Free Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) by Katherine Stark

riding a bucking bronco for days. Probably because I more or less have. I stop at the coffee shop in the government management building’s main atrium and grab a cappuccino—nice and boring, unlike my FBI co-workers’—and settle into one of the atrium couches to review my homework schedule for the upcoming weekend. It’s almost a relief that after tonight’s and tomorrow’s games, the Eagles will be hitting the road again. I’ll miss Sergei, of course, but I won’t miss the constant stress of trying to ply him for information about his brother, or having the FBI listening to my every word. And deed.
    I glance toward the double sets of doors that lead out on to the busy streets of Foggy Bottom, the ritzy part of DC where our school’s main campus resides. The usual collection of student cars are lined up in front of the building in a NO PARKING zone—Maseratis and Corvettes and Bentleys, the pink tongues of parking tickets sticking out of their windshield wipers. Yeah, we’ve got a lot of people like that at our school. People like Todd Beckwith, who were born on third base and act like it’s some great accomplishment on their part to score a run. Even Monique was born to money, though she’s a lot humbler about it than most. But then there are the students like me, in the sales rack dresses, busting our asses to stay on top of work and schoolwork and desperately trying to add a social life to all of that.
    I’ve got to hand it to Sergei—he’s never once made me feel like I was worth anything less than the girls who drop a year of my income in the salon every week. The look in his eyes when he looks at me . . . money can’t buy that. I guess he had to fight his way to get where he is now, too. There’s a mutual respect that comes from that.
    Still doesn’t help the sense of irritation when I look at all those cars.
    And it certainly doesn’t help the unease I feel when I notice a black Escalade parked on the opposite side of the street, its windows too dark for me to see inside.
    “Hey, Jael, how’s it goin’?” Todd Beckwith—speak of the devil’s boring personal assistant—rounds the couch I’m sitting in and plops into the nearby armchair. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
    “That happens when you dump someone,” I say.
    A crease appears between Todd’s eyebrows. “Listen, I’m just trying to be your friend. I care about you, you know? Just because we no longer share a romantic interest doesn’t mean I care any less about seeing you achieve your dreams.”
    I smile sweetly and try to act like I don’t want to throw up in my mouth. “And what if my dreams change?”
    The crease deepens. I recognize this expression: the BeckwithBot Emulation of Dutiful Concern. “You’re not having trouble at the Bureau, are you?”
    I snort and tighten my grip on my scheduler. “Ha. No. The Bureau’s having trouble with me.” I rush to explain before he can open his mouth. “Not, like—they think I’m doing a bad job. Just—they’re not quite sure how to use my talents.” Like the part where they don’t get that I’m not a certified copier technician. “And I think some of their methods are . . . outdated.” Like the part where they want me to pressure Sergei way beyond what’s natural.
    “Well, that is the trouble with working in government.” Todd rubs his chin. “I did warn you that you might find government service a bit too confining for your creative mind. That ultimately, there’s more growth opportunity for you in consulting. You’re a problem solver, Jael. You need to work somewhere that’ll allow you to do just that.”
    When I’m not busy rolling my eyes at “growth opportunity,” I can see he has something like a point. But this is what I’m training for. What all my coursework has been geared toward. Working for the FBI, busting up criminal operations, hunting down perps. And already, the FBI is ruining my life. Wonderful.
    “Well, thank you for the inspiring