Internship with the Devil (Shut Up and Kiss Me Book 1)

by Jaqueline Snowe

  Logan’s voice scoffed, his remark stopping me. “Grace is fine as hell. You can't deny that.”

  “She's nice to look at; that's for sure. The guys are all digging having her around,” Bryan or Chris said. “Logan here has been after her ass the entire time.”

  Logan laughed, saying something I couldn't make out. My heart raced, knowing I shouldn't listen. But, I remained there, on my hands and knees, frozen. “I don't know how you can work with her all damn day. How you do it, man?”

  When Brock spoke, my breath caught in my throat. His hard voice was harsh and like a shot straight to my heart. “She’s okay, I guess.” He sighed. “She’s young and is too much work, guys. Leave her alone.”

  “I want to ask her out,” Logan said, but Brock’s words pounded in my ears, unwelcome and unwanted.

  “Nope.”

  “Why, you have a thing for her?” Logan fired back.

  “Absolutely not. Not my type.” Asshole Anderson struck again. His deep, masculine tone felt like a slap in the face.

  “Then, why the hell can’t I? If you aren’t into her, what’s the issue man?” Logan’s voice rose.

  “She works there. That’s inappropriate.”

  “She works for you. Not me,” Logan said, ending the conversation.

  Not my type.

  Not my type. It rolled around my brain like it scorned me.

  Why did I hate that expression? Why did I care? Why was my stomach swirling with regret and shame, and why did my heart clench? I somehow snuck out from the booth without them seeing me. My eyes stung from the smoke from the grill, and not at all because of what I overheard.

  It was stupid to be hurt. We weren’t friends. We weren’t anything, really. He was a mentor I was assigned to. I needed to remember that and rid myself of the feelings that snuck in there. My future depended on it.

  It wasn’t until later, when we slowed down and the good-looking group of four decided to leave, that my newfound hurt came to life. I dropped the checks off, able to avoid him for the most part.

  But Brock was perceptive. I took their booklets, running their credit cards through the machine. I dropped them off when his honey smooth voice forced me to look at him. And I did, because I wasn’t a quitter. “Are you all right, Grace?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” Shit. Fine was the one f-words that men knew didn’t actually mean that. I tried adding more to it. “I’m just tired from the week.”

  “Mm.” He nodded. That twat. God, I was conflicted as hell. I wanted to confront him, make a scene, and never talk about it at the same time. I was a freaking head case. “It’s your last night. You won’t be working yourself to exhaustion after this.”

  “Yup.” I gave him a tight smile that hopefully didn't say I wanted to punch his throat. “It's been fun seeing you guys. I'll see you all tomorrow. Have a good night.” I nodded at them, feeling foolish. It wasn't a cool nod either. It was the tight nod you gave to someone you knew from church but didn't remember their name. And, thankfully, I had another table sit down. I used that as an excuse to not look back at all. After taking their drink orders, I met Fritz by the host stand in the front. He put his arm around me, his fingers going into my long ponytail. “Fritz, what are you doing?”

  “Sending a message,” he said so seriously, I felt bad for laughing. “I'm not kidding, Gracie. You work with a bunch of guys, and you're a cute, little thing. I'm putting out the protective vibe.”

  “Because you’ll fight all of them off? Please, explain how that would happen.” I goaded him, his stupid face already lifting my spirits.

  “I'd bully them. I can be tough.”

  “Yeah, like cyber bullying or something,” I mumbled under my breath, eliciting a growl from him. I threw my head back and laughed, loving every moment he was in discomfort. He was too good looking for his own good, and it was Gilly’s and my service to society to keep him in check. My neck suddenly began to tingle, awareness causing me to look up. Brock’s face was way closer than I expected, my heart shooting to my throat.

  His blue gaze darkened as it traveled down my face to Fritz’ arm, then he narrowed his eyes at my hand resting on Fritz's hip. His gaze looked like I did him wrong, and I had no freaking reason to feel guilt. It was freaking Fritz, a guy who I saw as a brother. Ew.

  “Hi, Brock. Everything go alright tonight?” Fritz asked, his tone way too flirty and light for it to be real. Oh, Jesus. Now Fritz was against Brock?

  “Yes.” The one syllable answer barely left his lips before he turned that dark stare at me. “Can I talk to you for a second, Grace?”

  “Uh.” I began, biting my lip while looking at Fritz. I gave him wide eyes, not sure if I could leave the restaurant or not.

  “I'll run your food, girl. You have the two tables, right?” he said without missing a beat. He still hadn't removed his hand from me.

  “Yes. 31 and 33.” Well, that answered that. I had to go have a chat with a brooding Brock. My favorite. “Whatcha need to talk about?”

  “Come on. Let's go sit outside for a minute.” He pushed open the door, gesturing me to go first. At least he was chivalrous.

  “Where did your group go?”

  “They took off a couple of minutes ago.” He pushed the second door open for me, holding it wide enough for me to fit but also tight enough that my arm brushed up against him. His sculpted arms called out to me, toned, muscled, tanned. I wanted to bite into them if I was honest. But that fire burned out real quick as I remembered the conversation I’d overhead. We walked to the bench located right outside the restaurant. It was dusk, and the street lighting made it look romantic as shit.

  Great.

  “Do you need any more Advil or anything? I saw you limping a little bit. How is your knee?” he asked as we sat, his hand reaching out to touch me, but he stopped.

  “No. I'm good,” I said, crossing my arms and nibbling on my bottom lip. His face told a different story than his words, and I didn't know what to do with that information.

  “I can run and grab you any ice if you need it.” He tried again, his blue eyes now softer and pleading with me for something. His dark brows lowered, a frown forming on his face. “Did I do something to make you upset? I know I was a dick for a while in the beginning, but I thought we’d moved past that.”

  “What makes you say that?” I reversed the question, unsure how to answer. I couldn't tell him I overheard their conversation, could I?

  “Your face is an open book, Grace,” he said, no emotion in his voice. “I worry about you. It's ridiculous. It's been two weeks, and here I am, worried about your knee and if you're mad. I don't know what the hell got into me.”

  He stood up, both hands in his hair and a weird look on his face. He didn't look at me, more at everything around. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

  I nodded, buckling in for the ride because his thoughts were changing direction like crazy. “Yeah. I'm excited for tomorrow.”

  “You're going to get your first look at the game atmosphere. It's one thing to do it with an empty stadium, but with the fans shouting and the field full of people. It's unlike anything in the world.”

  “I can't wait.” My excitement took over despite the confusing conversation. “My favorite part about all of it is the sounds and smells. When I did sports medicine in high school, I loved the smell of the fresh cut grass and the smoke from the concession stands. The sounds of the pre-game playlist and the buzzer. It's magical.”

  “That's exactly it. It is magical.” He grinned at me, a small smile forming on my own face. “Okay, then. I'll see you tomorrow.” He put his hands in his pockets.

  I stood, raising my eyebrows and took a step to the door when he cleared his throat.

  “I forgot, let me give you my number just in case something happens and you can't make it.”

  “I won't miss a day.” I pushed through anything and didn't believe in sick days unless it was contagious. No one would want me getting a player sick.

  “I d
on't doubt that but just in case. What's your number? I'll text you so you have mine.” He pulled out his phone and looked at me expectantly. So, I told him my number. He typed something out really quickly and smiled at me. “It's done. Well, have a good night, Grace. I'll see you tomorrow.”

  He waited for me to head back into the restaurant before walking away. I stood, dumbfounded at his mood swing once again. But, I wasn't going to waste any more time worrying about him. He was a great mentor, and that would suffice.

  Hours later, finally diving into bed to sleep soundlessly for eight hours, I pulled out my phone to see an unexpected text from Brock.

  Hey, it's Brock. I think you're going to be great tomorrow. Feel free to text me if you have questions.

  I sucked in my lip, reading it a couple of times. There was no hidden meaning or message that I could decipher, so I sent back a smiley face and a thank you. That was simple and appropriate.

  He responded within seconds.

  Brock: I'll bring breakfast tomorrow. Come 30 minutes early. Bacon or sausage?

  Grace: Bacon. Forever.

  Brock: Good choice. I know a place with the best breakfast burritos.

  Grace: Best breakfast food ever. Let me know how much I owe you.

  Brock: Consider it the lunch I never bought you.

  Grace: Fair enough.

  Brock: Good night, Grace.

  I flicked through the other text, debating on accepting the date invitation for the following night. I met him on the dating website Fritz and Gilly made me sign up for, and he seemed polite and cute. But, it was online. That was eh to me. Gross. What if he was old and lying? A stalker? I shivered. Shit. I needed to man up.

  Grace: Hi Stephen, I'd love to meet up for drinks. Can I pick the place tomorrow?

  Stephen: Absolutely. Pick wherever you're comfortable. It'll be nice to meet in person. :)

  Grace: Hannagan’s is one of my favorites. Is eight okay?

  Stephen: Perfect!

  I had my first scrimmage and my first date-date in a long time. Tomorrow was going to be a great ass day. As Gilly liked to preach, the day is only as awesome as you make it.

  Chapter Eight

  There was something about how the sunlight glinted just the right way to make Brock look like an angel in a devil’s body. His tanned skin shone, and the weather was so damn hot I had to grab a cold, wet towel to pat my neck. It was only noon and it was a cooker.

  “Grace, we need to refill the coolers. Hop on with me to get them,” Matt, one of the other trainers, said.

  “You got it.” We retrieved the empty ones and refilled them within ten minutes. It was faster with two people, and I liked Matt. He was younger than me, majoring in physical education and had worked part-time there for two seasons. It was hard not to be jealous of his work experience—but I didn’t have a choice. All the internships before this one didn’t pay enough, and I had to continue waiting tables. He showed me the easier spigots to use and the quickest route around the stadium. Both great things to know. We’d barely dropped the coolers off when our radio went off.

  “Grace, grab the first aid kit with the ankle braces. Forty-yard line,” Brock’s voice cracked over, my adrenaline kicking in. I would never wish for an injury of any sort, but there was something exciting in knowing someone needed your help.

  “On my way,” I said, waving to Matt and then taking off. I threw the items into the empty seat and headed toward their location. The field was packed with people, despite it only being staff and the team, and that was one thing I never understood about football. There were so many damn people on the sidelines between players and coaches and trainers. I weaved through the crowd and athletes to find Brock kneeling next to a kid with a grimace. “Here, boss.”

  He looked up, briefly making eye contact, and took the pack. “Thanks.”

  Then, he got to work. “Let’s see, here. I know it hurts, but it’s not too bad.”

  The athlete, Nando Rodriguez, groaned into his fist and then slammed the ground. “Give me the damage, Anderson.”

  “Left blocker left you open for the taking, huh? You didn’t break anything, so take a breath. You’ll be back on the field kicking ass and showing Billings you’re prettier on the field than he is.”

  Nando laughed at that statement, and I glanced up to Billings, a huge linebacker with an even bigger future in the NFL. He was smiling.

  Brock knew these players, their personalities and their physical skills.

  “I am better with my feet,” the kid said.

  “You’ll be faster with this. Hold still for a minute, would you?” He quickly fastened the brace, securing it with confident motions.

  I stood there, watching. I didn't know if I should leave or continue staring, so I became more awkward. Shit. I stood there, sweating, tapping my fingers against my side.

  Brock got up and spoke to me in a kind voice I’d rarely heard as we walked off the field. “What did you learn there, Grace?”

  “In what way?”

  He patted the kid on the shoulder, gesturing me to walk with him back to the cart.

  I followed him, his long legs making me take two steps for his one. “You showed me the ankle brace earlier this week, but I really liked how you spoke to him during it. You kept his mind off the pain and made him laugh.”

  “Good. Glad you noticed that.” His nod filled me with all sorts of pride. “Now, what would you have done differently?”

  “I don’t think I would do anything differently.” I frowned, the momentary pride changing to confusion. “Why did you ask that?”

  We sat in the cart, the first aid box on my lap. All around us the whistles, the huddles, the coaches, and helmets clashed, yet I waited for him to speak. “I use my experience to bond with them. I played my whole life. I can use that knowledge to make them feel better. I talk about plays or things I've done. You can't do that. That's not me being an asshole, it's the truth. So, what would you do then?”

  Those piercing blue eyes stared at me.

  I nibbled on my lip, trying to think of the correct answer. He was right. I couldn't talk like he did, making football jokes like one of the bros. I wasn't a bro. I would never be a bro, so what did I do? I sighed.

  “Why the sigh, Grace? I'm not harping on you for anything. I want you to think of a certain bedside manner tactic to use and learn as this goes on.”

  “I'm a perfectionist. I need to think about the question because I don't want to half ass that answer. I don't have one right now.” I pursed my lips. He nodded a couple of times, and I continued, the ideas coming to me when I started to relax. “I'm very charismatic. I always have been. I could talk to a wall and hold an entire conversation. I've never felt uncomfortable talking to anyone.” Besides him, but my filter let me hold that comment back for once. Thank god. “I'll work on that.”

  “Yes. You're incredibly friendly. You seem to get along with people well.” His brisk tone gave me no feeling of accomplishment.

  What every girl wants to hear, friendly. I laughed, and he gave me an odd look. “Yeah. I'm friendly.”

  “Was that sarcastic? I can't tell.” He frowned, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “I've watched you at work, and you always make your customers smile and laugh. Athletes are a bit more entitled at times. They want to lash out when they are in pain, and I want to teach you how to handle that.”

  “I've dealt with some entitled people before. I'm not worried about it,” I said, thinking about all the customers I had had in the past who made me want to spit in their water. I shook my head in disappointment, hating how some people treated others so poorly. How one treated a waiter or waitress said a lot about who they were as a person. “How do you plan on teaching me that?”

  “Teaching you about the game, the muscles, the movement. That sort of thing. No one can talk shit when you know your stuff. That's the first step. You'll build a reputation for yourself.” He paused, looking at me with a small smirk. It grew, the sides of his mouth cur
ving up into that beautiful smile I had grown to love and hate. “Now, rookie, you have the shit duty today. You ready?”

  “Bring it on. Bring it on, baby.” I clapped my hands, hoping I didn't look worried. I mentally flinched, praying it wasn't cleaning jock strops or the locker room bathroom. That wouldn't be a trainer’s job, right? “What is it?”

  “When the water bottles are turned in, you have to hand wash all of them.” He sucked in his bottom lip, trying to stop his smile.

  “You're enjoying this.” I crossed my arms, scoffing. “You're sick.”

  “It's a rite of passage.”

  “I'm going to ask Matt about it. If it's not true, then… Well, I don't know what I'll do, but it won't be good.” I jutted my chin out, my stubbornness coming out in waves. The players had shitloads of water bottles. Shitloads. It was a real measuring unit.

  “Matt likes to lie.”

  “Meaning, he didn't have to do this. I see how it is.” I hopped out of the cart, beginning the walk to the cleaning room. “This is cruel.”

  “Our washer broke yesterday. You're new. It's an easy choice,” he said, humor dancing in his eyes. “Nothing personal.”

  “Of course not.” I narrowed my eyes to look scary. I had been told I looked like an angry marshmallow, but I still tried. “If you need me, I'll be cleaning for the next six to eight hours.”

  “Sorry, Grace, you can't start yet. There's still thirty minutes of practice, and you need to collect them.” His sorry was worthless. He enjoyed all of this, that sadistic power-hungry man. “Have fun.”

  Then he took off in that damn cart. I sighed, rubbing my temples and popping more Advil. I never shied away from work, regardless how much it sucked. So, I watched the rest of the scrimmage, picked up the shitloads of water bottles, and brought them to the cleaning room.

  Thankfully, there was an old-school boombox there, and I cranked that shit up. I found a hip-hop station, created a work station with a drying area, and got to work.