"Absolutely." Chuckie nodded but he didn't look quite so certain. In fact, Taylor thought he looked a little surprised and maybe even taken aback.
Did he actually think they were earning a living playing for the Blades? No, he couldn't be that misinformed.
Could he?
Chuckie stepped forward and offered the small group a charming smile. "Flexibility isn't an issue. I'll do everything I can to make this as easy and seamless as possible. For all of us."
More rumblings and murmurs greeted his words. Sure, they sounded reassuring, but Taylor sensed an edge to them, like he wasn't quite certain. Or maybe he was just now starting to realize that the group of women standing in front of him wasn't going to be quite so easily managed as he probably thought.
He opened his mouth again then quickly shut it as a small group of kids entered the rink, laughing and talking as they headed toward the benches. Chuckie's brows lowered in a frown, like he was trying to figure out where the kids had come from and why they were here. Mr. Murphy leaned over and said something to him in a low voice. Surprise flashed across his face as he turned to look at the noisy group.
He must have just learned that this rink—the Banners' old practice rink—didn't belong exclusively to the Blades. Yes, the team owned it. Or rather, Mr. Murphy owned it. But they rented out ice time to local youth hockey teams so they didn't have open access to it. The Blades had to schedule their ice time just like everyone else, for their practices and games. Taylor bit back a smile. Poor Chuckie had his work cut out for him.
Mr. Murphy turned back and gave them all a wide smile. "Okay girls, we've taken enough of your time today. Thank you. Charles will be in touch with each of you. For now, go enjoy the rest of this gorgeous weather we're having."
And just like that, they were dismissed. Taylor barely refrained from rolling her eyes and headed toward the locker room, Sammie right beside her. She thought about lengthening her stride and hurrying away but knowing Sammie, she'd just trip her with her stick then sit on her until she got what she wanted.
"Okay LeBlanc, fess up. How do you know the hottie?"
"I don't. Not really."
"I call bullshit."
"Really, I don't. I haven't seen him in…" Taylor paused, frowning as she mentally counted the years. "Wow. It's been about twelve years, I guess. We were on the same team as kids."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. He was a pain in my ass."
"I could put up with a pain in the ass if he looked like that."
"Trust me, he didn't. He was—"
"LeBlanc! A word?"
Taylor cringed and looked over her shoulder, surprised to see Chuckie a few feet behind them, those ocean-blue eyes fixed on her with laser precision. She couldn't read the expression in them but that didn't stop the heat from settling low in her belly.
Sammie laughed, nudged her in the side, then hurried toward the locker room. Taylor ignored her and stood there, watching as Chuckie approached her with the stealth of a predator. Warning bells rang in her head but she didn't move.
"What's up, Chuckie?"
Frustration flashed in his eyes, quickly replaced by something she couldn't quite read. The warning bells rang even louder as he came to a stop in front of her, so close she could smell the faint hint of his spicy cologne.
"Do you think you could manage to stop calling me by that ridiculous name?"
Taylor planted the butt of her stick against the rubber floor and rested her arm along the blade. She gave him a wide smile and shrugged. "I can try. No guarantees. Was that all you wanted?"
His jaw clenched for a brief second, sending the muscle in his cheek jumping once more. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then shook his head and smiled.
Taylor nearly stumbled back from the force of that smile, all warm and sexy and too damn gorgeous for his own good. No man should have a smile like that. It was dangerous. It should be illegal.
The smile grew wider as he leaned closer, those startling eyes focused solely on her.
"No, that wasn't it." He tilted his head, his full mouth coming dangerously close to hers as his voice lowered, wrapping around her with a seductive heat that sent tingles of awareness dancing across her flesh.
Taylor wanted to step back, to put distance between them—between herself and that dangerously low, sexy voice. But she couldn't move, not when those deep blue eyes held her in place.
Not even when he spoke again, his words sending tiny thrills shooting through her.
"I have a proposition for you."
Chapter Three
"No." Taylor clenched her jaw, shook her head, and repeated the word, a little louder this time. "No."
It didn't matter how loud she said it because nobody was paying attention in middle of the chaos that surrounded her.
Her twin nieces—Madelina and Suzanne—were arguing about something. Uncle JP was doing his best to separate them while Aunt Emily chased Tristan, Taylor's rambunctious four-year-old nephew, around the living room with his pants. Tristan had decided a few days ago that he no longer wanted to wear clothes, and keeping him dressed had apparently become a battle ever since then.
Taylor blew the hair from her eyes with a long-suffering sigh and glanced at her own twin sisters, Mia and Cassie. They weren't running around or arguing, but they were having a rather loud discussion on the merits of the latest addition to the Banners' training roster. Dad stood in the doorway that separated the huge living room from the dining room, interjecting his own opinions in his booming voice.
Yes, chaos definitely reigned in the house—just another typical Sunday family dinner. Taylor looked around with wide-eyed dismay then glanced at Sonny. "Please tell me I was never like this when I was growing up."
Sonny laughed, the loud sound filled with warm amusement. "You had your moments, Pumpkin. But most of them were on the ice."
Taylor made a low noise—a cross between a grunt and a sigh—then shook her head. She was pretty sure Sonny was exaggerating. Maybe. Then again, maybe not. She'd been an only child for the first eleven years of her life, so maybe she had contained her energy to the ice.
A rapid spattering of French erupted from the corner of the room, followed by a loud squeal as Uncle JP caught Tristan and swung him over his shoulder. He grabbed the pants Aunt Emily held out to him then walked toward the sofa and dropped down next to Taylor.
"Your father is right, ma lutine. You didn't have to deal with all this, eh? But on the ice was a little different."
"I think you're all exaggerating."
Her mom popped her head around the corner, taking in the chaos with one quick glance, then rolled her eyes before settling her gaze on Taylor. "They're not exaggerating. Dinner's ready."
The twins—both sets—bounded out of the living room, squeezing past Sonny in their hurry to get to the dining room. Emily took a squirming—and now dressed—Tristan from JP and followed the girls. Something that came close to resembling silence settled around the room. Taylor took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tried to enjoy the momentary respite.
"So tell me why you don't think it's a good idea, Pumpkin."
"Because I don't."
"It makes sense, ma lutine. I would try the same if I was in his position."
"But it doesn't make sense. He's supposed to market the Blades, not the Banners. And going behind my back to contact both of you was just sneaky. Although I don't know why I'm surprised. I shouldn't have expected anything different from stupid Chuckie-the-fart."
Sonny and JP shared a quick look, one filled with a ton of silent communication she couldn't decipher. Sonny sighed and sat down on her other side, effectively pinning her between the two men. She could sense a battle brewing and folded her arms in front of her, ready to dig in her heels.
"Who is Chuckie-the-fart?"
"The guy who called you. The team's new PR Director. Charles Dawson."
"And you call him Chuckie-the-fart?" Sonny's confusion was clear, both in h
is voice and in his frown. Taylor blew out another heavy sigh.
"Yeah. Don't you remember him? He used to be on my team when we were kids."
"No, afraid I don't."
"Sure you do. He was a few years older. A little big. He wasn't very good. He used to torment me all the time."
"Sorry, Pumpkin, I don't remember. What I do remember is you always going head-to-head with the bigger kids, thinking you had to prove yourself."
Taylor's mouth dropped open in shock. "I most certainly did not."
Her surprised words were greeted by laughter from both men. She frowned and gave them both a look that clearly conveyed her thoughts. JP leaned over and ruffled her hair, just like he used to do when she was younger.
"Ah, but you did, ma lutine. Every chance you got."
She frowned again and waved a hand in dismissal. "Whatever. That doesn't matter anyway. What matters is that he went behind my back and called both of you after I told him I wasn't interested. And you both said yes! I still can't believe it."
The odd sense of betrayal swept over her once more when she thought about it. Chuckie's proposition still had her seeing red. He wanted to do some photo shoots and press releases featuring her with her gold medal—and with her dad and uncle. A "family legacy" story, he told her. A real, genuine, human interest piece to draw people in.
He'd had the nerve to tell her the idea had just come to him in the fifteen minutes he'd been talking to the small group of players after Mr. Murphy had introduced him. She didn't believe it. No way.
And then, to make things even worse, he'd opened that stupid, sexy, full mouth of his and said that they had a better chance of drawing in the crowds by using Sonny and JP, that people would take them more seriously since they were real "professional hockey players".
Yeah—because no way could the women on the Blades be professional hockey players.
Anger swept through her once more at the memory of those words. How could he even say such a thing? And how was he going to market the team if that's what he really thought? She should have cross-checked him, right then and there, and knocked him flat on his ass instead of telling him no through her clenched teeth and walking away. Maybe then he wouldn't have gone behind her back.
"You need to think about the team, Pumpkin."
Taylor blinked, forcing all thoughts of Chuckie-the-fart from her mind before looking over at Sonny. "I am thinking about the team! If he wants to promote the Blades, he should be focusing on them, not you guys."
"I thought he was."
"Okay, so maybe he is. A little. But he also wants to use the two of you. That takes the focus off the team."
"You need to look at it realistically, Pumpkin."
"I am."
"No, you're not. It's a brand-new league and it's going to be an uphill battle to get it off the ground. Anyone worth his salt is going to do whatever he can to promote it and make it a success. Sounds like he's doing just that."
"No. What he's doing is making things more difficult for me."
"More difficult?" Sonny leaned back and studied her with his patented steely gaze. "What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing. Forget I said anything." She tried to push up from the sofa but Sonny stopped her. Great. Her and her big mouth. She shouldn't have said anything.
"What did you mean, Taylor?"
"Nothing. Honest. I'm just tired and stressed a little, that's all. Just ignore me." She held her breath, waiting to see if he'd push, hoping he wouldn't. How could she explain the subtle digs she was getting from a few of her teammates without it sounding like she was whining? So some of the girls were giving her a hard time, saying that the only reason she was on the team was because of Sonny and JP and their connections. So what? It was only a few of them, like Rachel and Jordyn Knott and Amanda Beall. And Taylor knew better, knew it wasn't true. She shouldn't let it get to her—which is exactly what Sonny would tell her if she told him.
He opened his mouth—no doubt to ask her again what she meant—but didn't have a chance to say anything because her mom poked her head into the room and gave all three of them a stern look that was softened by the smile playing around her mouth.
"Are the three of you done? Because we're waiting on you."
"Yup, all done." Taylor pushed up from the sofa and hurried into the dining room, giving her mom a small smile of thanks as she moved past her. She heard Sonny mutter something beneath his breath and noticed the questioning look he tossed her way as he took his seat at the table. She wasn't out of the woods yet but hopefully she'd get a reprieve for the night.
That was all she needed, just a small reprieve. Then she could spend time coming up with a story to give him if—when—he asked again.
Chapter Four
The chilled air seeped beneath his jacket, leeching the warmth from his skin. It didn't help that the metal bleacher under him was even colder. Charles ignored the discomfort and tried once more to focus his attention on the opened laptop carefully balanced on his knees. Paperwork was scattered on the bench beside him, the red marks of his hastily scribbled notes muted like dried blood in the dim light of the arena. A cup of coffee, barely lukewarm by now, sat on his other side next to his phone and tablet.
He had an office—if you wanted to call the cubicle that was barely larger than a closet an office. And while the temperature might be a little warmer in the cramped space, he preferred working out here in the rink, at least when the girls were practicing. He had adjusted his own schedule to coincide with theirs, so he could get a better feel for what positives to exploit, searching for little gems he could gather and use to fill his marketing plan. The team only practiced on Tuesday and Thursday nights—as well as Saturday mornings—so if the girls were out here, so was he.
Not girls—women. Christ, he was as bad as Murphy. God help him if he ever slipped and called them girls in any of the press releases he'd been sending out, or in any of the interviews he'd been doing.
Not that the press releases or interviews had been doing much good. Maybe he should slip-up once. Didn't they say that bad publicity was better than no publicity at all?
No. As tempting as that might be, it wouldn't help in the long run. Right now, he wasn't sure anything would help.
He gritted his teeth and kicked the negativity to the back of his mind. He needed to keep looking forward, needed to focus on the positive. It was there, somewhere. He just needed to find it.
Charles glanced at his watch then shifted his gaze to the girls on the ice. A local news crew was scheduled to arrive in the next twenty minutes for a human-interest piece. It was nothing more than fluff, a feel-good filler for tonight's newscast. He hoped it ran longer than the five-second mention on the late-night news another network had run the other day. The station manager had assured him it would but he knew there was no guarantee. If it was a slow news day…maybe.
Charles tapped his finger against the laptop's touchscreen and opened another file, this one an analytics program that measured hits and opens of several paid ads the team was running. Disappointment swamped him and he quickly closed the program. Ticket sales were steady—as in nearly non-existent. No spikes. No hits. No apparent interest. If the Blades—hell, even the league, for that matter—had a bigger advertising budget, things might be a little different. But the budget wasn't there, so his choices were limited.
There had to be something he could do, some small thing he was missing. Something he could capitalize on and exploit.
His gaze darted back to the ice, watching the girls give everything they had during practice. Shouts and grunts echoed back to him, followed by the occasional dull thud of a body hitting the boards, or the clang of the puck hitting the metal frame of the net.
The pipes, he mentally corrected himself.
Wisps of memory rushed through him, transporting him back to that awkward childhood he hated so much. The feel of ankles wobbling in skates that didn't quite fit. Pudgy hands jammed into bulky gloves, the tips of his fingers
almost numb from gripping the long stick so hard, afraid he'd accidentally drop it. The groans and taunts of his teammates when he swung the stick at the puck and fell face-first onto the ice.
Way to go, Chuckie.
There he goes again.
You cost us the game, Chuckie.
Can't you do anything right?
He clenched his jaw and forcibly shook the memories off. Playing hockey had never been his thing. Hell, playing sports of any kind had never been his thing. But it hadn't been all bad, not really.
He just needed to really, really concentrate to remember the occasional fun times. And there must have been fun times, because he'd played for three years—longer than any other sport his mother had insisted he try.
And what was he doing, sitting here in the tangled memories of his childhood? He had more important things to do, like getting ready for the news crew. He had chosen Rachel Woodhouse for this interview, hoping the camera would pick up on her blatant sexuality. With her thick, platinum-streaked blonde hair and come-hither blue eyes, along with her lithe build, long legs, and sparkling smile, she should be a natural in front of the camera. She looked like the girl-next-door after the girl-next-door grew up into a sex kitten. Even coming off the ice all sweaty and red-faced and breathing heavy from physical exertion, the camera would love her.
He had originally considered using Shannon Wiley for this piece, knowing she'd immediately attract attention. That idea had flown out the window as soon as she opened her mouth. The woman might look like sex-on-a-stick but she was as lethal as a viper, something he certainly didn't need to come through on camera. For still shots, absolutely. Maybe even some live action footage. The woman was, after all, the team's goalie—and a talented one at that. It wouldn't hurt to showcase some of her acrobatic skills in the net. But actually talking to a news crew? Absolutely not. It wasn't a chance he could afford to take, not if he had any say in the matter.
And then there was Tay-Tay. Christ, he still couldn't believe it. He probably shouldn't be surprised that she was here, not with her connections—and her talent. But here, on the Blades? What were the chances?
Winning Hard: A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance (The Chesapeake Blades Book 1) Page 3
