Page 184 of Revenge Puck

“I need to speak with the director of HR.”

His well-manicured eyebrows lift. “Is this regarding a workplace incident?”

“Yes.”

“What type of incident?”

“The kind I’d prefer to discuss privately,” I reply.

His lips press together. He glances down at his screen again. “We typically like to have some context before scheduling a meeting.”

“The context is none of your business.”

He swivels slightly, holding down a button on the side of his headset, speaking into the mouthpiece. “Yes, I have Mr. AaronBishop here at the desk requesting a meeting…” I hear him murmur. “Yes, ma’am. That Bishop.”

A beat later he straightens. “She can see you shortly. Please have a seat.” Pause. “Can I get you anything while you wait? A water or coffee?”

“No thanks.”

I lower my large body into an oversized leather chair and stare at the abstract painting across from me. It’s a large watercolor of ice. The men painted on it are faceless and distorted, their skates blurs in motion.

I rest my forearms on my thighs and clasp my hands together, thumbs rubbing absently until my left knee starts bouncing.

I clamp a hand over it.

This is humiliating.

Necessary, but humiliating.

Yesterday, I was in the locker room with Storm, half convinced I could fix this with a speech, possibly some expensive gifts, and some well-timed self-loathing during a pleading monologue.

Now, I’m in a corporate fishbowl waiting to confess that I fell for the right woman for the wrong reason and, if possible, could they give her a fucking break about it if anyone were to find out.

If she speaks to me after today.

“Mr. Bishop?” a young woman appears from around a doorway, navy suit, professional smile in place. “Tara is ready for you.”

Great.

I stand, rolling my shoulders back the same way I do when I’m about to step onto the ice, instead of into an office that smells of lemon furniture spray and clean carpet.

Framed diplomas line the far wall. A photo of the HR director with the team owner. Several bamboo plants. A long walnut table with eight chairs. Zero personality.

Tara McMillion sits at the head.

Mid-forties, maybe. Hair pulled back into something sleek and severe. The kind of woman who probably irons her bedsheets and files complaints alphabetically. She hadn’t thought I was funny the last time I was in her office.

To be fair, no one thinks I’m funny.

“Mr. Bishop.” She gestures to the chair across from her desk. “Please.”

Her assistant slides into a nearby seat with a tablet poised, ready to take notes. That feels excessive. Like I’m about to confess to tax evasion and it needs to be on file.

I sit.

Tara folds her hands neatly on her desk. Pastes a pleasant smile on her face. “How can we assist you today?”

I clear my throat. “I’m here to disclose a relationship.”