Sweat trickled down the back of my neck despite the crisp temperature in the building. I wondered if my collar was damp, and tried not to focus on my distorted reflection in the gleaming doors. Everything about my appearance was wrong. Not sharp or sophisticated like the people around me. And definitely not poised and ready to hype myself as someone who could handle another human’s life. It was enough that my résumé didn’t fit the job requirements.
I had zero idea what twist of fate had occurred for me to get a callback for this job. A job I didn’t want but had applied for at the insistence of my friend Jasmine, and the growing late-payment notifications in my email. Not to mention the fact that I’d just moved back in with my father to help him financially after he’d been laid off.
Unlike the work drama that had led to me walking out on what should have been my first paid position in the field I’d gone to school for, my father had been let go for no reason other than the restructuring of the sportswear company he’d worked at for twenty years. I was starting to have nightmares about running from envelopes stamped with big red letters spelling out payment due from student loan lenders, credit card companies, and now my father’s expenses, since he had no savings.
My nerves tripled once the elevator dinged, and quadrupled once a nice lady in a black suit was leading me to Joe Carmichael. I’d researched Joe enough to know the man managed everyone from film stars to professional athletes, and that he was probably the richest person I’d ever see in real life. Interviewing with him sounded like a literal nightmare.
What kind of people usually applied for jobs like this, anyway? Was anyone actually into the idea of being a celebrity’s nanny, or were all personal assistants like me? Grasping at straws for any position I was technically qualified to do if it meant keeping Sallie Mae off my back.
Clutching my portfolio, I stepped into Joe’s office. It was so fancy, with the floor-to-ceiling windows, lush carpet, and leather everything, that I spent more time ogling it and the view of Manhattan’s skyline than focusing on the other people in the room. That abruptly changed when my gaze fell on the long, brawny figure sprawled on the couch.
I wasn’t exactly petite, but the man slouching across the room had to be a few inches taller than my own six feet. Broad shoulders stretched out the material of a gray T-shirt before leading to a muscular chest and trim waist. The man’s dark-wash jeans barely seemed to contain powerful legs and thighs. And his face was startlingly attractive. Golden hair and golden eyes—a combination so lethal that I stared, dumbfounded, even though the sun rays of that gaze weren’t directed at me. The guy didn’t even register my existence. He was staring at his phone and lazing like a big blond cat. He was also vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t immediately remember why.
Was that the celebrity I’d be servicing? Bad choice of words. Was that the celebrity I’d be . . . personally assisting? I wasn’t too clear on what this job would even entail. I’d just been told to send my résumé and cover letter to Joe’s receptionist.
I sweated harder.
“You must be Mr. Monroe.”
I swung my attention to the guy behind the big desk and tried not to recoil. He was startlingly similar to Jamie Gallagher—my former boss and the man who’d put a full stop on my career. Same sleek hair, bright calculating eyes, and lithe build. Neither of them were as gorgeous as the blond cat on the couch, but they both had this . . . aura of power. And a way of looking at me that triggered both an urge to perform for their attention while worrying that they could smell the debt on me.
Or at least that was what had happened in the past. Before I’d been let go from Project SafeZone—an LGBT Youth Center where I’d interned—after having an affair with Gallagher. Now, my gut curdled and my skin prickled with automatic animosity.
My hands closed into tight fists.
“Yes. It’s great to meet you, Mr. Carmichael.” I moved forward on shaky legs and grasped his hand in a damp shake. He’s not Gallagher, I reminded myself. Stop freaking out. “Thank you for calling me.”
“We were going through our list again, and you made the cut this time around.”
“Uh. Oh. Well, I appreciate being given the chance.”
Joe nodded at the chair across from his desk without looking at me. “So. You just graduated from a state school on Long Island. You must know your way around.”
“Sort of.” I cleared my throat, shifting on the leather cushion, and focused on a point beyond Joe’s shoulder. Maybe if I didn’t look him directly in the eyes, this awful anxious feeling would go away. “I mean, I grew up in Queens. I mostly just know how to take the Long Island Railroad to my school, but I’m good with directions and I have my license if that’s necessary . . .”
I didn’t mention my lack of an actual car, and stole a glance at the golden god to my left. He’d stopped playing with his phone to stare. His eyes were even more brilliant when drilling into the side of my face. Despite the warm color, everything, from his expression to his slow once-over, was cold. He definitely was not pleased with my presence. But even so, he didn’t make my stomach sink the way men like Joe and Gallagher did. There was something reassuring about the realness of outright hostility.
Joe held a tablet and flicked through pages of a document while wearing a phenomenally unimpressed expression. “You have a bachelor of science in social work. Any reason why you’re here and not off somewhere working socially?”
I’d prepared for this question—well, a less sarcastic version of it—for days, and still my answer evaded me. The truth was that my initial position at one of the largest youth centers in the city had ended with a dramatic splash, and I barely had any references.
“I’m still trying to find a position suited to my long-term goals.”
“And what are those?”
“I’d like to be a caseworker, move up to administration, and eventually direct my own program. However, many of the open positions at centers around the city are for unpaid internships, admin work, or for teaching.” Lie, lie, and lie again. There had been positions open at Project SafeZone, but I’d burned that bridge with twenty-foot flames. “I plan to keep interning until something comes up. This position,” I said as I glanced at the brooding man again, “is perfect, because it’s temporary. In the next six months, I hope to find something on my preferred career track.”
Joe ran his thumb over his lower lip, staring at me without blinking. My old director had done that, and in the past I’d found it distractingly sexy. A sweat broke out on my forehead. I looked at the blond dude again, and wished he’d speak. Anything to keep me from having to look at Joe.
“This is a big city. I’m surprised you’re having so much trouble in that line of work.”
What kind of ungodly person called an interviewee out on their lies? Decent folks just ignored them and burned the résumé later.
“I want to work at a specific type of center.”
Joe waved his hand encouragingly. “Which is . . .”
The blond was still silently grilling me. Why was no one introducing him? He was definitely an athlete, but I couldn’t place his name or the sport. Maybe UFC? Hockey? Was I supposed to ask? I had no idea, but he was an ideal candidate for society’s irritating version of masculinity, and probably dudebro enough to just love my response to this irritating line of questioning. Just the thought of outing myself to these two made me want to vomit.
My fingers closed around the portfolio I’d never opened. It held another copy of my résumé and a sad-looking reference sheet. There were only two people on it, and neither of them had been upper management since I’d fucked the SafeZone director before blowing the whistle on him for misconduct with at-risk teens.
“I want to specifically work at an LGBT center.”
Joe didn’t respond for several seconds then all he said was, “Huh.”
That was all it took for me to understand that the interview was over. It was honestly what I’d expected from someone like him, but I didn’t ju
st see him. I saw the long line of shitheads who’d smirked at me as if thinking a gay man who wanted to work with at-risk teens had to be a pervert. And I saw Jamie Gallagher—who’d fit that goddamn mold.
I saw all my bad decisions from the past couple of years, and all the times I’d been cowed by men more powerful or educated than me.
The give-no-fucks chip activated, and I swiveled my head to pin the athlete. “Who are you?”
Blond eyebrows rose, but his expression didn’t change. “Are you kidding?” His voice was deep and slightly husky. It belonged in a bedroom, not a job interview.
“No, I’m not kidding.” I turned back to Joe. “I assume he’s someone important?”
At this point, Joe looked impatient enough to boot me from the office. “Mr. Monroe, do you live under a rock?”
From the corner of my eye, I saw the blond hunch forward with his forearms propped on his knees. He was watching me as though I was a rare breed of human he couldn’t identify. Maybe he didn’t mean to make me feel small, but between him and Joe, I did.
I was vulnerable under the scrutiny. Like an insect. Something small and puny that was inspected beneath a microscope by larger-than-life individuals who would deem me unworthy. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt that way, but this was the first time I didn’t have to put up with it. There were other jobs.
“If it’s a problem that I’m unaware—”
“My name is Gavin Brawley.”
The name rang a distant bell.
“I’m the starting tight end for the New York Barons.”
Okay, now things were clicking. The Barons had recently been all over the news. Something about a player being involved in a legal scandal and an assault. The details were vague, but judging by the bulky bracelet on Gavin’s ankle, he was likely the guy at the center of it all. Too bad I couldn’t remember more. The only players from the Barons I knew by name were Simeon Boudreaux and Marcus Hendricks—because they both had a million endorsements and their handsome faces often stared back from cereal boxes or video game commercials.
“Oh,” I said blankly. “Yeah, I recognize you now.”
Joe frowned. “You don’t watch football?”
“I watch the Super Bowl commercials on YouTube after the game.” I shrugged. “I know the Barons were founded when I was in high school, so they’re newish in the NFL? That’s about it.”
“So you do indeed live under a rock,” Joe said. “Gavin Brawley broke the NFL record for receiving yards and touchdowns scored by a tight end last year.”
Was that good? I had no idea. “Cool.”
On the couch, Gavin scoffed.
“He’s one of the most famous names in sports,” Joe said. “How are you unaware of this?”
“I’m not big into sports. I didn’t realize being a football fan was a requirement. My friend’s boss told her about this position.” Likely after she’d bemoaned her childhood friend’s financial woes and asked if I could get a filing job at the firm before I ran out of my miniscule savings.
“Who’s your friend’s boss?”
“An attorney. Cora Durrant.”
Joe and Gavin exchanged looks. “Cora Durrant is married to Gavin’s coach.”
“Oh.” Great, so I was supposed to know this was sports-related. How had this failed to come up? “I guess I’m oblivious.”
“Having awareness of pop culture and the world is generally a good requirement for anyone wanting to work with a celebrity.”
And to that, I had absolutely no response. It was a good point, but his subtle homophobia and slimy attitude prevented me from giving a sweet goddamn. Heat rose to my face, and I scrambled for a defense.
“Look at it this way, the fact that I’m not a fan of the Barons should make me an ideal candidate, since I have no vested interest in Gavin Brawley. Hiring a fan would be more troublesome, wouldn’t it?” I was arguing my case despite not even wanting the job. Joe was clearly an asshole and potentially a homophobe, and Gavin was a cocky fuckboy. If this interview was a literal nightmare, working with Gavin would literally be a night terror if he was anything like his manager plus a hundred pounds of muscle. But I couldn’t back down for some reason. I wouldn’t let a guy like Joe Carmichael watch me slink away with a face full of defeat.
Joe started to speak, one eyebrow cocked, but his phone rang. At first annoyance crossed his expression, but relief replaced it. With a puckered brow and a hasty “hold on” gesture, he took the call and excused himself from the room.
Which left me alone with Gavin. Who was now on his feet. Jesus, he was big.
I had always known that football players had to be strong, but seeing one in person, instead of as a miniature human darting around on a television screen, was totally different. This man was made of muscle. He appeared to have been carved out of a huge golden boulder. It was too bad about the way he flattened his generous mouth into a slash, and about the barely concealed dislike twisting his striking features.
“Sports are all some people have,” he said after a moment of intense staring. “But I wouldn’t expect a privileged college kid to get that.”
“You’re calling me privileged?” I was incredulous now. Maybe he didn’t know what the word meant. “You’re worth millions just for running around on fake grass while clutching a ball.”
“Less than two percent of college football players go pro,” Gavin said. “There’s no just about it. And I get paid millions because I destroy my body for the amusement of spectators.”
“It’s a game,” I said stubbornly. “I know it’s important to some people, but not everyone.”
“Important doesn’t begin to cover it.” That low voice rumbled even more when Gavin was mad. He stepped closer, getting way into my personal space and not even seeming to realize it. With his bunched brow and frown, he looked genuinely upset by my dismissive attitude. “If you’re poor, sports are the equivalent of religion.”
“You get paid to play a game,” I repeated. “You’re not a savior of the people. You’re an overpaid jock.”
“And yet you’re over here trying to get a job running errands for this overpaid jock.”
Again, he was right. They were both right. But I couldn’t see past my own anger, or the fact that Joe was one more person who’d made me feel like my sexuality was a joke. Or a hurdle some employers weren’t willing to overcome. Or something to exploit. Like Jamie Gallagher.
I crossed my arms over my chest and raised my chin. “Well, money is my religion, and I don’t have any of it.”
Those molten eyes flicked over me slowly before settling on my face. We stared at each other, standing off for a long, tense moment, before Joe came back in the room. It was only then that Gavin spoke.
“Are we done here, Joe? He doesn’t really want the job. This was a waste of everyone’s time.”
The dismissal should have sent me sliding to the floor in a puddle of humiliation, but the easily embarrassed and flustered Noah belonged in the past. That Noah had been stepped on and taken advantage of at every turn. This Noah would walk away on his own.
I was out the door before Joe could reply.
Chapter Two
Gavin
“You’re being an idiot.”
It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before, but it went down easier when said with Simeon Boudreaux’s New Orleans accent. The quarterback was sprawled on the wraparound couch in my game room next to Marcus Hendricks—a running back for the Barons and the only other person I enjoyed speaking to besides Simeon. They had the résumés of my failed PA candidates spread out across a table.
I tossed a dart at the board across the room. “I already told you it’s a wrap. It’s not going to work. Besides, I don’t want some stranger living in my house for six months.”
“True. You’ll be too busy taking up all the space.” Marcus smirked. “This place is only eight thousand square feet, right?”
“Nine.”
“Shit, no wonder you worried,” Simeon
chimed in. “A personal assistant would be all down your neck!”
I glared. It was hard to maintain in the face of their knowing grins, but I managed. Simeon and Marcus were the most charismatic players on the Barons. With their easy smiles, quick senses of humor, and awesome social media presences, fans loved them. It didn’t hurt that Simeon’s combination of light brown skin, freckles, and curly reddish hair, and Marcus’ big dark eyes, blinding smile and long dreads, had gained them a ton of endorsements. Apparently, the camera didn’t like me. The marketing people said my blank stare screamed serial killer.
“You of all people should know why I don’t want anyone all up in my business, Simeon.”
At that, some of the humor fled Simeon’s face. He slumped down and Marcus snorted. He was the only player on the Barons who Simeon and I had trusted enough to come out to. He was also the only person besides Simeon’s and my management teams to know what had happened the night the video had been shot.
“Technically, you didn’t have to hit that guy,” Marcus said to me. “And before you say it—I know he hit you first. A few times. But you take more damage on the field and don’t wild out the way you did that night. You could have just gotten his phone and walked away even if there were ten thousand social media comments the next day talking about Gavin Alpha Asshole Brawley got his ass whupped by some college baller from Stony Brook.”
“Is that the consensus on the squad? That I got my ass whupped?”
Marcus cocked his head and tapped his lower lip. “Yes. Well. Nah. Special teams dudes think you’re pretty cool.”
“Yeah, because they’re like twelve,” I said with a scoff. “What about Bill or Henry?” I asked, referring to the head coach and offensive coordinator.
“I don’t really have in-depth talks with them, man.” Marcus shrugged. “Crosby apparently whines about needing you at every meeting, though.”
Illegal Contact (The Barons) Page 2
