Page 1 of Unmanageable

1

Scottie Elise Reed

“Finnian O’Connell, if you click that laser pointer one more time, I will jam it into your carotid artery.”

Cash doesn’t even flinch. He just clicks the button again, and a tiny, mocking red dot dances across a clip-art image of a muscular man lifting a barbell.

“It’s called a ‘Call to Action,’ Scottie. Basic marketing,” Cash says, his voice dropping into that low rumble that usually works on referees, star-struck rookies, and the occasional puck-bunny.

It doesn’t work on me.

I’ve been his agent for six months, and in that time, I’ve realized two things: one, he’s the most talented goalie the Boston Reign has seen in a decade, and two, he is an absolute menace to my blood pressure.

“It’s a PowerPoint presentation in your living room at ten o’clock on a Tuesday,” I deadpan, crossing my arms. “Actually, why the fuck am I even here? I have a perfectly good home with a wine fridge that doesn’t involve being held hostage by Microsoft Office.”

“You’re here because you love the grind, Sharky. And because I have the good pretzels.” He gestures vaguely toward a bowl on the coffee table.

“I’m here because I’m an idiot,” I correct, rubbing my temples.

“Professional diagnosis?” he asks, leaning back.

I roll my eyes but play along. “Chronic poor decision-making.”

“Symptoms?”

“Accepting meetings after business hours. Representing emotionally exhausting goaltenders who think they’re the next great world travelers.”

He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, his mouth curving into that signature, lopsided smirk. “Wow. I feel seen. And hurt.”

“I’m not done.”

“There’s more?”

“Unfortunately.”

I’ve spent years building a reputation for being untouchable.

Long before the click of my own heels became a warning sign in the Reign’s front office, people were already whispering about ‘The Shark.’ I’m the one who takes the players with the “attitude problems” and turns them into legends.

I don’t coddle, I don’t negotiate, and I certainly don’t do road trips.

But Finnian? He’s the only person I know who seems to have missed the memo that he’s supposed to be intimidated by me.

Cash turns off the projector, plunging the room into a soft, amber glow from the floor lamps. He stands, and the sudden shift in space is jarring.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and looks far too put-together for a man who just spent an hour explaining a cross-country training itinerary with the manic energy of a toddler on an espresso bender.

My brain does a quick, unauthorized detour. I find myself wondering what combination of genetics, luck, and divine favoritism resulted in that jawline. And then, more dangerously, I wonder how quickly I could trace it with my tongue.

Stop it.

He looks like a dream.

He acts like a migraine.

Which is unfair. Attractive people should come with one fatal, glaring flaw. Bad breath. Chronic lateness. An inability to assemble IKEA furniture.

Finnian O’Connell’s flaw was, apparently, making me want to throttle him and kiss him in equal measure.