Nothing but Trouble

* * *

Mark glanced at the Neiman Marcus bags in the backseat of his car and buckled his seat belt. For her first day on the job, she sure was making herself comfortable.

“Where to, Chelsea?”

He looked at her, then at his navigation system. “What the hell?”

His “assistant” gave the GPS an address in Belltown, then looked across at him and smiled. “I didn’t think you’d mind if I programmed my name into the voice recognition. It kept calling me Mark, which was just confusing because I am clearly not you.”

“Turn right. 3.6 miles till destination.”

He leaned forward, brought up the menu screen, and turned off the sound. “Confusing for who?”

“The GPS.”

“The GPS doesn’t get confused.” He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He’d been right about her. She was nuttier than squirrel shit, and she was driving his ninety-thousand-dollar car.

“How was your appointment?” she asked, all cheery.

“Great.” Mark opened his eyes and looked out the passenger window at St. James Cathedral. But the appointment hadn’t been great. He hadn’t received the news he’d been wanting to hear. The doctor had seemed pleased, but the tendons weren’t healing as fast as Mark hoped and he had to wear the splint for at least another month. Which meant he couldn’t transfer his cane to his right side for better balance. It also meant he had to take the splint off to button his shirt or pants, take a shower, or eat a meal. Although he’d always shot left, trying to sign his name left-handed was like writing with a pen stuck in his toes.

A dull ache radiated from deep in the marrow of his femur and spread to his hip. At the moment, it wasn’t bad. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but in a few hours it was likely to get worse. He hadn’t brought any medication with him because he didn’t like to be doped up in public. He didn’t want anyone to think he couldn’t handle a little pain. He was Mark Bressler. He’d played hockey with a fractured ankle and a broken thumb. He’d played through concussions and torn and bruised muscles. He could handle the pain. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t get real bad until he got back home, where he could park himself in front of his big TV and knock back a bottle of his favorite medication.

The car turned on Madison, and Mark glanced across at his assistant. Despite her big sunglasses, two-tone hair, and hideous shirt, she was cute. Like a kitten was cute, but Mark didn’t like cats. Cats were sneaky. One second a cat looked all soft and harmless. All big blue eyes and innocence. One second you were just looking at it thinking, Huh, that’s kind of a cute kitten, then it sank its teeth into your hand and ran away. A sort of stealth blitz that left a guy stunned and wondering what the hell just happened.

Behind the mirror lenses of his glasses, he lowered his gaze down the side of her neck and shoulder to her breasts. She sure wasn’t built like a little kitty cat, more like a porn star. She’d said she was an actress. All porn stars thought they were actresses too. He wondered how much she’d paid for her boobs.

He closed his eyes and groaned. What had his life come to? Looking at a nice pair of tits and wondering how much she paid for them? Who gave a shit! In another life, his other life, he’d be thinking about how he was going to get face-deep in her cleavage. His only thought about kittens would begin and end with how he was going to get her little kitty cat naked and riding his lap.

For most of his life, Mark had been good at two things: hockey and sex. He’d only set out to be good at shooting pucks, but a guy couldn’t exactly live his life hip-deep in rink bunnies and not get to know his way around a woman’s body. Now he couldn’t do one and didn’t have any interest in the other. He’d never been a guy whose dick defined his life, but sex sure had been a big part of his life. Except for when he’d been married. Christine had used sex as a reward. When she got what she wanted, he got laid.

Hell, he’d always thought he should be rewarded because he’d been faithful, which, given the amount of time he’d spent on the road with women throwing themselves at him, had been damn tough.

“This appointment shouldn’t take more than an hour,” his assistant said as she turned onto First Avenue and headed north. “I should have you at the Spitfire and your interview with Sports Illustrated right on time.”

He couldn’t recall ever agreeing to the interview in the first place, but he must have. When he’d talked to his sports agent about it, he must have been high on morphine or he never would have agreed to be interviewed when he wasn’t one hundred percent. Normally his agent, Ron Dorcey, wouldn’t have pushed it either, but with Mark’s name fading from the sports pages, andot ts page endorsement deals drying up faster than a puddle of water in the Mojave, Ron had arranged one of the last interviews likely to come Mark’s way.

He would have much preferred the interview take place next month or even next week when his head was a little clearer. When he’d had a chance to think about what he wanted to say in what would likely be one of the last articles written about him. He wasn’t prepared, and he wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to get himself interviewed today. In person.

Wait—he did know. Somehow he’d let a little bit of a woman bully him into doing it. He didn’t care that getting the interview over and done was easiest in the long run, not to mention the right thing to do. He’d let her push him around like he didn’t outweigh her by a good hundred pounds. Now she was driving his car like her name was on the pink slip.

Earlier, when she’d offered herself as his assistant instead of a health care worker, for one brief moment he’d thought, Why the hell not? No more waiting around for a car service might make him feel less dependent. But in reality he felt more dependent and less capable of taking care of himself. Health care workers wanted to manage his pain. Chelsea Ross clearly wanted to manage his life. He didn’t need her and he didn’t want her around.

Mark brushed his thumb along the cool metal cane. Back to the original plan. No more Mr. Nice Guy. By the time he returned home that afternoon, he’d have her ready to quit. The thought of her peeling out of his driveway brought a genuine smile to his face.

“I got a text from the Sports Illustrated reporter a few minutes ago and she’s set up in the VIP room,” Chelsea said as she and Mark moved toward the entrance of the Spitfire. The sounds of the city surrounded them, and the cool breeze blowing off the bay brushed her face as she glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye. She’d done a good job. She’d had him in and out of the John Louis Salon in time for his Sports Illustrated interview. That had to count for something. Had to show him that she was good at her job and that he needed her. “Her name is Donda Clark and she said the interview shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

He looked good too. The back of his dark hair barely brushed the collar of his T-shirt and the tops of his ears. He looked clean-cut. Handsome. Manly.

She’d been worried.

The John Louis Salon catered to an alternative clientele. Edgy. Emo. And Chelsea had worried that Mark would come out with guyliner and Pete Wentz or Flock of Seagulls hair.

“After I get you settled with the reporter, I have to run over to the Chinooks’ offices.” She had to sign some insurance papers, and the offices were only about five blocks away. “Call me if you’re done early.”

“The last time I saw my cell phone was the night of the accident.” From behind his sunglasses, he glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the sidewalk. “I assume it’s in the mangled Hummer somewhere.”

She knew he had a home phone, but how could anyone live without text messaging for six months? She’d been in Seattle less than two weeks and she’d already changed her number and her plan. “Who’s your carrier?”

“Verizon. Why?”

“I’ll get you a new phone,” she said as she opened the door to the lounge and followed him inside. “And put you on my friends and family plan.”

He pushed his glasses to the top of his head and said something about going ahead and killing himself. The scent and sizzle of carnitas and sliders hit her nostrils and made her stomach growl. The dim interior was lit with track lighting, white globes, and chandeliers. Forty-two-inch flat-screen televisions hung among local artwork and flashed with major sports events. The bar’s clientele was an eclectic mix of upwardly mobile and laid-back grunge. Knit hats and business suits all mingled inside the sports lounge.

A decent lunch crowd filled the tables and booths as Chelsea followed Mark through the bar. Heads turned as they passed, and she didn’t fool herself that all that attention was directed at her. Over the hum of voices, people called out his name. He lifted his bad hand in acknowledgment, the dim light shining on the aluminum of his splint.

Chelsea was used to walking into a restaurant and seeing all eyes turn to her employers. A time or two, she’d purposely created attention for them by posing as a fan or faux paparazzi. This energy was different from anything she’d ever experienced. This wasn’t superficial celebrity adoration. This was real and bigger than any of the B, C, or D listers she’d ever worked for.

“Good to see you, Hitman,” the bartender called out to him as they passed. “Can I get you anything?”

“No thanks. Not right now.”

Chelsea bit the side of her lip. Hitman?

The Sports Illustrated reporter sat on a red leather sofa in the back of the lounge; her long blond hair curled about her shoulders and shone in the subdued light. The reporter stood as they approached and moved from behind a large cocktail table. She wore a red bird’s-eye jacket and pencil skirt that hit her at mid-thigh. She was tall and gorgeous and perfectly proportioned, everything that Chelsea was not. Oh, Chelsea could buy that exact shade of blond and she planned to have her breasts reduced to fit her body, but she would never have those long legs.

“Hello, I’m Chelsea Ross.” Chelsea shook the woman’s slender hand. “Mr. Bressler’s assistant.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” the reporter said, but her eyes were transfixed on the man behind Chelsea. “You’re a hard man to pin down,” she said as she dropped Chelsea’s hand and reached for Mark. “I’m Donda Clark.”

He switched his cane to his right hand. “Mark Bressler.”

“Yes, I know.” She smiled and motioned toward the seat next to her on the sofa. “I caught the game in Detroit last December.”

A tight smile curved Mark’s lips. “That was one of the last games I played.” He moved to the sofa, placed his good hand on the arm, and slowly sat. The corners of his mouth tightened even more, and Chelsea wondered if he was up to the interview. He seemed so strong, it was easy to forget that he’d been near death just a few months prior.

“I thought Detroit might turn it over after Leclaire drew a double minor in the third frame, but the Chinooks’ firepower clearly overwhelmed the Red Wings.”

Wow, what an ass kisser. “Can I get anything for the two of you before I go?” Chelsea asked.

“I’d like a Chablis,” Donda answered as she sat and dug a tape recorder out of her bag. “Thank you.”

“Mr. Bressler?”

He took the glasses from the top of his head and shoved one side down the collar of his T-shirt. “Water.”

Chelsea moved to the bar and wondered if Donda noticed the pain etched in the side of Mark’s mouth and if she’d write about it.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” the bartender asked as his gaze landed on her chest. She was so used to guys’ reaction to her breasts, it didn’t anger her as much as it once had. Annoy, yes. Anger, no.

Chelsea waited a few seconds before his gaze moved up to hers. “House Chablis and a glass of ice water.” She looked at the name tag clipped to his blue polo. “Colin.”

He smiled. The cocky smile of bartenders worldwide who knew they were good-looking. “You know my name. What’s yours?”

She’d been known to date a few cocky bartenders. Most of them had been out-of-work actors. “You already know it. It’s sweetheart.”

He reached for a glass and filled it with ice. “It’s nice to meet you, sweetheart. What brings you into the Spitfire?”

“I’m Mr. Bressler’s assistant.”

Colin lifted his gaze from the glass he slid across the bar and grinned. “I didn’t think you were his date. You’re not his type.”

“How do you know his type?”

“A lot of hockey players hang out here. He used to come in with some of the guys.”

He poured the wine, and Chelsea watched him for a few moments. “What’s his type?” she asked, only because it was her job to know that sort of thing. Not because she was nosy or anything.

“He goes for models. Like the blond he’s talking to.”

“Ah.” Figured.

“I prefer cute and spunky. Like you.”

Cute. She’d always been cute. For the most part, she was okay with that. Unless she had to stand next to a gorgeous supermodel and read for the same part. And because she was short, everyone assumed she was “spunky.” Or maybe it was her fashion flair. Although everyone always assumed the same about Bo, and Bo had the fashion sense of an undertaker. “What makes you think I’m spunky?”

He chuckled. “It might as well be written across your forehead.”

Which told her nothing. She reached for both glasses. “See ya, Colin.”

“Don’t be a stranger, sweetheart.”

She moved back into the VIP lounge and set the glasses on the table in front of the sofa. Mark glanced up at her and slid his sunglasses to one side of his neck. “I’ll be back in an hour,” she told him. “If you need anything, call.”

“I’ll take good care of him,” the reporter assured her, and Chelsea waited until she turned before she gave in to the urge to roll her eyes. She moved through the bar and out into the warm afternoon air. The Metro rushed past, the sound of the motor and screech of brakes bouncing off the stone buildings. Seattle definitely had a different vibe than L.A. It had a faster pace. Maybe it was the cooler temperature. Or maybe it was because the Gore-Tex–clad, granola-munching Starbucks drinkers jogged because they actually enjoyed it. Whatever it was, Chelsea liked it well enough. She wouldn’t mind living in Seattle until after her surgery. She figured she’d need a few weeks to recuperate before she headed back to L.A. to take another shot at pursuing her dream.

She’d often told friends that casting directors hired her breasts, not her. She’d been forever type-cast as a bimbo or a sexually promiscuous character. Once her breasts were no longer a factor, directors would have to take her seriously. They’d have to pay more attention to her talent than to her body.

What if you still don’t make it? a tiny pessimistic part of her brain asked. She’d give herself two years. No, five. If she still hadn’t landed anything significant by the time she was thirty-five, she’d find something else. She’d be sad, but she wouldn’t have any regrets. Not about pursuing her dream. And certainly not about reducing her heavy breasts.

It took her less than ten minutes to walk the five blocks to the Chinooks’ offices. She’d been in the human resources offices last week and found it easily. After she filled out her insurance forms, she headed to the public relations department where her sister worked. The second she stepped inside the offices, she could feel that something was up.

Bo sat on the edge of her desk with her hands covering the bottom half of her face. Jules Garcia stood in front of her. “You’re worrying about nothing,” he said.

“That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to fix it.”

“You don’t have to fix anything.”

“Yet.”

“Hey all,” Chelsea said as she approached.

Bo dropped her hands. “Hey, Chels.”

“Hi there,” Jules greeted, his gorgeous green eyes appraising her peacock Gaultier. The other night when she’d first met Jules, she’d assumed he was gay. He was just too pretty and too concerned about the way he looked to be straight. His prison-ripped muscles screamed gay, but a few moments in his company had cleared up the confusion. Chelsea had been around a lot of gay men in her life. Straight men too. Jules was that rare breed that didn’t easily fit in one camp or the other. Not like Mark Bressler. There was never a question for which team Mark played. His whole body leaked hetero toxins. Jules’s sexuality was more covert, disguised behind hair gel and fashion risks. Like the lavender-and-pink-striped shirt he favored today.

“Is something wrong?” Chelsea asked.

Bo handed Chelsea the sports section of the Seattle Times. An enlarged photo of several men standing on a yacht, one of them pouring beer from the Stanley Cup onto bikini-clad women, took up most of the front page. The caption read: Chinooks celebrate near Vashon with Lord Stanley’s Cup.

“They’re partying with the Stanley Cup? Can they do that?” Chelsea studied the picture. It was a little fuzzy but clear enough. “I mean, is it allowed?”

“It’s actually tradition,” Jules assured her. “Each team member gets the cup for one day.”

“They can just do what they want with it?” Now she understood some of Bo’s concern.

“Within reason,” Jules answered. “And a representative of the Hall of Fame has to be with it at all times.”

Obviously pouring beer on women in bikinis was considered “within reason.”

Bo slid off the side of her desk. “So there’s going to be a lot of opportunity for shenanigans.”

Jules shook his head. “You worry too much. After they all get their turn, it’ll get taken away to have their names engraved on it and everything will settle down.”

Chelsea tossed the paper on her sister’s desk. “How many players get their turn with the cup?”

“All those who are eligible to have their names engraved on it. Off the top of my head, I think twenty-four,” Jules answered. “Including Ty Savage and Mark Bressler. Even though neither played the full season.”

“Mr. Bressler gets a day with the cup?” He hadn’t mentioned it. Then again, he didn’t say much. Except when he wanted to be rude.

“Sure. He was the captain until just before the playoffs. Any player who played in forty-one regular season games or five playoff games is eligible. Bressler played in well over forty-one games and is a huge part of the reason the team made it into the finals. He helped build the team and deserves as much credit for winning as anyone. It’s just a shame he didn’t get to play in the finals.”

“When is his day?” She pulled her BlackBerry out of her bag to make a note.

“I don’t know,” Bo answered.

“I’m sure he can have it whenever he wants. Has he talked to anyone about what day he wants the cup?”

Chelsea shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ll ask him.”

Jules reached out and brushed the sleeve of her shirt. “Nice.”

“Thanks. It’s a Gaultier.”

“I thought it might be. I have a silk Gaultier in pewter and gold.”

Of course he did. “Are you sure you’re not gay?” She cocked her head to one side. “Bo has no interest in fashion, and I’d love to find a gay best friend to shop with.”

“I have more important things in my life,” Bo protested.

“Like what?” Jules and Chelsea asked at the same time.

“Like… like my job.”

Jules looked from one sister to the other. “If the two of you didn’t look alike, I wouldn’t know you’re twins. You’re so different.”

Chelsea thought about the fight she’d had with her sister the night before. “Bo is a lot more responsible than I am.”

Her sister gave her a tight smile. “I can be kind of uptight.”

“That’s an understatement.” Jules chuckled. “You’re bossy as hell.”

“Well, someone has to be or nothing would get done around here.”

“Right. The whole organization would fall apart without a five-and-a-half-foot woman in PR telling everyone what to do and how to do it.”

“I’m five feet, one and a half,” Bo said as if they were in junior high and that half an inch was still important. She frowned and pushed her short hair behind her ears. “Why are you here, Jules? Just to fight with me?”

“As pleasant as fighting with you always is, I was going to see if you’re free for lunch.”

“I have a meeting in ten minutes,” Bo grumbled.

He looked at Chelsea. “You free?”

She glanced at the clock on her phone. She didn’t get the feeling that Jules asked because he thought she and Bo were interchangeable. He was a nice guy. They both had to eat, but she still had to run it by her sister since he’d asked Bo first. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Good, because I’m starving.” She looked at Jules. “I have to be back at the Spitfire in half an hour.”

“I know a sandwich shop not far. You can get something and eat it on the way.”

“Okay.” Chelsea glanced at her sister, who glared at Jules as if he’d done something wrong. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asked.

“I’m sure.” She turned to her desk and picked up the newspaper. “Some of us have to work.”

“And some of us got the day off.” Jules moved toward the door. “Sucks to be you.”

“Yeah.” She sighed heavily. “Sucks to be me.”

“I’ll see you at home later,” Chelsea said as she moved to the door. Bo nodded but didn’t turn around.

“Did something happen?” she asked Jules as they moved down the hall. “Bo is acting weird.”

“Is she?” He held open the door for her, and as she passed, she caught the scent of his cologne. “I think all this stuff with the cup is making her more uptight than usual. Anghthan usud she’s usually wound fairly tight.”

“Maybe.” She dropped her phone into her purse and pulled out her sunglasses. “What can you tell me about Mark Bressler?”

“I don’t know a lot. I knew him a little bit when I worked for the Chinooks five years ago. I only recently started working for the organization again. I was rehired to assist Mrs. Duffy when she inherited the team. That would have been a month or two after his accident.”

Chelsea didn’t think she’d ever forget the game the other night. Not only because it had been fun to watch but because during the award ceremony, Mrs. Duffy had walked out onto the ice in a pair of pink skates, and the captain of the team, Ty Savage, had dipped her back and tongue kissed her for the world to see. The crowd inside the Key Arena had gone wild. “That was so romantic,” she sighed.

“Yeah.”

She looked up at him, at the sun shining in his spiky black hair. “You don’t think so?”

“Sure.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “I just hope Ty doesn’t break her heart. She’s a nice person, and I’d hate to see her get hurt.”

“He retired for her. Not many men would do something like that. He must love her.”

They walked a few more feet, and Jules opened the door to a little deli and the two stepped inside. The smell of fresh-baked bread made Chelsea’s stomach growl. “Love doesn’t always work out,” he said.

She knew that well enough. She’d been in love a few times, only to be dumped flat on her behind. But she’d always picked herself back up and moved on. In the past, she’d let lust and love get all mixed up in her head. She’d let a pretty face, hot body, and slick moves convince her that what she felt was love. The kind that lasted forever. The kind her parents had shared. It never had worked out for her, but she was sure she’d find someone someday. “You sound a little cynical.”

He shrugged, and they moved toward the counter. “I always go for girls who don’t like me or just want to be ‘friends.’ God, I hate it when a woman just wants to be friends.”

She wondered if he was talking about his boss. She looked up at the chalkboard menu and asked, “Who just wants to be your friend?”

Jules shook his head. “Never mind.” He ordered a turkey and Swiss, tons of veggies, and no mayo. “How’s your first day of work?”

Chelsea ordered a ham and cheddar, hold the veggies, yes to mayo. “Are we changing the subject?”

“Yep.”

How was her first day? She’d survived and had even managed to find a Betsey Johnson skirt on sale at Neiman Marcus. But… “Mr. Bressler is difficult.”

“I’ve heard. In just over a month, he’s gone through five health care workers. You’re the sixth.”

She hadn’t known the exact number, but she wasn’t surprised. “I’m not a health care worker. My plan is to dazzle him with my assistant skills.”

So far he didn’t seem all that dazzled, but Jules didn’t need to know that. “By the time I get him back home today, he will wonder how he ever got along without me.”