“What the hell?” I turn to Jocelyn. “You need to talk to me right fucking now?”
She very lightly puts her hands on me. Her fingers are long, slim, and feel like tentacles of ice on my shoulders. I grudgingly put the tips of my fingers on her waist—too high to insinuate anything sexual, too low to be considered a hug. I feel like I’m in friggin seventh grade, trying to slow dance without getting screamed at by the teachers.
“Language,” she says. “When I sign you, you’d better learn to control it. I’m not signing you so I can run around cleaning up your—pardon my French—fucking messes.”
“I was busy.”
“I see that. It’s quite obvious.”
I grit my teeth. “Why are you here?”
I know why she’s here. She and Lawrence are friends, and it’s because of their relationship that I got a meeting with her in the first place.
“I know your brother, obviously. Don’t ask stupid questions. Do you see what I mean? When you start thinking with your dick, you lose track of your brain.”
“Shouldn’t you be over talking to Lawrence and Lilia?”
“I paid my respects. I have a flight to catch in several hours, and I wanted to say my goodbyes first.”
“Goodbye,” I say, turning away.
Her nails clench into my skin, digging through the fabric. “You’re letting her go tonight, aren’t you?”
I turn back, frozen. I meant to talk to her tonight but here, in the middle of the dance floor, I can’t do it. I can’t make a scene in the middle of my brother’s wedding. I’m his best man—I’d have to be a complete asshole to turn this evening upside down with a fight between his best man and his colleague.
So I remain silent.
“I take your silence as a good sign.” She reaches up, pats my cheek. “Good boy.”
I catch her wrist in my hand, hard. “Don’t touch me, Jocelyn.”
Her eyes glint. She knows she’s getting to me. It’s no wonder she’s the best agent in the business. She’s shrewd, beautiful, smart—and cutthroat. She can smell a person’s weakness a mile away, and she has no problem exploiting it.
“I can only imagine your display tonight is because you want one last lay,” she says. “And I can understand that, believe it or not—”
“Don’t you dare talk about Andi like that.” I cinch my hand tighter around her wrist. The more frustrated I get, the more fun she seems to have with it. “She is my girlfriend.”
Jocelyn’s eyes flash. “I see how it is.”
“We’re not discussing this here.”
Finally, a glint of anger streaks across her face. “When you fly to my offices next weekend, you’d better be single, Mr. Pierce. Understand?”
“Why?” I challenge. “Why does it matter?”
“We’ve discussed this.” She pulls her hands off of me and straightens her elegant black dress. “Those are my terms. If you want your chance at the big leagues, you’ll agree to them. I’m offering you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If you lie to me, I will ruin you.”
I watch as she storms away, my spine rigid, as if her very touch has turned it to ice.
She could ruin me, too.
Jocelyn doesn’t play nice, and she doesn’t play fair, and I don’t doubt that she gets whatever she wants.
She might control the game, but this time I’m not playing by her rules.
CHAPTER 44
Andi
I try to ignore the tendrils of jealousy creeping over my skin.
Jocelyn looks beautiful in that black gown of hers, so polished, successful, professional. She’s all sleek muscles, reeking of finesse and money and all things elegant—things Ryan could have in a second if he wanted them.
Not for the first time, I wonder what he sees in me when he has a woman like Jocelyn feeling up his chest. I eat another hot dog thing without even realizing it while I watch in the reflection of a vase as they talk on the dance floor.
They’re hardly moving, and Ryan looks pissed—furious even. I wonder what she’s said. What could make him so upset? Did they have a relationship before, or an almost-relationship?
Ryan said no, and I trust him, but she is obviously saying something to piss him off, and Ryan doesn’t seem like the type to lose his cool over something trivial.
So what is she going on about that has his feathers all ruffled?
I swallow the hot dog and reach for a glass of champagne, suddenly pretending to be busy as I see them breaking apart. Whatever they were doing, one could hardly call it dancing. They basically stood and shot daggers at each other with their eyes.
Ryan looks up, searching for something—me, probably—and I’m careful to be surveying the high-quality selection of desserts. I don’t want him to think I was creep-watching his interactions with that woman. I want him to think I’m over here, all confident and unbothered by the situation as I enjoy a big, sprinkled cupcake.
I’ve just chosen one with pink frosting and a tiny picture of Lawrence and Lilia’s faces on it when I feel a tap on my shoulder and drop the thing back onto my plate.
“You’re a doll, you know that?” Jocelyn is standing there, an odd sort of expression on her face. She’s smiling, but it looks painful, stilted. When I don’t give any sign of understanding, she continues. “For putting up with Ryan’s strict social requirements.”
“What?” I take another sip of champagne, mostly to calm my nerves. “Social requirements?”
“Playing along as his girlfriend.”
Something about the way she says this, as if it’s her doing, brings out the cat-like claws I’ve been trying to hide. I smile sweetly. “Oh, we’re not playing. It’s real. New, of course, but very, very real.”
“Ah, I see.” She looks behind me, wrinkles her nose at the cupcakes. “You’re quite talented at playing the smitten girlfriend.”
“I love him,” I say. I’m not sure where it comes from, but it pops right out of my mouth. It’s true, I feel it in my gut, but I didn’t plan to admit it to a stranger this early in our relationship, especially not her. “We are very real, Miss—”
“Jocelyn.” Her voice is a piercing icicle, and it sends shivers down my back. “Is that why you’re doing this? Because you love him?”
“Doing what?” I’m starting to get frustrated now, and I hate that she looks excited by that fact. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She tsks, shakes her head. I equally want to know what she’s dancing around and don’t care at all. If I punch her in the face, maybe she’ll spit it out. Then again, I’ve never been the aggressive type. I deal with everything—conflict, sadness, happiness—through humor. At the moment, however, I’m not feeling very funny.
“Ryan Pierce has the opportunity of a lifetime to sign with me,” she says. “I’m going to secure him a spot on the LA Lightning, and he’ll win the Stanley Cup in the next few years. He’s a talented young man, and he has potential to be MVP, to really make something of his career.”
“I know he’s talented,” I say. “I’m dating him.”
“Of course you do,” she says soothingly. “But apparently he hasn’t told you the terms of him signing with me.”
I’m silent, and that seems to be answer enough.
“He’s flying out next weekend to sign papers, and he will be single.”
“No, we’re—”
“You think you’re together, but it can’t last more than a week.” Jocelyn’s cold blue eyes show the first signs of humor. She’s horrible, thriving on my confusion and the pain that accompanies her words. “So if you do truly love him, you’ll let him go without a fight.”
“No, that’s not how this is going to go,” I say. “Why does it matter if I date him?”
She leans in, practically spitting with cool rage. “Did you see the way he talked to me out there? He’s got a hard-on for you, and suddenly he can’t find a second to talk to the agent who’s going to give him everything, open every door, give him every opportunity. I don’t deal with players who have their minds, dicks, or hearts elsewhere. If a player is signing with me, they’re going to focus on their career, and that is it.”