Brooklynaire

by Bowen, Sarina

  “Oh!” Rebecca gasps. She turns her head to take in those weird speech bubbles on the wall. Nate bit a Tibetan. Each sentence is the same either forward or backward. “They’re all palindromes. Your T-shirt, too.”

  His eyes widen. “Good eye. Palindromes are a thing with me. My fiancée made the wall mural. Do you code?” he asks hopefully.

  “No! Sorry.” If only. “But palindromes have been around for centuries. Even in ancient Greece. Literature is kind of my thing.” Was her thing.

  “Literature, huh?” Nate cocks an eyebrow.

  “Right. I was majoring in comparative lit.” Although she’s only made it through two and a half years of college, with each semester less satisfying than the last. Rebecca loves the way her favorite Jane Austen and Brontë novels make her feel. Unfortunately, comp lit is more about soul-sucking analysis than feelings.

  Before her dad died, she’d been struggling and fearful that she just might not be keen enough on the major she’d chosen. Leaving school hadn’t been the plan, but a part of her is relieved not to be dissecting another sonnet right now.

  “What else should I know about you?” Nate asks.

  “I’m a good worker,” she says quickly. “I had a three-point-nine grade average…”

  “Which class gave you the B?”

  Of course he’d zero in on that. “Bio lab. But in my defense, the course description didn’t say anything about dissecting a pig’s eye.”

  He smirks, and it’s an expression she’ll eventually know well.

  “I’m, um, very reliable. There’s a stack of references…” She fumbles into the folder she’s carrying, extracting the list of professors and summer employers she printed at the Mid-Manhattan branch of the public library on her way here.

  Nate takes the sheet without a glance at it. “Any questions for me?”

  Where to start? “What do you need your office assistant to do, primarily?”

  He crosses those delectable arms. “I’ve never had an assistant before. So we’ll have to figure it out as we go. But we’re gearing up for a big trade show in March. We’ll need to make posters and crap. We need a schedule, and a new website for the company. We need to hire an advertising agency. That all sounds pretty time-consuming…”

  He looks off into the distance, and panic washes over Rebecca. She’s losing him. “That all sounds doable,” she babbles. “I could help organize all those projects. Keep things on track.”

  Nate turns to her again. “Sorry. Sometimes I don’t pay attention when people talk.”

  This will prove true in time, but Rebecca will also discover that it isn’t as irritating as it sounds. Because when Nate is ready to give you his full attention, there is nothing better.

  “…But I always make time for my mom and my fiancée,” he is saying. “Her name is Juliet. The fiancée, that is. Mom is Linda. Their calls always matter. Everyone else can wait.”

  When he smiles again, Rebecca feels it like a flutter in her chest. Now, now, she cautions herself. This nice man has a fiancée, and you need this job.

  Stew sidles up and puts a hand on Nate’s shoulder. “How’s it going over here? Are you making plans already?”

  “Seems so,” Nate says. “I was just telling…” He pauses. He’s forgotten her name.

  “Rebecca,” she and Stew say at the same time.

  “…All that needs to be done,” Nate says without apology. “Like, we take turns paying for lunch, because that’s the only way we remember to eat. Someone should formalize the rotation. Somehow it’s always my turn. But if we—” he raises his voice “—could finish the fucking beta of version three by the next month, I’ll buy lunch every day for two weeks.”

  There are cheers from the Ping-Pong table. But the current players don’t cease their game.

  Nate claps his hands. “Okay, Rebecca. You can start whenever. There are probably some forms you’ll have to fill out. Stewie will know what they are.”

  “Employment forms?” Her mind is bounding along, trying to keep up. “W-4? And I-9?” Had he really just hired her? Seriously?

  “Right.” He stands up. “Good stuff. Stew? Can you make that happen?” He’s about to wander away, she can feel it.

  But it doesn’t matter. His disinterest in doing a thorough interview is working to her advantage.

  “Dude,” Stew says, steering him away. “Hold up. There’s a few details you skipped over.”

  Shit. Our girl holds her breath.

  “Salary,” Stew mutters, and Nate makes a reply. Stew nods. “What about stock options?”

  Nate’s nose wrinkles. “Nah. Not for clerical staff.”

  Whatever, Rebecca thinks. She isn’t really sure what stock options are, but what she needs right now is a real paycheck, anyway.

  Both men turn around again in a minute. Nate gives her one more quick smile. “Okay. I have to get back to work. But your first job is to order yourself a computer. Matty will give you our vendor login.” He waves toward one of the Ping-Pong players. “And fill out those forms. Welcome aboard, Rebecca Rowley.”

  3

  Nate

  April 22, Brooklyn

  As I approach the locker-room door, I can hear the hum of conversation within. Someone’s phone is blaring a hip-hop tune, so my hockey players have to shout their jokes and challenges over the music to be heard.

  “This is as far as I go,” my assistant Lauren grumbles beside me. She stops in the hallway about ten paces from the door, crossing her arms against the body of her designer dress and shooting me a pissy glare. Just in case I missed the fact that the Brooklyn Bruisers’ training facility is her least favorite place on the planet.

  “Fair enough,” I say lightly. “I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

  She makes a shooing motion with her hand. Get on with it already.

  I give her a wink, and her scowl deepens. Then I push open the locker-room door, leaving her there to stew.

  All conversation ceases within seconds, and the music stops, too. One by one, two dozen of the world’s most talented hockey players fall into a respectful silence, giving me their full attention.

  And isn’t that just a kick in the pants? This math nerd from the Midwest owns a hockey team, one that’s tied 2-2 in the first round of the playoffs.

  I let the moment of quiet linger as I pace slowly across the carpet of the oval-shaped room. I walk up to—but not over, because my players are superstitious—the Brooklyn Bruisers logo in the middle of the carpet. I look down at those purple Bs and grin. The pundits said it couldn’t be done. That I couldn’t turn the team around. We had coaching problems and salary-cap issues and ticket sales were circling the drain.

  Not anymore.

  Lifting my gaze, I meet each player’s eyes as I take them in. Their hair is damp from the showers they needed after my coach gave them their morning ass-kicking. But they look powerful. They look ready. Beacon, my goalie, leans against the wall looking healthy and confident. O’Doul, my captain, looks strong and lively. “You guys,” I say, smiling, because I can’t help myself. “You’re killing it, and I’m so impressed.”

  I get a few smiles for this compliment.

  “I’m not going to stand here and tell you how much the next three games matter, because you already know. I’m a cocky guy, but I’m not arrogant enough to tell you how to play hockey. That’s your coach’s job.”

  The smiles get wider.

  “But I will say this—you’re headed back into enemy territory tomorrow. You’re facing the team with the best record in the division. They’re pretty sure they can knock you out of the playoffs in the next two games. And with twenty-thousand of their fans screaming at you in the stadium, it would be tempting to believe them. But you’re not going to.”

  I take a breath in all that silence. We’re standing in the world-class training facility I built for this team on the edge of the Brooklyn Navy Yards development. My players enjoy a state-of-the-art rink and the best medical care that money
can buy. But that’s not why they made the playoffs. And I want to make sure they know it.

  “You beat DC three times already this season, and all because you believed you could. Faith is the difference between the winner and the loser in every contest. I can’t do what you do. My slapshot is just a little less impressive than yours. But I’ve had plenty of experience with people telling me I can’t do the shit I want to.”

  Trevi, my rookie forward, nods. And his friend Castro regards me with serious eyes. These men know that we’re more alike than different. At the exclusion of all else, we’ve all dedicated thousands of hours of our time to our craft.

  “There are smarter guys than me still working grunt jobs in Cupertino or Palo Alto. They have the brains, but not the guts to risk everything on their own ideas. I meet these guys all the time. I hire these guys to work 60 hours a week for me. They get a nice salary and benefits. But they don’t ever get to say, I built this myself.”

  It’s so quiet I can hear my players breathe.

  “You’re not that guy. You’re the kind that says, ‘I’m doing this. I don’t care if Brooklyn isn’t supposed to beat DC. I don’t care if their first line has been skating together since I was in diapers. None of that shit matters because I am here to change the rules.’”

  I look down at the emblem in the rug again. That fucker will be splashed all over network television again tomorrow night. And they said it couldn’t be done. When I raise my head, every pair of eyes is still locked on me.

  “Say—why not me? Why not now. If not now, then when? Go and take it from them, boys. Not because some pundits gave you permission. But just because you know you can.”

  “Fuck yeah!” Beacon yells, and then it’s a cacophony. Stomping feet and whistling. A room full of millionaires applauds a billionaire.

  It’s an odd little club I’ve got here. And it’s fucking awesome.

  Having said my thing, I turn and leave the room. Lauren is standing in the hallway looking antsy. “Very inspiring, boss.”

  “Thank you.”

  She turns toward the exit and starts talking immediately. “The car is waiting to take you to Manhattan. Engineering meeting at noon. Lunch at one. Accountants at two. And Alex needs a call.”

  But I tune her out, because the next item on my schedule is something Lauren doesn’t know about. I scan the corridor ahead of us, but it’s empty.

  Where is she? Rebecca is never late.

  Lauren has gotten too far ahead of me in the corridor. Impatient now, she doubles back in her designer spike heels. Tap tap tap. She herds me along toward the passageway that leads to the Bruisers’ office building. Her goal is to get out of here before the players walk out of the dressing room. Before her ex-boyfriend turns up.

  She and I both have private agendas here. But I’m the boss, so she’s just going to have to deal. I’m not a heartless bastard, though. So I lead her to an alcove beside the practice rink. She frowns because it’s the wrong direction, but she doesn’t argue.

  “Now, who was I supposed to call?” I ask, watching the opposite passageway. Rebecca will have to pass through here to get from the office building to Dr. Herberts’ office. I’ve set up a consultation for her with the team doctor, because she’s still not back at work. It’s been three weeks now.

  And that’s just not right. It’s so unlike Rebecca.

  “Nate!” Lauren snaps her fingers in my face.

  “Sorry. What?”

  “Don’t ask me a question and then zone out! The call is with Alex. She wants to iron out a few last minute details about the benefit party.”

  Whenever I hear the words details and party in a sentence, flaps go down over my ears. “Don’t we hire people to worry about that shit?”

  Lauren’s eyes roll toward the ceiling, as if she’s praying for patience. “Yes. But Alex just wants to check your schedule. She said something about meeting privately for drinks before the event begins.”

  “Hmm. Did she say why we’re doing that?”

  “Gosh, Nate!” Lauren is about ready to blow. “Maybe it’s because you’ve been friends since your drunken college days? I didn’t ask. She didn’t offer. Is there a reason you wouldn’t want to see Alex? If so, throwing a party with her was kind of a strange choice.”

  My eyes cut to the passageway again. Still no Rebecca.

  “Well, but…” I drag my focus back to Lauren, because her bullshit meter is finely tuned, and I don’t want to have to explain myself. “The timing is awkward because my investment bankers are talking to one of Alex’s competitors about my router division.”

  Lauren is a really intelligent woman and I can almost see the synapses firing behind her sharp blue eyes. “Ah. You need Alex to be the second bidder on that business unit, not the first.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, I should make you unavailable for drinks?” She chews her lip. “That’s shady, though. And if your flight is delayed, you could miss your own party.”

  “Nah—it’s okay. Set it up. I can survive an hour with her alone. If she wants to talk shop I’ll just tell her I’m not ready to think about it.”

  “All right. Or—here’s a novel idea—you could bring a date.” Lauren shrugs. “Alex won’t talk mergers and acquisitions with a stranger.”

  “Interesting idea, Miss Crafty. Interesting.”

  She smiles. Lauren and I get along well and always have. When I hired her to assist me in the Manhattan office, it was a good choice.

  The next second I forget all about her, though. Because I spot Rebecca walking into the training center. Finally. And as I watch her approach, I tune out everything else.

  At first glance, Rebecca looks fine. Better than fine. She’s wearing a short skirt that shows off legs that I shouldn’t be noticing and an eye-catching jacket in bright orange.

  But there’s something not quite right. Her gait is hunched slightly forward. She looks downtrodden. Becca doesn’t walk like that. She always has her head up, shoulders back. She’s only 5 feet, 3 inches tall, but she always looks ready to tackle the world.

  “Nate. Jesus Christ. I asked you a question.”

  I finally turn my head to look at Lauren. “Sorry. I missed what you just said.”

  “Thank you for admitting it,” she says frostily. “That’s a first.”

  That’s not quite true. I know I’m a pain in the ass. We’ve agreed on this point many times. “I’m a little distracted today. Can’t stop thinking about tomorrow night’s game.” That’s partly accurate. But it’s not the real cause of my distraction today. Although I can’t tell Lauren that.

  Rebecca disappears from my sight as she continues toward Dr. Herberts’ office. But I just sort of stare at the empty spot where she was a second ago. In seven years, Rebecca has never missed more than two days of work for illness. The fact that she’s still out has been bothering me. So much. I can’t even explain it.

  A wadded-up piece of Lauren’s notepaper bounces off the top of my head. That’s how I know my attention has wandered yet again.

  “Usually when you get like this, I just get up and walk away and try again later,” Lauren says. “But you need to be in Manhattan for the engineering meeting at noon. And it’s 11:15 already. If we don’t finish up, you’re going to be late.”

  Ah. “Then there’s no problem. Because I changed the engineering meeting to two o’clock.”

  Lauren’s expression flashes first with disbelief, followed quickly by irritation. “If that’s true, why does the schedule still say noon?”

  Good question. “Maybe I forgot to cc you?” Uh-oh…

  Lauren leans over until her forehead reaches the wall beside her. And then she bumps her forehead against the wooden surface several times in a row.

  “Hey! Cut it out. We already have enough head injuries around here.”

  She lifts her face, and it’s full of displeasure. “But I just set up a conference call for you at two o’clock! And when I told you so, not three minutes ago, when yo
u were staring down the hallway, you grunted like that was fine! But it’s not fine. Now I have to go back and reach the tax department to tell them that we have to reschedule this conference call for the third time in three days.”

  “Sorry, sorry.” I hold up both hands in submission. “I’d offer to commit ritual suicide to convince you of my sincere apology, but I suspect that would just mean you had to reschedule even more stuff.”

  Lauren’s angry gaze could be patented and sold as a military-grade weapon. That’s why most of the C-suite in Manhattan is terrified of her. “Just tell me this. Why did you push the engineering meeting until two?”

  I’m not ready with my lie, so it isn’t a very good one. “Game five could be a real change in momentum for us. I wanted to watch this morning’s practice.” The one that ended a half hour ago.

  She stares me down. It’s possible that she knows exactly why I’m stalling in Brooklyn, and is just toying with me the way a cat plays with a mouse before he pounces to kill it. Either that or she’s experimenting with a new intimidation technique they teach at the ninja business school she attends. Suddenly she blinks, her face softening. “Nate, are you okay?”

  Her change in demeanor takes me by surprise. It could even be a trap. “Of course. Why?”

  Lauren sighs and lets the subject drop. I make women sigh all the time, but not always in a good way.

  “Enough about me,” I say, changing the topic. “How are you holding up with this whole situation?”

  “By ‘situation,’” she makes her fingers into quotation marks, “do you mean the way you’re forcing me to travel with hockey players? Who I hate?”

  “Or claim to hate.” I brace myself for a hailstorm of office products flying at me, but she only scowls instead.

  Some of the players are filtering out of the locker rooms now. They’re walking up the nearby corridor toward the building’s exit. And now it’s Lauren’s turn to be the distracted one. She actually repositions herself so she’s partially hidden behind me. That’s how badly she doesn’t want to interact with my goalie.