Internship with the Devil
Jaqueline Snowe
INTERNSHIP WITH THE DEVIL
By
Jaqueline Snowe
Copyright © 2020 Jaqueline Snowe
Edited by Mary Cain
Cover Design by Mibl Art.
All stock photos licensed appropriately.
Published in the United States by City Owl Press.
www.cityowlpress.com
For information on subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher at [email protected]
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior consent and permission of the publisher.
To my mom, one of the strongest people I know who gave me blank paper as a kid because staying in the lines was no fun.
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Sneak Peek of Painting the Lines
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Publisher
Additional Titles
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“King debuts with a delightful, character-driven rom-com! Fans of slow-burn romance will be swept away.” - Publisher’s Weekly
Amalie Warner wants another shot to prove that she can be a successful writer. After hitting the bestseller’s list nine years ago, she’s lost her spark.
Feeling pressure from her father to leave her writing behind and to work for her family’s lucrative hotel business, she’s desperate to find inspiration for her next big idea, something that challenges and excites her, something real.
Enter Julian Smoke, a failed tennis player making a dream run for the US Open.
After a chance meeting at a bar, Amalie hates him instantly. He’s cocky and arrogant, but Amalie knows his story could be her big break.
Could he be more?
Everyone knows that in tennis, love means zero, but these two are about to change that.
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Chapter One
“Hi, I'm supposed to meet Mr. Anderson in about ten minutes. Could you point me in the right direction?” I held my arms against my stomach, hoping it looked natural and not like my nerves were shot to hell. This internship was a dream come true.
“You're going to want to head down this hallway; turn right once you pass the locker room.” The security guard’s smile stretched across his weathered face. His nametag read Barry.
I liked Barry instantly. I waved, thanking him as I headed to meet my temporary boss.
I checked my watch—I still had time. I probably looked like a damn lunatic, walking and smiling at everything. Despite being awful at playing sports, I loved them. I was clumsy and got way too winded when I walked upstairs, but watching football and baseball for hours? I'd do that for days. And now, I was going to be able to work with athletes. Learning from athletic trainers at the college level. Hell. Yes.
I turned right after the locker room. The offices had names on them, and I looked until I found Brock Anderson. I reviewed what I learned about him before I knocked. He played college football but only three years in the NFL before suffering a career ending injury. He was fairly young—just twenty-eight, an alumnus of the school, and was known to whip athletes into amazing shape. He got his masters in Athletic Training. I was going to learn so damn much.
Plastering on a smile that I had been told was too big for my face, I knocked on the door. I waited, hearing voices from within the office, and froze when the door opened.
No. This couldn't be.
It was The Asshole.
From the bar a week ago.
No.
It felt like gravity had given up on me at that moment. Like my consciousness had separated from my body.
He stared at me, those scary blue eyes seeing through me. Maybe he worked here. No way this was Mr. Anderson. The pictures showed a clean shaven, handsome guy who maybe didn’t smile. This guy had shaggy hair, a dark beard, no smile at all. My gaze darted to his polo, which stretched tight across his chest. And what a chest it was.
Focus, Grace.
Shit.
Anderson was embroidered underneath the school’s logo.
Shit. Damn. Balls.
He was my new supervisor.
My fist clenched.
“Uh, hi. I'm Grace Turner.” I held out my sweaty hand, hoping the trembling wasn't too obvious. I needed to get off to a good start. My career goals were important. More important than this guy being a dick. So, I waited. And waited. And waited.
His lips turned downward. So much so that it had to hurt his face. My hand still hung between us, awkward and a mixture of embarrassment to the tenth degree. He moved one of his hands to scratch his jaw, bringing my attention to his incredible jawline.
I dropped my hand. I couldn't handle the flip-flopping going on in my stomach, and when I got uncomfortable, word vomit ensued. Hence, why I decided to attempt being friendly. “Are you Brock Anderson? I'm the one who received the internship for the season. I'm Grace. I’m so excited for this opportunity.”
I’d introduced myself. Again. And, he still hadn't said a word. Someone moved into view from his office and gave me a small wave. I returned the gesture to the older gentleman, and that was when Asshole Anderson spoke.
“Excuse me.” He motioned with his large wrist for me to leave the office.
I stepped back, shocked, and gasped when he shut the door in my face. What. The. Hell. I pinched my nose, taking deep breaths. I counted to three a couple of times and calmed myself down, but then loud, angry voices carried through the door. It was him, his voice brasher and deeper than anyone else's. So, I did what anyone would do. I listened.
“I refuse to train immature people. Look, Victor—” Someone interrupted him, Victor, my guess. I couldn't decipher what Victor said, but Brock Asshole Anderson didn't like it. Not one bit.
“She was the best option? I doubt it. Come on. Assign her to someone else. I don't have time for an attention-hungry, little girl. I want someone serious who works their a
ss off. Not her.” His voice carried through the door, stabbing me like a bunch of knives.
Attention-hungry.
Little girl.
Not serious.
Not her.
Hell. No. My fists clenched at my sides, my heart raced way past the point of comfort, and I contemplated a million ways to kill him. But, that wouldn't help my goals, and I was that tenacious, annoying person who, when told they couldn’t do something, determined to prove others wrong.
He’d judged me. Entirely incorrectly, but a judgment all the same. Maybe he remembered me from the bar. Sure, I tried flirting after a dare from my best friend, and he made it clear he wasn't interested. Quite clear. If he remembered me from that night, it didn’t bode well for me. It wasn’t like I threw myself at him. I just offered to buy him a drink, and after a quick look up and down, he laughed and said absolutely not. Shame and regret clogged my throat.
Without waiting to hear what else was said, I took life by the balls. I had learned from a young age that I had to fight for what I wanted in life. Happiness? That was a choice I had to work at every day. I sensed my mom cheering for me from above when I pounded on the door, hard.
The voices stopped, someone letting out a curse. Then, the door opened. Brad grimaced at my expression. I had been told I had a fire in my eyes when I got pissed. I had more than fire right now. It was a raging inferno. “As much as I enjoyed your polite, pleasant conversation, I earned the internship.”
Brock Asshole Anderson stared me down.
If he wanted to see me squirm, that was too damn bad. I crossed my arms and raised my eyebrows in challenge.
Victor, clearly not the alpha in this situation, gave me a quick nod and strolled out. “We'll talk later, Brock.”
That left me and him. He blinked at me, assessing me, sighing so deeply it took a minute for it to leave his lungs. He had to have massive lungs, right? He was massive. Or perhaps he was just a massive asshole.
“Don't wear that here.” He scolded my carefully planned outfit—a professional black dress—and my skin tingled with embarrassment. “Wear team gear.”
He continued, “Be here every day at seven. You'll have a quick lunch, and the time changes every day. You'll leave at four.” He moved from the doorway to sit at his desk, shuffling through papers.
I cringed. My classes began at four Tuesdays and Thursdays, but I was not going to give him any excuse. I hoped my professors accepted me being tardy, or I would be screwed.
“Okay.”
“Once games start, you're expected at every home and away game. I'll have my secretary print you a schedule. If you're late once, you're done.” He looked up, eyes smoldering. “Absolutely none of the flirting shit or dating any of the players. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” I croaked, still shocked at his crassness. His words erased any doubt over whether he remembered that night. But I wouldn’t acknowledge it. I remained at the door frame, awkward, uncomfortable, angry, and sweaty. I chewed on my bottom lip, unsure what to do. His jaw clenched, his gaze briefly going to my mouth. It was so quick, I almost missed it.
He cleared his throat, darting his gaze to the chair in front of him. “Sit.”
I obeyed like a desperate, foolishly hopeful girl. I needed, wanted, dreamed of this chance. He would not ruin it. It was only four months. I could put up with the Asshole for four months. “We'll do a tour of the stadium today after we set some ground rules.”
I nodded but twisted my hands in my lap.
He stood, grabbed a radio and a clipboard, then marched out the door so quickly, I barely had time to keep up. “Ain't my fault you wore those shoes. I don't slow down for anyone. If you can't keep up, I'll consider you lazy.”
And that was how I spent my morning.
I walked faster than I ever had, my shoes clicking on the cement floor. He showed me the offices where the trainers, EMTs, and coaches spent most of their time. I visited the various gyms and weight rooms, the mats, the pool, and the film room. We walked around the track at least twenty times, going over where the water house was, the spickets, the hoses, and the water bottles. It was noon when we finished the tour, and blisters upon blisters formed on my ankles. But, I would not let him win. Not today.
“The Special Teams group is out practicing. They need water. Consider this your first assignment.” He narrowed his eyes and had an innocent expression cross his face as I eyed the distance between the field and water house, then my footwear choice. The email from my counselor specifically said that I would only meet to talk today. There weren't supposed to be any duties until classes began. Joke was on me. This was an internship with the devil.
“Okay.” I dug deep inside myself for my iron-clad determination. In high school, I’d filled countless coolers. Football games, volleyball tournaments, and baseball games—I’d been the goffer. When I wasn’t being someone’s “go get it” bitch, I’d taped ankles, cleaned wounds, held hands, and watched athletes cry. I could do this.
He whistled at someone and strode off in the other direction.
This was a test. And I would pass it.
I made my way to the storage room back inside the stands. I pulled out all three and carried them to the water house. It was open, thank god, because I refused to ask for help. I began filling the first one.
With it filled, I added ice. It was a blistering summer afternoon, and the players had to be dying. Hell, I was sweating my ass off, but my dress was so dark, sweat wouldn't be noticeable. The cooler was heavier than most trays I carried waitressing. I lugged it to the bench, sweat dripping down my face. One down, two to go.
I did it again, and on the third one, my arms burned. Shit. This job required me to have more muscles, and more muscles meant gym time. Ugh. I was wiping my neck with the back of my hand when someone snuck behind me.
“Excuse me, but I'm not used to seeing people dressed like this on the field.” I twisted to see a friendly, grinning man. He stood at least six feet, dressed in khaki shorts and a navy polo. What was it with football people and polos? They were not stylish, at all.
“Ah, yes. About that. I was under the impression I would get a tour, and that's it. But I officially began my internship today. I'm Grace Turner.” I held out my hand, and he took it in his large one.
“Hi, Grace Turner. I'm Logan Rice. Nice to meet the new intern. Congrats. I've heard it's hard as hell to get picked for it.” His voice was gentle and reassuring.
I couldn't help but smile at him.
“Thank you. I hate to brag, but I worked hard to get it. Spent last year shadowing the volleyball AT and did clinical hours at the rehab center. Hence, why I'm in this dress hauling water coolers onto the field. You’re the defense coordinator, right? Started two years ago and could be credited for having one of the best defenses in the Midwest?”
“I like a woman who knows her stuff.” He winked. Aw hell. It was such an old-fashioned thing, but damn. “But yes, that’s me.”
“You're so young, though.” Hello, word vomit. “When I picture defense coordinators, I picture a bunch of old guys with beer bellies. You surprised me. That's all. Good for you.” I hope that saved me from more embarrassment. I’d had enough for the day, thank you very much. But, karma enjoyed messing with me.
He grinned, a twinkle in his eye. “You aren't entirely wrong. I am young, but, to quote you, I worked my ass off to get here.”
“Good for you,” I said again, awkwardly repeating myself. We shared a smile. I glanced at the players on the field working on kicks and plays. The combination of the sounds, smells, teamwork from every staff member flowed so smoothly. The sense of belonging helped fuel the void of not having a family left. This already felt like home. “How long have you been working with the team?”
“Oh, a couple years. I played in college and didn't want to go through the draft. Loved the sport and knew the coach. Voila.” He held out his hands in a gesture I used often.
I laughed, my shoulders finally relaxing. “Well, I
'm glad to find a friendly face here. I'm going to have my work cut out for me.” I sighed, looking around the field and found Asshole Anderson glaring, and I mean, glaring at me. His piercing stare hit me, hard. I forced myself not to flinch.
Logan followed my gaze and let out a slow whistle. “So you’re paired up with Anderson? How’s that going?”
“Yup.” I popped the ‘p’ at the end of the word.
He grimaced for a second. Then he ran a hand through his hair, scrunching up his face. “Damn.” He shook his head, this time smiling. “He's one of the best, but he's a real dick.”
I burst out laughing. “I'm not sure if this is a test or not. If I agree with you, you might tell him and I'd be fired. If I defend him, I look like a brownnoser. So, I'll choose this moment to make my exit. Nice meeting you, Logan.”
“You too, Grace Turner.” He winked at me again.
I bid farewell and found Asshole Anderson walking my way. I tried to hide my wince. I refused to show him weakness. But damn, I needed ice. I began to ask him what else he wanted me to do, but he interrupted me. Rudely, crassly, and I wanted to punch him.
His jaw tensed as his hooded eyes narrowed into slits, his rough voice hardly more than a growl. “You can go now.”
That was all he said. No good job, or nice work. No critiques or directions for the next time to show up. He spun and walked away without a backward glance.
Internship with the Devil (Shut Up and Kiss Me Book 1) Page 1
