The Slot: A Rochester Riot Sports Romance

by Colleen Charles

  THE SLOT

  A Rochester Riot Hockey Romance

  Book One

  By

  Colleen Charles

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  BONUS STORY – BENCHED

  Foreword

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  Chapter One

  Douchebag.

  Of course women don’t work as hard as men. They get it right the first time.

  Eloise inhaled so deeply she had to clamp her eyes shut against the wave of lightheadedness that enveloped her. They’d been sitting at this table for less than three minutes and the dickhead had already insulted “the weaker sex” twice.

  Insufferable.

  Ryder Martin fidgeted with his tie as he waited for the hostess. Probably intimidated, as he should be. Why the hell had she agreed to a date with someone she worked with in the front office? Damn Kylie and her recriminations about having some semblance of a personal life. If she wanted to go on dates with arrogant blowhards, she would.

  She didn’t.

  Eloise prided herself on her confidence, her poise and her considerable grace under fire. Even away from her comfort zone, away from her stellar marketing prowess, she came across as all business.

  And not one shred of monkey business. Not in years.

  And if Ryder Martin didn’t like it, he could go fuck himself since he wouldn’t be fucking her anywhere but in his misogynist dreams.

  “Well?” Ryder said as the hostess seated them, an eager and pathetic look lighting his handsome features. Almost like on Pavlov’s dogs. Fine. She’d throw him a bone.

  “This is nice.” Eloise smiled a polite smile that she didn’t allow to reach her mint-green eyes before scanning the menu. They ordered cocktails and the calamari. Ryder seemed to stare at Eloise more than anything else, his breath coming out in frantic little pants.

  “So,” Ryder said, and Eloise forced herself to glance at him over the top of her cocktail glass as he made annoying small talk. Perhaps after this, they could discuss the weather. “Everything I’m seeing leave the kitchen looks delicious.”

  “I agree,” Eloise responded, but only because she had to. “I’ve never been here before. It’s amazing how many great places there are in Rochester.”

  “I know.” Ryder smiled as he exhaled. So he thought she’d shed even a small amount of her protective, icy shell, did he? Probably patting himself on the back in victory. Hmm. That wouldn’t be happening until hell dripped icicles. At least not with him. “I’ve been here a few times with the guys.”

  Ryder and Eloise both worked for the Rochester Riot, a professional hockey team. Eloise was Director of Community Relations while Ryder worked in operations. Everyone knew that Ryder had missed his chance to get drafted into the NHL and had resigned himself to working for the club in a different capacity. And he let it show. First rule of business. Never divulge your weakness. But this guy hadn’t gotten that memo.

  In contrast, Eloise’s career had taken off and she’d been blessed with a meteoric rise in the organization since landing the job right out of college.

  Unlike him.

  And she tried not to rub it in. Really, she did.

  “What do you think about the new construction?” Ryder asked, and she stifled a groan as the conversation veered to shop talk.

  On the rare date she indulged in, Eloise wished things could naturally deviate away from work. She sighed when she realized it wasn’t going to happen. Their boss, the Riot’s new Owner and Chief Operating Officer, Sheehan Murphy, was building a high-end VIP bar called Murphy’s Finest as an addition to the Rochester Arena in which to promote his family’s famous brand of Irish whiskey, and Ryder seemed intent on exploring every nuance of the new project.

  “I think it’s his business, not mine,” Eloise replied briskly. Cold and frosty again. Not letting the spring thaw last long.

  “What about the laborers?” he countered, clearly wanting to impress her with his business knowledge. Yeah. Business 101. Didn’t he know she had a masters from Carlson? “They’re putting up a stink about him hiring from inside instead of through the union.”

  Eloise glanced up at Ryder and grimaced. Didn’t he understand the plight of a blue-collar worker? His dad had been a pipefitter for Christ’s sake. “Listen, Ryder. It’s their right as union employees to be offered work in the city.”

  Ryder’s fingers nervously returned to straightening his necktie. He cleared his throat before speaking, as if the offensive article of clothing constricted his airflow. “Actually,” he said, “that’s not completely true. The contractor has the right to tender the job in a competitive bid process. It’s not a city project.”

  “It’s on city land,” she reminded him. “The infrastructure has to be maintained by the municipality, ergo, civic union employees.” Eloise interlaced her fingers and rested her hands on the table. “Like I said, none of my business. Or yours.”

  She tried to shut him down with her reply, but she could tell he’d gotten his hackles up. Through narrowed eyes, he regarded her. Planning his next move. Next turn of phrase. Strategizing. He opened his mouth to fire back when the server arrived with their cocktails and appetizers, interrupting their conversation.

  Thwarted again.

  She covered a smile with a napkin. A man should know better than to get into the ring with Muhammed Ali when they’re a second class version of Joe Frazier.

  In that moment, Eloise was over it. Over the date. Over men. Over him.

  “So you’ve been here with the guys have you?” she asked, forcing the conversation, sipping on her very ladylike glass of chardonnay. “I don’t see any TV’s in here.”

  “They’re in the lounge,” he said, deflecting her obvious barb. He raised his whiskey and coke. “We’re not all sports, you know. I wear a suit now and again, Eloise, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “I’m sorry,” she offered, feeling the tiniest bit guilty for being so hateful. “I didn’t mean any offense, Ryder. And call me El. Everyone does.”

  But I did. I meant every offense. You’re just too thick headed to understand it.

  “Okay, El. Here’s to a great season for the Riot,” he said, proceeding with his toast. They clinked glasses.

  “To us,” she added. “The marketing genius behind the team.”

  He nodded his agreement. “You’re not kidding.”

  “Do you miss it?” she asked between mouthfuls of the calamari. “Playing hockey?”

  He winced as if she’d dug her Jimmy Choo heel into that sore spot and twisted, but simply shrugged his broad shoulders, sculpted and hardened by years of training for the game he loved. A game that was now forever out of his reach. Ah, her heart pumped piss over his loss. Ryder sighed and leaned back, putting his fork down next to his appetizer plate.

  Her arrow had hit a bullseye.

  “Sure. But we can’t all be Connor McDavid, can we? I’m a corporate guy now.” He took a swallow from his glass. “I can be anything I choose, really. As long as the money�
�s good.”

  “Hmm,” she acknowledged. “Maybe even a tradesman, like your dad.” A wry smile curved the corners of her mouth, tugging the corners upward in an arc of victory.

  Ryder’s jaw worked a bit, probably chewing on the possible responses to that statement between his teeth instead of the food before him. “There’s good money in the trades,” he said. “Especially if the industry would stop supporting an antiquated, patriarchal, and secret-society system of labor. Then we’d actually have fair competition and pay-for-performance quality control.”

  Eloise stared at him, cocktail fork suspended in mid-air. Her cool green gaze pierced the distance between them. She didn’t believe such complex words could come out of his mouth. Eloise vaguely remembered hearing that he’d graduated with honors. Perhaps she’d underestimated him.

  “Good evening. Are we all ready to order?” the server said, appearing out of nowhere to clear the appetizer plates.

  Eloise blinked and turned to face the waiter. “We need a few more minutes, thanks.”

  “Certainly. I’ll be right back.”

  Ryder polished off his drink. “Well, I know what I’m having. How about you?”

  “I’m not sure,” she answered, allowing herself a precious second of bewilderment before the businesswoman returned full force. “That’s quite a bold stand, Ryder. Clearly, you have strong convictions.”

  He nodded, considering her words. This man seemed to have strong convictions about everything. “You could say that, yeah.”

  “I don’t mean to disagree with you, but I think you’re missing an important point.”

  If Ryder wasn’t intimidated by Eloise before, he’d sure as hell get the message now. She wasn’t used to men not backing down when she poured on the frost. As usual, her manner was calm, pleasant. Cool as ice, every bit the public relations pro that she was. White hot rage started in her stomach and boiled upward, threatening to spoil her demeanor with a flush of angry red. She wanted to go schoolteacher all over him and start with a wooden ruler straight to his ass.

  “Which is?”

  “The only reason non-union tradespeople can earn the wages they do is because of the labor unions that fought to get them. Do you think private contractors would pay those kinds of rates if it were up to them? No. They’d be like the factory workers in the nineteenth century. Six-day work weeks. No benefits, no raises. Talk about antiquated.”

  She sucked down the last dregs of her wine and set the empty glass aside. Inhaling. Attempting to keep her composure.

  The waiter chose that moment to reappear. Ryder tore his gaze away from her. Two times in the space of a few minutes the floor had been taken away from him by the college aged server. How appropriate.

  “I’ll have the ten-ounce New York Strip,” he said, jumping in, even though he should let a lady order first. Game on. If they made it to dessert, she’d cut off his nuts and shove them in his mouth.

  Eloise appeared unconcerned, giving and Oscar worthy performance as she placed her order, then turned to face him. “Steak, huh? Why not wild boar, or rabbit, or something equally Neanderthal?”

  “Because Humble Pie wasn’t on the menu.”

  ***

  “Right here,” Eloise said as she pointed to the entrance of a high-rise condominium. Ryder slowed to a stop at the curb in front of the building. She inhaled the pleasant “new car” smell inside the cab of Ryder’s new Lexus RC coupe. She could never get enough of that scent, and it made an irresistible fragrance sensation when mixed with the regrettably sexy cologne he wore.

  Sadly, the magic carpet ride had come to an end. Dinner with Ryder had been against her better judgment, and the events of the evening had proved her right. Despite her physical attraction to her handsome, muscled co-worker, he’d pissed her off before the first drink.

  Once a jock, always a jock.

  Even hope of a friendship had already been trampled by her habitual, know-it-all attitude that she just couldn’t help spewing forth like an errant geyser.

  Her mother would be so proud. Not. She could almost hear her mother’s words, dripping with censure and dashed hopes of cute grandchildren as she chastised Eloise for putting work before love. Before everything.

  “Thank you for a lovely dinner,” she said, “and the ride.”

  “No problem,” he answered, sounding laid-back and aloof. Pouting. Eloise added that to the long list of things she didn’t like about him.

  “Goodnight,” she said, grasping the door handle, fully intending to tumble out of the car under her own power.

  “Wait a sec,” he said, jumping out of the driver’s side.

  Eloise didn’t wait. She opened the door and stepped out onto the curb. He arrived on the passenger side of the car just in time to see her close the door and head for the steps leading to her building. He took her by the elbow and escorted her up the stairs.

  “I’ll be fine. I don’t need human GPS to find my way to my own door, thanks.” It was nice to see a little chivalry, misplaced as it might be. His tall, confident body felt good to hold onto, and he looked damn good in a suit. She couldn’t help but picture him in his jock, dumping water over his sweaty head after a hockey game. Too bad she didn’t really want to take a bite of the yummy image knowing it would have a bitter aftertaste.

  They reached the landing, and he let go of her arm. “Thanks again,” she said, flashing the polite, PR smile she’d perfected. Ryder smiled back, not so politely. His grin had “invite me in” all over it. “I had a great time. See you at the office.”

  His grin grew wider. “I’m not convinced you had such a great time. Let me make it up to you.” He took a step closer. “I’ll bet you have some really nice wine up there.” His eyes flicked upward to the floors above them. “And music.”

  Eloise winced inwardly. This is going to be awkward. “All out of wine, sorry. And I doubt you’d care for my taste in music.”

  She narrowed her eyes as she imagined him saying, I doubt it. The only music of yours that I want to hear are your screams of pleasure as I drill you. It was almost like she could read his baser thoughts as Ryder moved in closer and reached over to fondle a lock of chestnut brown hair that draped over the shoulders of her coat. “Well, like most things, you never know until you try,” he said, his voice lowering to a suggestive whisper. “And I’m sure we could make do without the wine.”

  “You want to come up?” she asked. He smiled full-on this time, the effect like a brilliant sunrise. Wow, Ryder Martin was hot as hell. Why did all the good-looking men have to be douche bags? She felt even shorter than her own five-foot-three as he towered over her, staring down at the valley between her full breasts. She knew she should have opted for a turtle neck.

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah, baby, I do.” His hand dropped from her hair to her sleeve, rubbing her arm suggestively.

  Eloise sighed and shook her head. “That was a question, not an invitation. I can’t believe what you just said, and the way you said it.”

  Ryder straightened and pulled back, a look of surprise on his face. “Aw, c’mon, El. We’re friends, aren’t we? What’s a little… friendliness… between friends, huh? We just ate a two-hundred-dollar dinner. I deserve a little more than thanks for that, don’t I?”

  Oh, that’s it. This ice monkey is going down to Chinatown.

  Eloise’s eyes narrowed as she pushed his arm away and started digging through her purse. “Ryder Martin, how dare you! You are a presumptuous, unenlightened, self-pitying, overgrown high school jock with all the romantic finesse of a baboon scratching its ass. We may have to work together, but I don’t have to like it. Or you. Goodnight.”

  Before he could open his mouth again, she thrust a hundred-dollar bill at him before bolting inside and swiping her card key in the inner door lock. She stalked to the elevators without a backward glance. When she reached her unit, she slammed the door shut and leaned against it, tears streaming down her face.

  “I knew it, I knew it,” she said
aloud as she stomped her stiletto into her hand-scraped mahogany floors. “I knew better than to accept a dinner invitation from a guy from the office. How stupid can I be?”

  She’d come too far in her career to let it be ruined by one stupid mistake. What was she thinking by going out with Ryder? It could only end in disaster. Getting involved with a co-worker was the biggest no-no in the book, and she’d let a pretty face and a ripped body turn her head. Well, never again. Her job was too important to risk on romance. It might be difficult, but she was enough of a professional to be able to work with the man, in spite of what just happened. She only hoped Ryder could do the same. If Mr. Murphy found out, it could spell pink slip for both of them.

  Chapter Two

  “Oh, damn it,” Eloise cursed as she hit the brakes. She knew she should have taken a different route to the TV station, but it was too late now. The construction zone where Sheehan’s whiskey bar was going up alongside Rochester Arena had traffic jammed up both in front and behind her with no escape route. As the line of cars inched ahead, she could see the holdup. A group of people were on the street, waving and shouting, some carrying placards as though they were on strike.

  She didn’t want to be late for her interview with local sportscaster Michelle Batiste, but as she drew closer and saw the crowd harassing the construction workers, she maneuvered her car to the curb and got out. The sidewalk had already been cordoned off for safety, and she strode underneath the canopy of scaffolding toward the main site with all the commotion. She spotted the foreman’s white hardhat amid the crew, who were taking down the forms from the freshly cured concrete.

  “Excuse me,” she caught the man’s attention. “I’m Eloise Robertson, I work for the Riot. What’s going on here?”

  The foreman turned to her, the name WALTERS stenciled on the front of his hardhat.

  “Stan Walters,” he said, shaking her hand. “Say, if you’ve got any pull with the front office, can you get these locals to back off? They’re disrupting my workers, and we can’t afford to get off schedule. If Murphy starts losing money, it’s my ass.”