHBORLY
Bishop
Preseason training is something I usually look forward to, but right now it’s the opposite. For the majority of my career I’ve played forward. I might be a big guy—bigger than most of the forwards on the team—but I’m fast and I can shoot the puck. Which is why I’m irritated over the way Bowman and our coach, Alex Waters, keep having these obvious side conversations where I end up being shifted around from forward to defense and back again.
I already had some less-than-warm feelings toward Bowman with his asshole moves on the ice and his fake I’m-so-nice bullshit, but now he’s screwing with my game too. Plus, there’s this woman living in what’s supposed to be his penthouse, and I can’t figure out what the hell is going on there. It’s pissing me off. Although, to be honest, everything is pissing me off lately.
I’m in the lobby, on my way to my car, when I realize my favorite pair of preseason boxer briefs is still sitting on my kitchen counter where I left them. I debate whether I can deal with wearing the ones I have on and decide I can’t. My underwear is a thing.
A Favor for a Favor Page 3
