Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance (2 page)

"
M
iss 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.

* * *

T
he 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."

Tyler catches up with me, walking next to me on the trail. Summer camp is supposed to be full of outdoor adventures, but so far, the majority of it has been 'nature walks,' and not a lot else. I guess I can't complain. I mean, this whole thing is being paid for by my grandparents while Daddy goes through another round of chemo. The doctors say that they're sure they're going to get it this time, and he'll be cancer free. I hope so, his hair is all gone, and without it, he looks sad all the time. I want to see that black brush cut again, and not the coppery dome he's currently sporting.

"Come on, you know I'm just joking," he says, taking my hand. We stop on the trail, and I'm caught up in his cute face. Unlike all the other boys in the camp, he's already starting to mature, his cheeks losing the chubbiness that almost everyone else still has. "I just think it's really cool that you're part Indian."

"First Nations, Tyler. I prefer the term First Nations," I remind him, but still I smile a little. He may ask all sorts of questions that make him look ignorant, but there's nothing in them that makes me think he's trying to be a jerk or anything, and he's kinda cool to hang out with, for a boy. Actually, he's really cool to hang out with, which is why I like talking to him so much. "I don't wear a sari, and there's no dot on my forehead."

Tyler smirks and taps me in the forehead with a dusty finger. "Now you do."

I push him away, laughing despite myself. He's just so cute, darn it! "Your mouth is going to get you into trouble some day."

"Maybe," he answers as we start walking again. As long as we stay between the two camp counselors, high school students who are working this for a summer job, we're free to go our own pace, which I think is best right in the middle. We’re away from the kids up front who want to treat the walks like some sort of workout and the guys who are gawking at the lead counselor Missy, who likes to wear tight khaki short-shorts, and the group of kids in the back, who are either struggling to keep up, or just want to bring up the rear. In the middle you get privacy, and a chance to just enjoy yourself.

"Maybe?" I tease. "Tyler, you've already got like . . . five people here who hate you."

"Not worried about them," Tyler says with a chuckle. "I'm worried about what you think of me."

I feel fresh heat on my neck, and I know it's not because of the summer sun, most of this trail is shaded before we reach the beach. "I'm still thinking."

Tyler gives me a look, and I can see that he's anxious, not the cool collected guy he is with everyone else. "Really? Because, like, the camp barbecue is tomorrow, you know."

I know, I know. And as a big part of it, the counselors are insisting that everyone have a 'date' for the party. Something about social skills or something. But I've never been good with social skills, even back home in Canada. I hang out with my friends and play some basketball, that's it. I'm not one of the cool kids, and I certainly never hang out with the Cutie-Pies or the Princesses. And now the cutest guy in camp is telling me he wants me to be his date for the barbecue. Why?

"I know Tyler, but . . . well, why me? I'm not exactly pretty like Gina Hernandez is. She's already got boobs."

“No one cares about Gina,” Tyler replies with a look on his face and I have to agree. Gina’s not the nicest girl, but I don't mind her that much, she just doesn't know when to drop a joke.
“
I’m asking you because you're kinda cool to talk to, you know, for a girl."

"You just like the fact I can start a fire without matches," I reply, thinking back to both the good and bad of that. It was fun, but once it became public knowledge that I'm part First Nations, the jokes started. I really don't like the jokes. In Canada, so many people are at least part First Nations that we don't even think about it, but here in California, it's enough of a difference that somebody felt it was worth a joke, and everyone else ran with it. Tyler's the only person though that makes the jokes not feel bad, though, which is why I don't mind them from him.

"Actually, I liked the fact that you're like, the only girl who isn't afraid to go out and body board in the surf. I know the water here is colder than San Diego, but I love it too much. You get out there right with me."

"It's why I'm wearing my swimsuit underneath," I reply, showing him the strap of my suit. "You know, us girls can't just jump in the ocean in our shorts and a t-shirt like the guys."

"I don't wear my t-shirt," Tyler counters, showing off his arms. He's nearly as tan as I am, a deep sun-kissed chestnut brown, and he's already got muscles. A strange tingle goes through me whenever he takes off his shirt, like chocolate and batteries.

"I've noticed," I say, accepting it instead of trying to force out all the weird stuff in my head, and point ahead. "We're nearly there."

Tyler takes my hand again and pulls me to a stop. "So . . . will you go with me to the barbecue?"

I'm not sure why my head is moving, but suddenly I'm nodding, and Tyler's smile makes it cool. "Great. Come on, I'll race you to the beach."

Tyler takes off up the path, and I'm laughing, chasing after him as we jump over the tree roots and little rocks. There's no way that I can catch him. I'm out of breath when I finally catch up to him on the sand, and I see he's already stripped off his tank top. Chocolate and batteries, chocolate and batteries . . .

"Hey Pocahontas, come on!" Tyler laughs, and heads for the water. I strip off my own shorts and shirt and run down, careful about the shells. They're really pokey, and I don't want to walk the mile back to camp with a cut on my foot.

* * *

I
shake my head
, the memories of years ago making me smile. I go out to the parking lot and drive over to the car rental place that the Fighters use for new players. We have a corporate account, and it's convenient. I go inside, where Hank, the day manager is looking at something on his computer. "Good morning April!"

I smile but can't work up a reply, and Hank shakes his head. "April, how are you ever going to climb that corporate ladder when you can barely give me a good smile after us knowing each other for what, nearly a year?"

"About that," I half whisper. It's not that Hank is a scary guy, in fact he's really nice. It's just that he's older, and he's in
management.
I know he told me he doesn't blame me for the time one of the players got into a car accident after I'd turned over the keys, but still . . .

"Then relax. What can I do for you today?"

I take a deep breath and get to business. "The Fighters have a new player coming in, and I need to get a car for him."

"New player, huh? Cool. What's he play?"

"Quarterback. Tyler Paulson, from California."

"Nice, we need one," Hank, who's a big Fighters fan, says. "What's he like?"