by Sarina Bowen
Vince had set up an office in her basement. He was conducting some kind of business on her property! With a wastepaper basket!
She was mad enough to spit. She stomped toward the corner, calm mood ruined, and stuck her arm in the air for a taxi.
* * *
Two hours later she was feeling a little calmer, even though the problem remained unsolved.
But the game was about to start, and she was surrounded by ten thousand fans. It was hard to feel crabby with so much expectation bouncing around the arena.
Ari had already given a couple of last-minute chair massages to players with upper body pain. By this point their fate was out of her hands. She stood in the owners’ box, a soda in her hand, a notebook at her side. She would watch the first period of the game from this premium location and make some notes about who suffered the hardest hits, so she could follow up with those players during the intermission or tomorrow.
Hockey was pretty freaking exciting, too. Just because she’d never been a fan before eighteen months ago didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy it.
Beside her, the Brooklyn Bruisers office manager stood sipping from a glass of wine. “How’s O’Doul today?” Becca asked, watching the ice team sweep the surface one more time. “I heard rumors that they sent him to you for his hip.”
“He seemed fair,” Ari said, considering the question. “A little rest would probably help him. But I don’t think it’s any worse than a lot of the strains the guys play on.”
On a gut level, she’d never understand the risks these players took with their bodies every day. That was their job, and they were highly compensated for it. She’d never be rich, but she’d never take a punch to the face, either.
Though you let yourself be pushed down the stairs, her subconscious prodded.
“Is Doulie a diva in the treatment room? He’s so freaking bossy. The travel team actually calls all the hotels where he stays and gets duplicate receipts to submit for him, because they’ve learned it’s a bigger pain to ask for his cooperation than to just take over.”
“Really?” Ari laughed. “Sounds like he has them trained.” Everyone was supposed to submit his or her own receipts, or pay an assistant to do it for them. Ari did her own, but it was a pain in the gluteus maximus.
“He has an ego the size of the stadium. If you have any trouble with him, I’m happy to play the part of bad cop.”
“You do that part well.” Ari squeezed her friend’s shoulder.
“Fuck,” Becca moaned. “Do that again. Please? I spent too many hours at my desk today.”
Ari set down her drink and stood behind Becca. She put her hands on the younger woman’s shoulders and began to rub. “You only like me for my hands,” she complained.
“Not true! You make a mean margarita, and you always turn in your personnel forms on time.”
“I feel so much better now.” She put her thumbs at the base of Becca’s skull and rubbed. This was a brand-new friendship. Ari had always liked Becca and her sidekick, Georgia, the publicist. But Ari’s ex had resented all the traveling that Ari did for the team, and when she was home in Brooklyn he got pissy if she went out without him.
His attitude had kept her away from developing normal friendships with the girls at work, and she hadn’t even realized it until after she’d broken things off with him.
During Ari’s yoga training, a wise yogi had told her that pain always brought new awarenesses. That pain brought gifts with it. Or, as her Italian grandmother would have put it—when God slams a door, he opens a window. Becoming friends with Becca and Georgia was that window.
“Marry me,” Becca breathed as Ari rubbed her shoulders.
“I would, but I’ve sworn off relationships. Today was a good reminder of why.”
Becca spun around, cutting off her massage. “Oh no, what happened? Did he pound on your door again?”
“No, but his stuff is still in my basement storage room, and . . .”
This conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Nate Kattenberger, the team’s owner. He walked in wearing his trademark hoodie and dark wash jeans. Ari had heard that the old guard of the hockey league hated the young billionaire’s personal dress code, and its governors occasionally made snide comments about his “athletic shoes” in the press.
Becca had let it slip that Kattenberger’s Tom Ford sneakers ran six hundred bucks, though. The man liked expensive clothes, but he did not like to conform to a bunch of league rules. And Ari loved him for it.
“Evening, ladies,” Nate said with a wave. He walked right over to the front of the box and looked down, surveying his dominion.
A young woman breezed in after him. Lauren was Nate’s Manhattan assistant, not to be confused with Becca, his Brooklyn assistant. The contrast between them was more than a little amusing. Lauren wore a designer suit in an expensive shade of pink, stockings, and high heels. Her hair was swept into a glamorous up-do that must have taken forty-five minutes to accomplish. And at seven-thirty PM, it still looked perfect.
Becca wore Doc Martens, purple tights and a leather dress. Her hair was purple and her eyebrow and nose were proudly pierced.
The biggest difference, though, was in facial expression. Becca raised a hand to give the other woman a friendly wave. “Hi, Lauren! Want to have a glass of wine with us?”
The only acknowledgment that Becca had spoken was a sidelong glance flicked in their direction. As if she hadn’t heard at all, Lauren went over to the drinks table herself and poured her boss a Diet Coke over three ice cubes. She perched a wedge of lime on the rim, snapped a cocktail napkin into her hand and scurried over to him to present it as if to royalty.
“I’m always nice,” Becca whispered under her breath. “But I’m really not sure why.”
“Because it feels better to be nice,” Ari whispered. “And you’re a beautiful person.”
Becca shot her a grateful glance. “She makes ugly look pretty good.”
It was true. Queen Lauren (as they sometimes referred to her) was beautiful. But Ari wasn’t even a little jealous of that silky pale hair or those blue eyes. Lauren exuded stress and unhappiness. A decade of yoga might not even make a dent in Queen Lauren’s steel facade.
“Rebecca,” Nate called. “Do you happen to have tonight’s ticket sales?”
“But of course!” she chirped. “Do you really think I’d stand here and slurp wine if I hadn’t brought them with me?” She balanced her glass in one hand and dug through her briefcase with the other. “It’s here somewhere. Ah.” When she finally tugged a file out of her bag, Nate took the folder with a smile. “Anything shocking in here? Should I hit the whiskey early?”
“It’s always cocktail hour somewhere, boss. But the numbers looked good to me.”
Nate flipped the cover open and scanned the summary page while Lauren glared over his shoulder at Becca. “These are good numbers. And I like the time series graph.”
“Thanks! I got sick of flipping backward to see the prior weeks’ numbers.”
When he was through, Nate handed the folder to Lauren for safekeeping. Lauren stashed it in a leather satchel while simultaneously attempting to incinerate Becca with her eyes.
“Thank you,” Nate said in Lauren’s general direction. “That’s all for today, I suppose.”
Lauren said good night to her boss and buttoned up her impeccable jacket.
“Aren’t you staying for the game?” Becca asked.
“I hate hockey,” Lauren said. Then she walked out, her heels clicking importantly across the walnut floorboards.
Ari exchanged a loaded glance with Becca. Her friend’s eyebrows lifted as if to ask, Can you believe Nate’s assistant would say that right before a game? Maybe the girl didn’t understand how superstitious men could be about their sports.
The door opened again, admitting Georgia Worthington and the brand
-new publicist, Tom. “How’d the press take it?” Nathan asked by way of a greeting.
“Lots of questions,” Georgia said. “There’s going to be speculation.”
“Take what?” Becca asked, voicing the same question that was on Ari’s mind.
“O’Doul was scratched at the last minute,” Tom said. “The trainers want him rested. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it.”
Oh boy, Ari thought, staring down at the ice. The players were lining up for the national anthem now. She couldn’t even remember a night when O’Doul had been scratched before. The only time she’d known him to sit out games was that brief span when he was on the injured list while his wrist was healing.
She didn’t know him all that well. But she knew enough to say he was not going to like it.
Sarina Bowen is a USA Today bestselling author of contemporary romance, including the Ivy Years series and the Gravity series. She lives in Vermont’s Green Mountains with her family, six chickens, and too much ski gear and hockey equipment. Visit her online at sarinabowen.com/brooklynbruisers.
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