Rushed(3)

Coach gives me a grin, and slaps my knee. "All right. Let's go to my office, we can make that call back to Toronto."





Chapter 2





April





"Miss Gray, would you come into my office, please?"

Oh hell. One year on the job with the Toronto Fighters, and I've already been called into the General Manager's office more often than I should, and most of the time it’s not good.

It's not that I don't try, I really do. I know I'm just the lowest level of administrative assistant on the staff, but that doesn't mean I don't bust my butt. It's just that I don't have experience in the sports world, at least not football. I don't know what pro athletes want, and a lot of the players aren't very patient with someone like me.

About half of my screw ups have been someone telling me something, and I’m too shy to ask them what they really mean. Like my first big screw up, with a right tackle from the States who I was supposed to shadow and help out. How was I supposed to know that 'two honey chickenheads' meant get the man two groupies from the crowd after the game and not a bucket of chicken nuggets with honey dipping sauce?

"How can I help you, Mr. Larroquette?"

The General Manager looks up from his blotter, where he’s reviewing some paperwork, and gives me a terse smile, which is actually pretty warm for him. He's not the most friendly of people to work for. He's not a jerk, he's just . . . cold, I guess. "Have a seat, April. How are your parents?"

He might be cold outwardly, but Mr. Larroquette is up to date on just about everyone who works for the Fighters. "My father's treatments are progressing, sir. The doctors still won't give me a straight answer, but Daddy's still hoping. Mom . . . well, she has her days, sir."

The GM gives me a supportive look, and I know that it’s partly my parents' health problems that have let me keep my job so long, even after so many screw ups. "We just signed a new player from the States, I'm turning you over to him as his personal assistant."

"I see, sir." I don't know what else to say. This is my third player I've done PA duties for, and the other two I lasted a combined month between them. And while the Fighters aren’t a baseball team, three strikes and I'm out, regardless of my family situation. "Who?"

"A rookie quarterback, he finishes his university classes in two days. Of course that means his timeline is going to be short. We start the season in one month."

"I understand, sir. You want to make sure he’s able to focus fully on football."

The GM hums like I've told a decent joke and leans back. "Not at all. We sent him our playbook the day we had him sign his contract, so he's had plenty of time to learn our system, which isn't that different from what he played. It's not his football playing that I’m worried about. I'm worried about him keeping his nose clean.

Oh hell. Chickenheads and honeys again. "That doesn’t sound good."

"Not at all. Especially with the amount of money that we signed him for. It's the biggest rookie contract we've handed out . . . ever."

"He must very good."

"He is. Coach Blanchard and I both agree that he can be the key to a very deep run at the Cup this year, especially with our holes on defense. Miss Gray, I cannot stress this enough. Tyler Paulson must stay out of trouble, and stay happy here in Toronto. I don't need to deal with anymore issues from immigration because American players get into trouble with the Mounties or the Toronto police."

The name hits me like a punch between the eyes, and I blink, stunned. "T-Tyler Paulson?"

"Yes, Tyler Paulson. Originally from San Diego, California. Why, are you a fan?"

The GM's question is asked in jest, he knows I don't know a lot about football, but when I don't answer, his expression grows more serious. "Miss Gray?"

I know I'm blushing, I can't help it, but I swallow the lump in my throat and continue. "Well… if it’s the same Tyler, he and I went to summer camp together when we were kids. I'm just surprised, that's all."

"Good. Then you at least have a way to break the ice. Miss Gray, I don't want to put any extra emphasis on this, I know you’re under stress, but this assignment . . . I need you to get the job done. You understand?"

"I do, sir. I’ll do my best."

“I know you will. Just remember to be forward with him, and don't let him steamroll you. I can deal with someone who's too forward — I can't help you if he just rolls over you like the others did. I'll send you an email with his information, you can start getting some things for him now. Good luck.”

As I leave the office and retreat to my desk, nervously searching for my keys, I think about what has just been dropped into my lap. Tyler Paulson… after all these years.



The Pacific Ocean thunders in the distance, but we're a few hundred meters inland, along a patch of trees that I didn't think would grow so close to the ocean. I thought pines and big trees like this would hate all the salty air, but they tower above us, as tall as anything in the London area where I live.

"So what kind of tree is that, Pocahontas?"

Rolling my eyes, I don't turn around at the voice behind me. I don't know trees, except that pine trees make good Christmas trees. "I told you to stop calling me that, Tyler."