by Sarina Bowen
He holds the door, and I step outside. There are tourists on the other side of the iron fence, snapping pictures. I count as two dozen players hustle past me onto the bus, then I watch the door of the bus swing closed, feeling satisfied.
Another successful night of herding the cats. As long as that bus pulls up at the stadium in ten minutes with all my boys on board, I’ve done the most important part of my job.
“Okay, miss,” the security guy says. “Here’s your car.”
A stretch Mercedes pulls up in the spot where the bus just was.
“Oh! Fancy,” Heidi Jo coos. “Haven’t ridden in one of these since prom night! I had the cutest dress…”
She’s still talking. Whatever.
We don’t usually ride to the stadium in a stretch limo, but sometimes the car company just sends whomever is free. I don’t bother to explain because I’m too tired. The puppy yaps while the driver hops out, walks around to our side, and opens the door with gloved hands.
“Hop in,” I sigh, wondering if it’s possible to catch a catnap on a two mile drive. But Heidi Jo will probably gab the whole way.
She prances toward the door and disappears into the dark interior.
My eyes feel gritty as I scan the back lot for any of my colleagues who might need to join us. But no one else appears. With a weary sigh, I follow my intern into the car, flopping down onto the leather seat just inside.
As the driver closes the door with the cool little click that only German engineering can produce, I notice that I’ve seated myself practically on top of the one and only Nate Kattenberger.
And here I’d assumed this car would be empty. Whoops.
“Um, hi,” I squeak as the scent of his spicy aftershave hits me hard.
“Rebecca,” he says, his voice as cool and calm as an iceberg. “Good evening.”
Gulp. Nate hasn’t spoken to me in a voice so detached in…well, ever. So that’s weird. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” I say. As if that’s not obvious.
“I swung by to chat with Hugh.”
“Oh,” I say stupidly.
Heidi Jo is staring across at us with one perfectly manicured little hand covering her mouth. Maybe she’s never met a billionaire before.
I wiggle my hips and shift on the leather to give Nate a little more room on what I’d assumed was an empty bench. “Sorry,” I say, feeling flustered. I wonder if I’ve chewed off all my lipstick. I hope I don’t have sweat circles under my arms.
How in the world did I become so self-conscious in front of Nate?
“Mr. Kattenberger, I’m Heidi Jo,” she says in a hushed voice. “And I’m such a big fan of yours.”
Nate looks up from his phone. “Thank you,” he says mildly. I hear a note of amusement.
“Heidi Jo is an intern in the front office,” I manage to supply.
“…And I am taking really good care of Miss Rowley!” she gushes.
“It’s a pleasure meeting you, and I’m glad to hear that.”
Although I notice he doesn’t spare me a glance.
Nate tucks his phone away. “Miss Rowley, do you have tonight’s invite list handy?”
Miss Rowley? What fresh hell is this? I’ve been last-named? By Nate? Surprise strikes me dumb, and I just blink at him for a long moment. His pale eyes are unreadable behind his reading glasses.
Flustered now, I tear my gaze off his and flop the clipboard onto my knees. My knit dress—purple, the team’s color—is riding up so I do a strange wiggle to yank it down. Then I flip through all the notes to find tonight’s corporate box attendees.
“Let’s see,” I mumble. “You invited two guys from Goldman Sachs—Kearns and Brown. You invited Stew and Seely and Marsha Ryan. Oh—and Alex Engels.” Shit. If Alex is even the least bit weird to me tonight, I will probably lose my mind.
I run out of steam just thinking about it. And instead of reading the rest of the names on the list, I just hand him the clipboard, feeling defeated.
He scans it and hands it back without a word.
I take it back and sigh.
The car inches up to another red light and we all wait in silence.
“How was your first week back at work?” Nate surprises me by asking.
Grueling. And now weird. “It was lovely. Thank you for inquiring.”
“I’ve made sure she didn’t work too many hours in Detroit,” Heidi Jo pipes up. “She’s doing first rate.”
“Ah,” Nate says. “Well done. Whatever we pay you, I’m sure it isn’t enough.”
Heidi Jo giggles. “I think I might need hazard pay when Miss Rowley gets in one of her moods. She’s a grumpy bear sometimes.”
“Is that so?”
I try to give Heidi Jo a searing death glare from across the car, but she’s not looking at me so all I accomplish is tense eye muscles. She is a dead girl when I get her alone.
Nate gives me another glance, and it’s weirdly cool. I wonder what he sees. A slightly disheveled woman in a clingy purple dress, probably.
Or, a big mistake?
Luckily I don’t have much more time to worry about it. The car pulls up behind the bus. We’re at the players’ entrance to the stadium. When I peer out the tinted windows, I note that security has done a nice job roping off the sidewalk. A red carpet is set up and waiting for the players to make their entrance, and a crowd has accumulated outside the barriers.
The limo door pops open. “Ready?” the driver asks.
I see Heidi Jo move.
“Wait…” I try to say, because Nate is supposed to get out of the limo first. But puppies are quick. So a moment later, Heidi Jo is standing out there, blinking rapidly as a million flash bulbs go off in her face.
I hear Nate chuckle as he follows her out of the car. The shutters continue to click as he calmly takes Heidi Jo’s arm and guides her toward the carpet. A normal person would look mortified at accidentally stealing the limelight. But not our Heidi Jo. She stops at the base of the red carpet like an Oscars invitee, then turns to wave to the crowd. Another million clicks, and Nate gives the crowd a stiff wave and an even stiffer smile before tugging Heidi Jo toward the entrance and finally disappearing inside.
What the hell was that, anyway?
Usually I’m watching this procession from the stadium, not the car. And usually there aren’t quite so many people around. But this is the playoffs, and suddenly all of Brooklyn has become a hockey fan.
Not wishing to repeat Heidi Jo’s command performance, I sit tight as the door to the bus opens and O’Doul steps down. He waves to the spectators, who promptly go nuts. They’re here to see the players, who emerge from the bus one at a time now to cheers.
With all the attention focused on the stream of athlete hotness, I eventually slip out of the open limo door, thanking the driver. Wielding my clipboard, I march toward the door. Nobody gives me a second glance, because all eyes are on the players.
Georgia is waiting just inside. “What the heck was that girl…?”
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t warn her to stay out of sight.”
“I already have three texts from journalists wondering which college girl Nate Kattenberger is dating.” Georgia rolls her eyes.
Of course she does.
My friend drops her voice. “Maybe you should have gotten out of the car first,” she whispers. “Try that on for size.”
“You’re hilarious,” I hiss. “Maybe on Monday I’ll actually do that, just to complicate your life. You can try to kill the story that Nate only dates assistants and interns.”
“And only people under five feet four inches tall. Billionaire romances the vertically challenged, film at eleven,” Georgia giggles.
“I hate you,” I say. But I’m lying.
Players stream down the corridor past us, headed for the locker rooms. They’ll take off their suits and put on warm-up gear. They’ll have last minute meetings, they’ll get sore muscles taped. They’ll tape and retape their sticks. They’ll hydrate
and stretch and indulge in smack talk.
I love game night. The energy in the building has given me a little lift already.
Heidi Jo comes tapping toward me down the hall, her heels clicking importantly on the concrete. “Omigod, y’all! That was so nice of Mr. K to walk the red carpet with me!”
“Like he had a choice,” Georgia says under her breath.
“Mr. K?” Is she kidding me right now?
“What do we do next?” my intern chirps.
“We need to make sure you don’t jump out of limos with the bossman again,” Georgia says.
“Sorry,” Heidi Jo says brightly. “What else?”
Georgia holds up a finger, asking for another minute of my attention. “One more thing? There’s a reporter for Observer who’s dying for an interview with Nate. But I find the whole thing a little weird.”
“Weird how?” I ask.
Georgia’s eyes flit up the corridor and then back to me. “I don’t know this reporter very well. But she wants to write a story about why Nate bought a hockey franchise. But he won’t take the interview. Do you have any idea why? You’ve known him longer than I have.”
Slowly, I shake my head. At the moment I don’t feel like I know him very well at all. “When Nate bought the team, I was surprised. I didn’t know he was considering it. But I will say that our first office had a hockey poster on the wall.” I close my tired eyes and try to remember. “The Blackhawks, I think?” I had that poster framed when we renovated our offices that first time, because our new digs were classier, and I didn’t want to encourage the guys to decorate in the style of Early Dorm Room.
But then the poster disappeared? I hadn’t seen it in years, come to think of it.
“The Blackhawks, huh?” Georgia asks, tapping her lip. “I guess that makes sense. He wouldn’t have been a Minnesota fan, because that’s an expansion team that formed after his family left Minnesota.”
“Just ask him.”
“He doesn’t want to talk about it, but this reporter won’t go away. I get a weird feeling from her. Like she has some bit of gossip and won’t come clean. But I can’t figure out what it is.”
“That is weird,” I admit. On the other hand, I can’t imagine what’s so fascinating about Nate owning a hockey team. It’s what rich white guys do. “Maybe she’s trying to spin it like Revenge of the Nerds. Brainiac enjoys brutality on the ice.”
“Don’t we all,” Heidi Jo says on a sigh.
Georgia gives me an eye roll. “Later, babe.”
“Later!” I turn my attention to my sidekick. “I’m going to check with the stadium staff to see if they have any notes for me. And make sure the players have everything they need in their dressing room.”
Heidi Jo’s hand shoots up in the air. “I volunteer as tribute.”
Sigh. “And then I’ll look over the corporate box to make sure it’s set up for…” For that man I’m trying so hard not to think about. “Let’s go,” I say. “Ticket booth first.”
I head for the elevators, with Heidi Jo at my heels. “When you say the corporate box?” the intern asks, “Do you mean Mr. K’s box?”
The fact that she’s given him a new nickname grates on me. But I bite back a nasty comment. “That’s the one.”
“Is it fancy? I’ve never met a billionaire before today.”
“He doesn’t live there,” I grumble. “It’s your usual rich guy decor. Velvet stadium seats. Paneled walls. Chandeliers. Exotic dancers on the half hour.”
“What?”
“Male and female. Don’t tip them, though. They’re on salary.”
Heidi Jo’s eyes bulge, and I feel like a heel.
“Just kidding about that last thing.”
“You do tip them?”
Shoot me. “There aren’t any strippers. The hockey game is enough excitement. But there’s champagne if we win, a hundred other beverages if we don’t. Oh, and these warm cheese puffs that Georgia speed eats when she’s tense.” My stomach rumbles just thinking about them.
“It’s not nice to tease me,” Heidi Jo pouts.
“I’m sorry.” Great. I’ve kicked a puppy. But Heidi Jo brings out the worst in me.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
“Peachy.” I’m tired and hungry. I need twelve continuous hours of sleep in my own bed. The doctor warned me that my first week back would be rough, and to take it easy. The doctor clearly has no idea what it’s like to be at ground zero of the hockey playoffs. This is my life. This is my job, and I love my job. Sleep can wait.
“Does your head ache?”
“Nope. I’m good.”
“I could find you a snack…”
“Heidi? Stop it. I’m fine.”
She gives me a wounded look. “Okay. Just say the word.”
* * *
The puck drops right on time at seven-thirty. That’s when my workday ends. I could actually go home right now and start catching up on all the sleep I’ve missed.
Instead, I sink into a chair in Nate’s box. I choose the one furthest away from his and focus on the rink. Nothing could keep me away from watching my boys in a playoffs game. Not even world-class awkwardness between me and the boss.
Unfortunately for both of us the game doesn’t go as planned. The game becomes tied at 1-1 early on in the first period and doesn’t budge for hours.
And so much for home ice advantage. The officials’ calls are brutal all night long. Brooklyn gets called for every penalty on earth. Tripping. Slashing. Interference. Our players spend as much time in the penalty box as they did in the last two games combined.
Even worse—whenever Detroit fights back, the ref develops a sudden blind spot. I watch, slack jawed, as a Detroit player cross-checks Castro right into the plexi, face first. “COME ON!” I screech, leaping to my feet when no whistles blow. “THAT’S SOME BULLSHIT RIGHT THERE!”
“I agree,” Heidi Jo puts in. “But my mama would slap me if I put it that way.”
Something tells me Heidi Jo’s mama and I wouldn’t get along.
My gaze flits over toward Nate for the hundredth time tonight. I wonder what he thinks of this awful game. I wonder if he even knows I’m here.
And I wonder why that’s suddenly so important to me. I used to watch these games in quiet solidarity with Nate and never wonder what he thought of me.
The third period ends without breaking the tie, so an overtime period is put up on the board, and the Zamboni rolls out to polish the ice. I’m so tired I want to die, and it wasn’t even me who just skated for ninety minutes straight.
“Timing pool!” Stewie shouts. He stands up, removes his Brooklyn Bruisers baseball cap and turns it upside down. “Who’s in?”
I take a twenty out of my purse and toss it in the hat. “Twelve minutes, thirty six seconds,” I say, and he scribbles that down.
“Ooh!” Heidi Jo says. “I love games.” She throws in a twenty after mine. “What am I guessing?”
“How long it takes the Zamboni to clear the ice.”
“Ah.” Her blue eyes take in the vehicle, and she sticks her tongue out of the corner of her mouth while she considers it. “Twelve minutes, thirty nine seconds.”
Stew snorts, then raises his eyes to mine. “Your intern is a fierce competitor, Bec.”
“Who, me?” Heidi Jo gives him a wide-eyed blink.
I want to kick her. She couldn’t possibly have missed the fact that her guess boxed mine in. “If you win, you have to buy lunch tomorrow.”
“Awesome!”
Stew gives me a smile and moves on.
“Welp.” Heidi Jo stands up. “I was just fixing to have a cocktail. Can I bring you anything?”
“I didn’t know you drank, Heidi Jo.” This amuses me for some reason—that little miss cute and perfect needs a drink.
“I meant a fruit cocktail!” She giggles.
Right.
I’m this close to asking her for two fingers of whiskey, but I resist. “I would love a Coke. Thanks
.”
My eyes feel leaden, and I spend the rest of the intermission slurping down a soda and eating carrot sticks.
Nate spends it schmoozing bankers from Goldman Sachs. And not making eye contact with me.
The Zamboni leaves the ice at its famously plodding pace, and I’ve completely forgotten about the bet already when Stew yells, “Twelve minutes, thirty four seconds! Rebecca Rowley takes the pot!”
That wakes me up a little. Stew gives me three hundred bucks and a kiss on the cheek. “Congrats, Bec!”
Most everyone in the room makes a point of congratulating. Except for Nate, who doesn’t even spare me a glance. Wonderful.
“I guess you’re the one buying lunch tomorrow,” Heidi Jo says.
“Indeed,” I agree. “Actually, here.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a twenty. “It’s not really fair for the intern to lose her cash.”
Her eyes widen with surprise, and then she pushes the bill back toward me. “Fair’s fair. I’ll prolly win the next one.”
Knowing her, she probably will.
She scampers off to refresh both our drinks, and Stew sidles up to me. “That was a close one, Bec. Three more seconds and you would have been tied. Do you think arm-wrestling would make a good tiebreaker?”
“I could totally take her,” I say, and he laughs.
“By the way,” he adds under his breath. “That was nice of you to offer her the twenty back. But you know she can afford it.”
“I do?” I don’t know a thing about Heidi Jo because I try never to ask her questions. It’s too risky. Once she starts talking there’s no off button.
Stew makes a surprised sound. “Come on, Bec. You don’t miss much. She’s the league commissioner’s daughter.”
“The…” League commissioner? “Of the NHL? Really?”
“Yup. Heidi Jo is Heidi Jo Pepper. Daddy got mad when she dropped out of Bryn Mawr so he sent her to work on a team.”
“Oh, hell. Lucky me.” Stew winks and goes back to his seat. While I stand there rewinding every conversation I ever had with my intern, trying to decide how mean I’ve been. Shit.
She sits down beside me a minute later and hands me my glass.
“Thank you very much! That’s so kind of you,” I gush.
She gives me a sideways glance. “What did that man just tell you?”
