Page 82 of In Too Deep
Hunter Navarro.
Delano Argentieri.
Isabella Argentieri.
I give the three people at my sides dark glares before returning my attention to Gideon.
“You, of all people, should know what stunts like this can do to a team’s reputation,” I snap, crumpling the papers in my fist before shoving them in my pocket.
Gideon snorts an ironic laugh. “Says the pot to the kettle.”
My blood goes cold, but I do my best not to let my face show it. “Is there something you require, Mr. St. Clair? Or have you come here to just give me a headache?”
The blue-haired man lets out a bark of laughter, and I can feel his heat as he steps closer to me, so close that I can smell the phosphorus rolling off him in waves thick enough to choke.
“You didn’t say she was this feisty, Gid,” he says, leaning down and audibly sniffing my hair.
“Back off, Delano. From what I hear, she’s already got a gaggle of alphas panting after her,” Gideon snipes.
I freeze, heart stopping and restarting painfully. How did he find out? We’ve been so fucking careful, and we’re so close to pulling this off.
“I don’t see any marks on her. Are you sure?” the blue-haired man, Delano, muses, as his hands brush along my throat and shoulders.
His brazen touch snaps me out of my stupor, and I turn on him, shoving his chest with all my strength. Even through his clothes, I perceive the well-defined muscles, not quite as developed as a hockey player, but enough to make him a physical threat. But he’s caught off guard by my sudden movement, and he stumbles backward with wide eyes and a savage grin.
“Did no one ever teach you to keep your hands to yourself? Or did you flunk out of kindergarten before that lesson?” I say sardonically.
The woman, Isabella, laughs again, a high-pitched and irritating noise. “God, I wish I had my phone out. You should see your fucking face,” she manages to say through giggles, pointing a sharply manicured finger at Delano.
Blood boiling, I turn to Gideon. I don’t know if it’s panic or something else that’s making me so reckless, but I don’t care.
“If you’ve got something to say, just spit it out. I have better things to do tonight than stand here and get harassed and assaulted by your cronies,” I say, doing my best to look down my nose at someone half a foot taller than me.
Gideon has the nerve to laugh at me, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I’ve always found your candor refreshing, Victoria. But I didn’t peg you to be a rulebreaker, or to be so…liberal with your attention,” he says, words pointed like daggers.
“Egg on your face,” I snark back.
“So you admit to it, then?”
I cross my arms over my chest and rock onto my back foot. “Admit to what? You’ve talked in circles and said nothing.”
My heart is racing a mile a minute, and I can hear the emcee starting his introductions. Any minute now, the boys will be making their entrance, and if I’m still stuck here, shit is going to hit the fan. I don’t dare look away from Gideon, and I even try to control my blinks, just to avoid giving him a microsecond to catch me off guard.
“Then let me be plain. I have it on good authority that you’ve been seeing several of my players in secret for months. Not only is this a flagrant violation of the fraternization clauses of the employment contracts, but—”
“There’s no fraternization clause in the player contract,” I interrupt, the words jumping out of me before I can stop them.
Gideon goes quiet for a moment, studying my face. But I keep my expression blank, almost uninterested. Never mind that my knees have turned to overcooked spaghetti, and I might actually vomit all four courses of my supper onto his very expensive shoes at any given moment. I need to find an exit out of this before I make an even bigger fool of myself.
“I don’t know if you realize, Miss Strauss, but the job I’m actually paid to do is contract law. The Mystic is just a hobby to me,” Gideon says, picking each word with care.
I roll my eyes, unable to stop myself. “Then why do you give a fuck about what your employees get up to in their personal lives?” I ask with my best attempt at a bored sigh.
“As the owner, I have a right to know if my people are going to embarrass themselves or the St. Clair name.”
I scrunch my nose in a sneer of disgust. “You don’t own any of us, you know. We’re people. And there’s nothing in our contracts that says what we can or can’t do when we’re not on companytime. And even beyond that, CBA between the league and the players, not to mention federal and state laws on designation rights, would trump your fine print.”
Gideon’s smirk sends a chill down my spine, and all the false bravado I’ve been relying on evaporates. Only years of practice keep me from dropping the disinterested expression from my face and going into a full panic.