But if he could make it successful? Well now, wouldn't that be something? And that's what excited him—the challenge. That was why he'd agreed to this job, in spite of the lower salary and its dismal chance of success.
Because sometimes the challenge was everything.
Charles grabbed the last few remaining sheets and placed them in a tidy pile before putting them back in the worn leather bag he always carried. His gaze wandered around the table, knowing the faces looking back at him were still waiting for an answer.
Knowing they were all looking to him for a miracle.
He hoisted the bag over his shoulder then reached up to straighten the silk tie before turning back to Murphy. "No, I don't have any of the women in mind. I'd like to see them on the ice first. Get a feel for their presence and personality."
"I'd think that reading their bios would have helped with that."
"I didn't read their bios."
Stark silence greeted his announcement, just as he knew it would. Murphy glanced around the table then pinned Charles with his steely gaze, his eyebrows lowering even more. "You haven't read their bios?"
"No. I don't want to be swayed by words on paper. There's too much riding on this."
"I'm sorry, Chuck, but I'm a little confused. And I know I'm not alone. We made sure you had those bios two weeks ago so you could come up with a comprehensive plan. We've already lost valuable time. Do you mean to tell me you don't have any idea of which of the girls you even want to use for this marketing plan of yours?"
"You lost valuable time by bringing in someone who had no idea what they were doing. And while I might be late to the party, I can assure you—I know what I'm doing." Charles shifted the strap against his shoulder then leaned forward, meeting Murphy's stare with an intent one of his own.
"These women can have the most spectacular bio in the world. They could have a list of world cups and trophies and medals and awards by their name. None of it means anything if they don't have that spark and enthusiasm that's going to draw in the crowds you want and need. I don't want the words, James. I want the excitement. The enthusiasm. The spark."
Had he pushed too far? Charles held his breath, waiting for Murphy's reaction. The man wasn't a fool, even if his investment in a women's hockey team was questionable at best. Would he bluster at being questioned? Or would he let Charles do the job he had hired him to do?
Murphy pulled his gaze away and sat back in the leather chair, a thoughtful frown on his face. A tense minute stretched into two, then three and four, before the older man finally nodded. "Fair enough. We brought you in to do the job because you're damn good at it. We'll let you do things your way."
Charles didn't miss the silent for now tacked at the end of the sentence. Fair enough, just like Murphy had said. They both had jobs to do, jobs with the same end goal: winning.
"It's my understanding that the team is still downstairs practicing?"
Murphy glanced at his watch then nodded. "For another half hour, yes."
"I'd like to watch, if you don't mind."
"I'm sure that won't be a problem." Murphy pushed out of the chair, signaling an end to the meeting. He clapped his hand around Charles' shoulder then motioned toward the door. "Let's go introduce you to the girls, Chuck."
"James, do yourself a favor—stop calling them girls."
"But that's what they are. Every single one of them is young enough to be my granddaughter."
"That may be, but you need to stop. They're women. And it's a women's hockey team and a women's hockey league. I'm going to have a hard enough time getting the market to take them seriously—I don't need you making my job harder."
Charles thought maybe he had gone too far this time because Murphy straightened his lean form and leveled another stare at him. In the end, he said nothing, just clamped his mouth into a thin line and nodded before leading Charles out into the carpeted hallway.
The superficial opulence of the conference room and office came to an abrupt halt as soon as they entered the hallway leading back to the rink. The front office had been designed to impress. To scream success and assure visitors—what few there were—that the team was much more than a passing fancy. But it was nothing more than an image, one that disappeared as soon as you pushed through the second set of doors leading to the ice.
The smell of sweat and stagnant water hit him as soon as they pushed through doors. The air was damp and cold, from both the inside temperature and the large sheet of ice encased by the faded boards and scratched sheets of plexiglass. Charles halted, his eyes adjusting to the dim light as childhood memories assaulted him.
He'd played hockey for three years, mostly because his mother had been convinced he needed to play sports. Football, basketball. Soccer. Baseball. He'd done them all. But none of them had been his thing, not when he had been more interested in analyzing and studying. In trying to figure out ways to create something better out of something that was already there. In dreaming of ways to make things bigger and better. It was something his mother had never understood, not until his first job out of college.
Maybe not even then.
But out of all the sports he'd been forced to play, hockey held the most memories. The scratch of blades against ice. The burn of muscles rarely used. The rush of wind as he raced for a puck that he was never quite fast enough to get. The smell—God, just the smell was enough to send him hurtling back in time.
He brushed off the memories and followed Murphy along the boards, the leather bag slapping against his hip with each step. Shouts and grunts echoed in the chilled air around them. Two players crashed against the boards with a hollow thud, each fighting for the puck. Charles paused, watching them. The masks of their helmets hid most of their faces, but they couldn't hide the intensity, the desire, that burned through them.
It was the same intensity and desire he'd seen on the face of every professional player in every professional game he'd ever watched, no matter what the sport. That had to be a good sign, right?
"Fuck."
One of the girls—no, women, he was just as bad as Murphy—muttered the curse as the puck shot free. Both women tore off after it, sweaty ponytails swinging against their backs. Charles bit back a grin then wondered if he'd have to give a lecture on appropriate language before the season started. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that. And if it did…well, then he'd let the coach handle it.
Murphy paused at the end of the bleachers. "Did you want Coach Reynolds to call them over?"
"No, not yet. I just want to watch. Make a few notes." Charles headed to the top of the bleachers then took a seat and grabbed a pen and small notebook from his bag. No decisions would be made today—it was too early. But he wanted this time just to watch. To study. To see if any of the women stood out. To see if any of them had that certain spark, that little bit of magic that would pop and make them stand out.
That little extra something that he could build on and use to promote the team.
He knew exactly what he was looking for: charisma. Charm. And yes, even a little bit of sex appeal. It was sexist—he'd be the first to admit it. But physical looks would go a long way in helping to market the team, at least to start. Attractive and athletic, attributes that would entice the market's demographic. Something to hook their initial interest then keep the crowd coming back.
He hoped. A lot of it would depend on the team itself, as a whole, and whether or not they were any good.
He had a few backup plans, just in case. But he could worry about that later. Right now, he needed to get the crowd in the door. This would have been so much easier if he had been called in right from the beginning, instead of joining the front office two months before the season started.
That just made it more of a challenge, and a challenge is what he hungered for. As long as he kept reminding himself of that, he'd be fine.
Maybe.
A shrill whistle split the chilled air, startling him from the hasty notes he was scribbling. The women ska
ted toward the door, removing helmets and juggling sticks as they headed toward the coach. He noticed the sweaty faces, red from exertion, tired but still excited from what they were doing. Would the excitement last, once the season started? God, he hoped so. It would make his job that much easier.
He jotted down a few final notes then flipped to another page and jotted down five different numbers. He tore the sheet from the notebook then made his way down the bleachers over to where Murphy was standing.
The older man glanced down at the small sheet of paper then back at Charles. "What's this?"
"A start. I'd like to see these players once the coach is finished with them."
"We can take care of that now." Murphy grabbed him by the elbow and led him over to the crowd of players huddled around Coach Reynolds. Charles winced when the older man interrupted the coach, saying something to her in a low tone as he pushed the sheet of paper into her hand. The coach frowned, looked down at the paper, then nodded.
"Wiley, Riegler, Woodhouse, Baldwin, and LeBlanc. Mr. Murphy would like to see you. Everyone else, hit the showers."
Five women looked over with varying expressions of curiosity, their voices low and muted as they made their way over to where he and Murphy were standing. Charles casually studied them, his gaze moving from one to the other to the other, analyzing his initial gut reactions to each.
A tall blonde with dimples.
A petite woman with a short mop of black curls and smiling brown eyes.
Another blonde, her platinum-streaked hair pulled back into a ponytail that didn't quite contain the thick waves.
A red-head, with a full pouty mouth and sculpted brows arched over clear green eyes.
But it was the fifth player that drew his attention. Number 67. Long hair, a mix of light brown and honey blonde, hung down her back, with darker strands clinging to her flushed and damp face. Wide eyes the color of whiskey. A crooked smile that made her look like she knew a secret that you'd pay anything to learn—or that she was up to no good. There was something about her—
"Girls, this is our new PR Director, Chuck Dawson. I want you to pay attention to what he says and help him out." Murphy stepped back then waved his hand, turning things over to him.
Charles stepped forward, his gaze darting back to Number 67. Why was she studying him that way? With her head tilted to the side and those clear amber eyes so intently focused on him? He forced himself to look away, told himself it was nothing more than curiosity, and pasted a smile to his face.
"Actually, you can call me Charles, not Chuck—"
Number 67 laughed, the sound clear and musical, then stepped forward. For a split-second, Charles thought she was ready to wrap him in a big hug—one he instinctively knew he wouldn't step away from.
And then she spoke and all thoughts of hugs—and every other inappropriate thought that had been swimming around in his muddled brain—vanished.
"OhmyGod, it really is you. Chuckie-the-fart!"
Chapter Two
Chuckie-the-fart.
Had she really just called him that?
Taylor glanced around, her face heating as she noticed her teammates' eyes on her. Yeah, she really had called him that. Good Lord, would she ever learn to keep her mouth shut?
It wasn't just her teammates that were watching her, with various expressions of surprise and impatience. Chuckie—or rather, Charles—was watching her, too, with startling blue eyes fringed in dark lashes that she didn't remember him having all those years ago. Hell, there were a lot of things she didn't remember him having: his height, which put him at least a good head taller than she was, even in her skates; broad shoulders and a wide chest that filled out his expensive suit. Thick, dark hair that was just a bit too long and made her fingers itch to brush it from where it grazed the top of the crisp collar of his shirt. A lean, sculpted face and square jaw—which happened to be clenched in impatience right now. His gaze pierced her, annoyance flashing in those deep blue eyes. She started to look away then noticed the way the tips of his ears were turning bright red from embarrassment.
Now that she remembered.
"You haven't changed a bit, Chuckie."
The red from his ears traveled across his face, highlighting his sharp cheekbones. A muscle jumped in his jaw and his gaze narrowed even more, making him look like a predator. And God, would she ever learn to keep her mouth shut? Because he had changed and didn't look at all like the chubby, awkward boy she remembered. He had to know it. How could he not, when he was standing there in front of her looking like every woman's fantasy come to life?
"Tay-Tay. Why am I not surprised to see you here? I guess all your family connections finally paid off, huh?"
Zing.
It was no less than she deserved for egging him on, but the words still hurt—almost as much as the snickers coming from Rachel Woodhouse. Her hand tightened around the stick and she had to fight the urge to run up and cross-check him with it.
Just once.
Hard.
Just like old times.
She glanced over at Mr. Murphy and saw the way he studied her—and not in a good way. The last thing she needed was more trouble, especially not the kind she brought on herself. Yes, the ink on the contract—such as it was—was dry. That didn't mean things were set in stone. Not even close. There were still rumblings that the league might not make it past the first three games. Whether it did or didn't remained to be seen—that didn't mean Taylor wanted to cut her chances short by doing something stupid. She relaxed her grip on the stick and flashed a bright smile at Chuckie.
"So. Chuckie. You were saying?"
Those ocean-blue eyes narrowed on her once more, fixing her with a laser focus that sent a shiver dancing across her skin. Not from cold, though. No, that look was anything but cold. She tore her gaze from his and stared at the toes of her skates, wondering if her face was as red as it felt. It must have been, because Sammie nudged her in the side and muttered under her breath.
"Deets later, LeBlanc."
Taylor nudged her back and shook her head. "No deets to tell."
"Was there something you wanted to ask, Tay-Tay?"
Choked laughter quickly disguised by a cough echoed behind her. Taylor didn't have to look to know the sound came from Rachel. She tightened her grip on the stick and swallowed the urge to elbow the girl in the stomach then forced another bright smile as she met Chuckie's gaze.
"Nope. Just wondering if you were ever going to get around to telling us what you wanted, that's all."
The tip of Chuckie's ears turned red again as the muscle in his cheek jumped. That probably wasn't a good sign and she wondered if maybe she had pushed one too many times. She had to give him credit, though, because he simply blew out a quick breath and scanned each face for a quiet minute before speaking.
"As James said, I'm the new Director of PR and Marketing. It's my job to promote the team and build excitement for this new venture. To sell tickets and get people in the door. I'm going to need your help to do that."
Murmurs buzzed in Taylor's ears, a low drone that set her nerves on edge. She glanced around, saw confusion and curiosity on her teammates' faces, and quickly looked down as she tried to ignore the sinking feeling settling in her gut. She had a feeling she knew what was coming and she didn't want any parts of it.
Shannon Wiley, their primary goalie, pushed to the front. She anchored the helmet against her hip and shook the long strands of blonde hair from her face. Her voice was low and sultry, totally at odds with the razor-sharp bite of her personality that flashed in her deep brown eyes. "You need our help, how?"
Chuckie blinked once, a rapid lowering and raising of eyelids framed with thick, dark lashes. Taylor didn't miss the surprise that flashed in his eyes, there and gone before anyone else noticed.
But she did—because she knew Chuckie.
Okay, not really. Not anymore. Maybe not even when they were kids. The man standing in front of them bore little resemblance to the awkward
pudgy boy who delighted in tormenting her all those years ago. But she still saw the surprise—probably because she had been looking for it. Taylor doubted that Chuckie was used to being questioned, especially not by a tall, dimpled blonde who looked like sex-on-a-stick but had the quick bite of a striking cobra.
"Part of my marketing plan includes featuring several individual players. All of you, to start with. I want to bring a more personal aspect to the game. To showcase not only the talent but the players behind the talent."
Shannon glanced around then leveled her dark gaze on Chuckie. "So, you want to sex us up? Is that it?"
Chuckie's surprise was clear this time, from the flush of red spreading across his face to the opening and closing of his full mouth. He looked like he wanted to say something but had no idea where to start. It didn't matter because he wouldn't have been able to get a word in, not with the sudden eruption of raised voices shouting questions. Mr. Murphy stepped beside Chuckie and raised his hand.
"Girls, enough. Nobody is sexing anyone up." He turned and fixed Chuckie with a questioning glance. "Isn't that right, Charles?"
"No. I mean, right." Ocean-blue eyes darted to hers and quickly looked away. "No sexing involved."
Heat unfurled low in her belly, the unexpected ribbons of warmth radiating out and prickling her skin. Taylor clenched her jaw and tried to ignore it. No way. Uh-uh. It was her imagination. It had to be. She was not going there. No way, no how.
She was still telling herself that when Sammie stepped forward and raised her hand. The voices around them faded and stilled as Mr. Murphy looked at her and smiled. "Yes, Sammie?"
"Mr. Murphy, what exactly does this mean? Because it's not like we have extra time for something like this." Sammie paused and looked around, then turned back to the men. "All of us have other jobs. Some of us have kids. We can't—"
"Charles will be certain to keep your schedules in mind. Isn't that right, Charles?"
Winning Hard: A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance (The Chesapeake Blades Book 1) Page 2
