by Brit DeMille
“The All-Star games are a goal of mine,” I say. “If I don’t make it to playoffs, I don’t make it to All-Stars.”
“Strange prioritization, but whatever motivates you,” Max says. He brushes a hand through his silver hair. “Let me think about it, talk with Bellikowski about it.”
We shoot the shit for a few more minutes before Max grumbles that he needs to get moving or he’ll miss his tee time. We all walk out together. While Scott and Max head out to the parking garage, I stick around, saying I want to pop in on Fiona to talk about a media package she’s been planning.
They must know that’s bullshit. I never go into the administrative offices. Like, ever. But I really want to see if Holly is in. I just really feel the need to see her, which makes me the equivalent of a desperate teenager, but whatever.
I wander in, noting the wide eyes of some of the staff. Fiona comes out of her office, stiff backed like she’s got a stick up her ass. Seriously, woman’s kind of uptight. Anyway, she fusses over me with shit like, “Oh, Mr. Kazmeirowicz, what are you doing up here? How can we help you? It’s such an honor to have one of our players visit the administrative suite.”
“I was actually looking for—”
Bud Bellikowski, the GM, comes out, from under a rock somewhere I suspect, his tie askew, his thinning hair wind-blown. “I thought I heard one of our big stars was in the house,” he says, his hands up like he’s trying to raise the roof.
I’m sure my placating smile probably just looks uncomfortable. “I just popped in from another meeting with Max,” I say. “Thought I might have a conversation with the new social media guru.”
“Why?” Fiona asks quickly. “Has she upset you somehow? The Kazochev thing?”
I shake my head, chuckling. “No, no, I’m not upset. It’s funny and getting a lot of traffic. Now, I just wanted to check in with an idea, and an offer. Is her workspace around here?”
Fiona looks like she just tasted something sour. She looks toward a cubicle which is, unfortunately, empty of the woman I’m itching to see. “Looks like she’s stepped out,” she says. “Can I give her a message for you?”
“No ma’am,” I say. “I’ll just leave her a note to give me a call.”
“Hhhmpf,” is Fiona’s answer. She opens her mouth then shuts it again, folding her arms across her chest.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“I’m sure you’re aware,” she says, tight-lipped, “we have a strict policy here about fraternization.”
I lift my eyes to meet hers, a challenge there. “Well, I’m under a pretty nicely-worded contract for the next couple of years which doesn’t say a thing about it.”
“She’s not, however,” Fiona says. “I mean, I suppose the two of you can do whatever hobnobbing you want, but I doubt you want the young lady to lose her job, since you like her work so much.”
The words she says, they make sense. No, I don’t want Holly to lose her job. She does seem to be pretty good at it. Great, actually. But the venom, the threat embedded there…I don’t like being threatened.
I narrow my eyes at her. “I’ll leave a note for her. I expect it to remain private. I can assure you there will be no…fraternization.”
“Good, fine,” she says, waving a hand at me like she’s bored with the conversation. “I appreciate your interest in our little media operation.”
She wanders back toward her office. Bud is still standing around, looking totally lost.
“You okay, there, Bud?” I ask.
“That woman scares the shit out of me,” he says.
“You and me both, buddy. Hey, you think it would be okay for me to teach young Holly how to skate? I think it’s a damn shame that our social media genius has never been on a pair of blades. Not fraternizing or whatever, just part of her training. Her uncle Troy’s one of our top scouts; I’m shocked he never took her to a game and I think it would really help her understanding of the game to get out on the ice.”
“Oh, yeah,” I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Great, buddy, thanks,” I say, smacking him on the back.
“Yeah, yeah, okay, Evan,” he mumbles. Then he shakes his head and bumbles back toward whatever hallway or tunnel he came from.
I find a notepad and a pen and jot down a message.
Holly,
Nice to meet you post-game the other night. Love what you’re doing with the team’s social this season. Real creative stuff, but I think it could only be enhanced if you actually knew how to ice skate. I’d like to personally oversee your training in this area. Join me for a skate at the Cosmo? Number is 777-857-7933. Text or call and we’ll set up a lesson.
Best,
Evan
I head out of the office, whistling as I walk, head held high like the cockstrong young buck I am. My cell rings as I get into my car.
“Yo, Georgie.”
“I saw your clip with Kacey King. The woman is still hot for you, my man. Did you tap that again?”
“Nah,” I say. “Not interested.”
“What? Are you nuts? She’s blazing hot.”
“Yeah, she’s all right. Not as great in the sack as you might think. Not worth a second go.”
“More than once means feelings,” Georg says, trying to imitate my accent.
“For her,” I say. “Not for me.”
He laughs. “Were you in the gym?”
“Earlier, yes,” I say. “Then in a meeting with my agent.”
I decide not to mention I went looking for Holly. Somehow, for some reason, I don’t want Georg thinking about Holly like she’s just some chick I want to bang. I’m not sure what she is to me yet, and I guess I’d rather have the idea of her to myself for the moment.
We have the day off since yesterday was a game day, but we’ll have to be back on ice again tomorrow, plus we have some PSA’s to shoot for the charitable foundation the team runs. It will be a busy day, a day that will keep me away from my phone for most of it.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had to wait around for a girl to call me. Normally, I see what I want, I make it known I want it, and it appears. But Holly Laurent? No, I’m pretty sure that’s not how this young woman operates.
I knew it when I saw her the first day in the arena. I felt something crackle between us and call me cheesy, but it was like it was chemistry or something. And now I’m sitting here with my dick in my hand, waiting for her to call as if I’m some teenage kid who asked a girl to prom.
As I drive, the song Limelight by Rush comes on the radio. I am a real hockey guy like that, loving the old rock songs. So I turn it up and let it wash over me, not even a little bit sure what the heck Holly Laurent is already doing to me.
Seven
Holly
Everyone is looking at me funny as I walk back into the office suite. What, do I have mustard on my shirt or something? I mean, I grabbed a hot dog from a food truck outside while I was walking and talking to Pam…
I run into the ladies’ room and check—nope, no mustard. Nothing in the teeth. Overall, I look pretty okay, so what’s with the strange side-eye action?
Whatever. I wander back to my cubicle and call Troy. He’s about to head out on the road to scout minor league players and I want to catch him before he gets too busy.
“Hey Holly dolly, how’s my favorite niece?”
“Heya,” I say. “Your only niece just wanted to check in before you head out on the road.”
“Yep,” he says. “You good? Everything going okay?”
“All is well. Thanks again for helping me connect here. I wasn’t sure if I’d enjoy it, but I really do. It’s been a blast so far.”
“Well, you’re really killing it, from what I can tell,” he says. “I’m loving the creativity on the social sites.”
“Thanks. I’m not sure my boss is into it, but she hasn’t stopped me so far.”
“Best to ask forgiveness rather than permission,” Troy says with a lit
tle chuckle. “She’s been around a while, probably doesn’t even know a thing about social media. You heard from your daddy lately?”
“Not in the past week or two. He said he was tied up in business.”
“Standard bullshit out of him, then,” Troy says, his voice full of contempt. “I love my brother, but he needs to get his head out of his ass.”
“Well, thankfully for me, I have you.”
“I’m no substitute for the real thing,” he says, “but I’m always here. I’ll call you from the road when I can.”
“Okay. Have a good trip, Uncle Troy. Love ya.”
We hang up and I sit for a minute, willing myself to not cry. I’m not usually emotional about my parents. They’ve been divorced since I was in middle school. My dad always traveled a lot for his big oil job, and when they split up, he moved to the Middle East. He rarely comes to the States anymore, and I hear from him on birthdays and Christmas, with a few sparing phone calls in between.
My mom remarried when I was a sophomore in high school. She spent my last three years at home traveling back and forth between Europe and Los Angeles, because her husband owns a multi-national company based in France. Once I went to college, they set up a trust fund, sold the house, and moved overseas full time.
So while I’m not technically an orphan, I feel like one sometimes. And Uncle Troy has been kind of a surrogate parent for me, always there when I have needed someone. Moving to Las Vegas has been good for me, but everything still feels really new. It doesn’t feel like home yet. I’m trying not to be emotional about it, but for whatever reason, I’m really homesick for LA today.
Of course, I’m not one to wallow so I flip open my laptop, surprised to find a piece of paper there.
Oh my God, it’s a note. A hand-written note. From Evan Kazmeirowicz.
I read it three times, feeling my face heat. And other parts, too, for that matter. My nipples literally strain against my bra as I think if him, standing here at my cubicle, slipping this note into my computer. Oh. My. God.
I pop up to my feet and look across the station to one of my coworkers, Carly, who handles media passes. She looks up from her screen.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks. “Your cheeks are all pink. You sick?”
“No,” I whisper. “Did—was—did someone come looking for me earlier?”
“You mean someone hot and green-eyed and dark-haired?” she asks, smirking.
“Yes!” I hiss.
“Yes, a person matching that description came looking for you.”
“Why?” I practically screech.
“He said he had an idea to run past you. Fiona about blew a gasket. Started going on about the fraternization clause in our contracts.”
“Oh shit,” I say, cringing. “I wonder if he’s pissed about the Kazochev thing?”
“Didn’t seem like it,” she says with a shrug. “He said he thought it was funny.”
“No wonder everyone looked at me like I had seven heads,” I say. “Holy cow. Okay. Thanks.”
She nods and goes back to her work and I sit down, trying to catch my breath. Evan was here. Looking for me. He wants to take me ice skating.
Is ‘ice skating’ code for naked bed dancing? Because I think I’d be down for that, if that’s what it meant.
No. No. I’m not a slut and it’s a slutty, slutty thought. I won’t be one of Evan’s many bed partners. I won’t just spread my legs for his wicked, wicked tongue and his surely very talented fingers and his big, long—
Nope. Stop it. Control yourself, Holly Laurent. You are a professional. He is a professional. You can surely enjoy his company and learn to ice skate without it ending in hot, multi-orgasmic sex. Right? Right.
I bumble through the rest of my day, totally unable to focus thanks to the note that’s burning a hole in my pocket. Do I call him? Just go skating, leave it friendly and professional? No, no, I can’t. Fiona would fire me in a heartbeat for fraternizing with a player like that. And I like my job. My job is worth more than a one-night stand…even if the one-night stand is with someone as achingly beautiful as Evan.
Bud Bellikowski, our GM, comes over around four-thirty. “Hey, you ready to grab a bite? Talk shop?”
Oh, crap. I forgot we set up time to go grab an early dinner and talk about my performance so far.
“Sure,” I say. “Let me just save this file and we can go.”
I finish up and shut down my computer, grabbing my purse and following Bud as he shuffles toward the doors. Fiona pops her head out of her office as we pass, giving me a questioning look. I make a face that I hope looks like–Hey, I have no idea; I’m just going with the flow.
We head down and out of the arena to a restaurant about a block away. It’s just a little pub-type of place, fairly quiet and not flashy—rare for Las Vegas. Bud orders a Michelob Lite—yuck—and I get seltzer water with lime. No way am I drinking in front of the GM.
“So…” Bud starts. He trails off and a placid smile remains on his face.
He’s forgotten my name. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Nothing like setting up a meeting with an employee whose name you can’t remember.
“Holly,” I say.
“Right, sorry,” he says, his face turning red. “It’s been a long day.”
I nod. “Sure has.”
“You missed Evan today,” he says. “He came to talk with you about some ideas he had for social media.”
“I heard.”
“He also thinks anyone working for the team should know how to skate. He’d like to help you learn,” Bud says. “We have a rule about fraternization among staff, but I’ve given him the okay, since he feels it would be valuable for you to have a feel for the ice, you know, in order to better represent the game.”
I nearly snort at this but manage to keep what I think is a mostly-straight face. “Yes, sir,” I say, trying not to laugh. “I’m sure Evan Kazmeirowicz feels very invested in making sure Crush employees have a good feel for the game.”
Thankfully, he misses the sarcasm in my statement and just nods. “Well, then, it’s settled. Let me know how your training goes.”
“Sure will,” I say. Though I’m certainly now back to thinking about being alone with Evan and wondering just how much detail I would need to share about our, ahem, training. No way am I accepting that invitation. No freaking way.
“So I also told Fiona I want you to get more video on those…” he stops, searching for the words again.
“Channels?” I ask. “Social media channels?”
“Yes!” he says, taking a swig of his beer. “Get together with them over there in video and see if we can get more live stuff into your work. Not just static photos.”
“Sure, I can get with the video department to embed some video. I can also make live videos and interviews from my cell phone, especially on the road.”
“Great, sounds good, Hillary,” Bud says.
“It’s Holly,” I say.
“Sorry, yes,” he says, shaking his head. He takes another swig of beer. “Long day.”
We chat for a few minutes about the travel schedule.
“Am I supposed to go on the road for all of the away games, sir?” I ask. “I know I’ll do the California tour, but do I always travel with the team?”
“Yes, yes,” Bud says. “Fiona’s team always travels with the boys on their road games. It’s an exhausting schedule, I know, but she likes for us to be present for the media as much as possible.”
Bud finishes his beer and looks at his watch. “Well, I’d better get on home to the missus,” he says. “Good chat, Hallie. I’ll see you in the morning. Good job you’re doing. Real good. More video.”
He scoots out of the booth and toddles off, leaving me to pay the bill.
“Thank God he likes cheap beer,” I say, looking at the bill and tossing my credit card down.
While I wait for the waitress to bring back my card, I pull out the note from Evan and read it again. I type him a quick
text. Evan replies almost instantly.
Holly: Thanks for the note and offer, but I can’t accept.
Evan: Why not? You’ve never been skating. I think you should try it out.
Holly: I will, but I can’t fraternize with a player.
Evan: Oh that. Bellikowski cleared it.
Holly: I know. Still. Fiona’s a stickler.
Evan: She doesn’t own me.
Holly: But she does, kind of, own me. She’s my boss.
Evan: Well, I promise I’ll keep it totally professional. Scout’s honor.
Holly: Sorry, Evan. Sounds fun but I just started my job here and I really like it. I can’t risk it.
He doesn’t reply after that and I’m sure I’ve made him upset. He’s probably not used to women turning him down. And to be honest, I didn’t want to turn him down. I just can’t start something with him. It’s bound to go nowhere and if we slept together, I’m sure it would be awkward after.
I think about it for a long time. Did I make the right decision? I’m sure I did. But do I wish I hadn’t?
Yep. Pretty much.
Eight
Evan
Scott and I are grabbing lunch in the pub by the arena. I’m in workout clothes because I came in for a clear-the-head gym workout first, and I have practice right after.
He’s, of course, in an impeccable suit. His short, brown hair has just a few strands of grey at the temples. He’s probably forty-ish, a total bull when it comes to representing his players.
“So Bellikowski cleared a path for incentives,” Scott’s saying. “Which, you knew he would because he’s easy like that.”
“He is,” I say, distracted.
“I think we can set up lines of income based on scoring, assists, All-Star participation, vote to Team Captain,” he says as he shoves French fries in his mouth.
