by Brit DeMille
“No, not yet, but I’m sure your name will be there again this year, though many fans would gladly help you remove yourself from that spotlight.”
“Well,” I say, looking around the room to look for the mysterious brunette, “You never know when lightning will strike.”
She cuts the camera and squeezes my arm. “Hey, good game tonight. Really great to see you.”
There’s nothing implied about the statement. Nope. It’s overt and sexy and if I wasn’t trying to make my way through the crowd to mack on someone else, I might give her a time and a place for round two. Operative word being ‘might.’
All the local sports journalists are here, so I make nice and dutiful and give them a few sound bites about how we’re working on teamwork, learning each other’s style of play, adjusting to some new faces, and blah, blah, fucking blah.
I finally get through the crowd to find Coach Brown talking to Troy and that gorgeous brunette. They’re having a scouting conversation about some high school phenomenon. Coach is balking.
“Hell no, Troy,” he says.
“He’s amazing, dude,” Troy says. “The next Great One.”
“Oh, come on,” Coach says with an epic eye roll. “He’s a kid. Give him time to season up then bring him to me. I’m not into shiny things.”
“Suit yourself,” Troy says. “I’ll have others for you to look at.”
“Yep,” Coach says. “Chalamet’s gonna leave a hole. Fill it.”
I decide this is the time to insert myself into the conversation. “Who needs Chalamet when you’ve got Kazmeirowicz and Kolochev?” I ask with a wide grin.
“You mean Kazochev?” Troy asks with a snicker.
“Yeah, who came up with that? New social media twerp?” I ask with a laugh.
“You’re looking at the…twerp,” the brunette says.
My mouth is does its best impression of what-the-fuck and I say nothing. Fuck me.
“Evan, this is my niece, Holly Laurent,” Troy says with a smirk.
Holly offers her hand to shake. I look at it for a good long while, trying to make sense of what is happening. I need to get my shit together, so I shut my yap, square my shoulders, and shake the young woman’s hand.
“I’m—”
“Evan Kazmeirowicz,” she interrupts. “I know. I’ve been promoting you and Kolochev’s special on-ice relationship. You have a ship name now.”
“Kazochev?” I ask. “Was that your idea?”
“The ship name? No.” Her cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink as she gives me a rueful smile. “But I definitely capitalized on it once it took shape.”
“So, your role at the organization is?”
“Social Media Manager. I’m on Fiona’s team.”
“Okay,” I say. “Well good luck with her. She bites sometimes. You’d better be on your toes. You a big hockey fan?”
“Actually,” Troy says, “Holly’s a bit of a hockey newbie. She’s picking it up pretty fast, though.”
“Not a fan of the game?” I ask. “How can you promote the team if you don’t have a real appreciation for what we’re doing out there?” I hope my tone comes off the way I intend. Teasing. Flirty. A bit of challenge.
Her chin lifts a bit before she responds. “I’m an athlete, too. I’m pretty sure I can keep up.”
“From what I’ve heard, social media traffic is way up already. Seems like you’re doing just fine,” I say with a wink. “Be good if you knew how to lace up a pair of skates, though.”
She lets out a little laugh. Coach takes Troy off to the side to talk scouting some more, so I’m left with Holly. She shifts her mass of long, dark hair over one shoulder and bites her full bottom lip. I’d like to suck on that lip.
“I’ve seen you on the ice. During practice. You and the rookie seem to still be butting heads.”
“He’s nothing I can’t handle. He’ll settle down soon enough.”
“And you, Evan, when will you settle down?”
I laugh out loud at this. “Well, I might be past the point of no return.”
“I think Troy told me you’re from the Ukraine, but your accent is more British?”
“Good catch. I went to a British private school in the Ukraine. My mother is American, my father Russian, so I think the result is a bit of a mash-up.”
“Well, I like it,” she says softly. “I like the sound of it.”
“I’d be happy to read you some poetry anytime,” I say with what I hope is a genuine and not smarmy smile. “Or the NHL rules, if that would be more helpful to your current situation.”
“I’m picking things up pretty quickly, though you’re not wrong. I’ve never been on a pair of ice skates.”
“How is that even possible?” I ask. “I think I skated before I could walk.”
“I grew up in LA,” she says drily.
“That’s your excuse? There is an NHL team there, you know.”
She makes an unimpressed noise. “I was more of a beach girl. I ran; I surfed; I played volleyball. Nothing required ice skates.”
“Which of those put you through college?” I ask.
“Running.”
“Cool, cool. Well, if you ever want an ice skating lesson, it would be my privilege to provide it to you.”
“I just might take you up on that offer.” A wicked grin spreads across her face. “If your bro-friend will spare you for a bit.”
I’m ready to fire back a witty response, but she turns abruptly and gives me a small wave. “It was nice to meet you, Evan.”
Watching her go, my mouth suddenly feels dry and my skin feels hot. It’s a weird sensation, and I can feel it rushing throughout my body as the heat takes hold. Like spiking a fever in an icy room.
But it’s no illness.
It’s a bite.
I’ve been bitten, and the venom is in me now.
Far too late for me to do a thing about it.
Five
Holly
“I’ve started the favorite songs series,” I say to Fiona as she hovers over my shoulder, looking at my laptop screen.
“Is it getting traffic?” she asks, disdain or disapproval dripping in her voice.
“A bit. But I haven’t pushed the better-known players yet. I’m working my way up the ladder.”
“Well don’t drag it out if it’s not driving traffic,” she says. “Watch the analytics. Just pushing content without knowing its impact is not how we do things around here.”
“I know,” I say, trying to sound calm when I really want to tell her not to be a big jerk. “It will be good.”
Fiona pushes her lips to one side, sniffs, and stands tall, smoothing the front of her dress and walking off without so much as another word. Yikes. Social media is on fire for this team, thank you very much. She needs to get the stick out of her butt and let me do my thing.
I continue working up the series. I had circulated a survey to the team, asking for lots of random information. I’m trying to link up a lot of our social media with the traditional media and advertising packages coming out of Fiona’s advertising team office. As I review the newest package, I scan and find Evan’s handsome face easily. God, he’s painfully gorgeous.
This shouldn’t be a thing, me crushing on one of our Crush players. Only a bazillion things could go wrong with having a thing for one of these guys, right? Christ. But he really is painfully hot. So hot. His dark hair is thick and a little on the long side right now. It was shorter when I started. It must grow fast. And he’s always got stubble, like no matter if he shaves in the morning, the hair will just deposit itself right back on those sculpted cheeks.
Yum. He’s yummy to look at.
And he was so cocky and flirtatious in person. Made me want to drop my panties, to be honest. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? There’s probably a line of woman who drop their panties for a guy like him. I’d be some one-night-stand and it’d be awkward working with him afterward. Yeah, no thanks. I like this job.
At lun
chtime, I head out into the afternoon sun, relishing the feel of warmth on my skin as I call my friend Pam. Pam was my roommate all through college. She’s a spitfire blonde who always speaks her mind, sometimes when I’d rather she not. She’s a physical therapist, which is pretty much perfect for her personality.
“What’s up, hot stuff?” she asks. “How’s Sin City treating you?”
“Well, I haven’t seen much sin,” I say.
“That’s too bad. I’m seriously disappointed in you. You’ve been there, what, over a week now? No sin at all?”
“Ha. This is me we’re talking about,” I say.
“Yes, Miss Goody Two-Shoes.” I can almost hear her eyes rolling. “You need to live a little. What have you been doing out there? Wait—let me guess. Running. Working. Laying out by the pool being an introvert.”
I grin at the phone. “You got me. I have indeed been doing all of those things. Also ogling hot hockey players, though. I even flirted with one.”
“What?” She sounds amused but genuinely shocked. “I love that. Which one? I’ll look him up.”
“Even Kazmeirowicz,” I say with a sigh. “So gorgeous. Panties practically fell off of their own free will when I was talking to him.”
“Wow,” she says. “Yep. Yep. I see that. Smoldering. Dark hair. Nice green eyes. Good stubble. That’s a man, Holly. He’s not some soccery-playing-wiener-boy like the last one. Nope. That’s a big dude. Probably has a long—”
“Okay, okay,” I interrupt quickly. “I can’t be thinking about him like that. He’s, like, a colleague. I can’t sleep with colleagues.”
“He’s a dirty sports boy who probably doesn’t even have any idea there are actual humans making the business side of the team work. He’s probably dumb as a box of rocks.”
I make a dubious noise. “I don’t think so. He’s cocky for sure, but in no way dumb.”
“Well, he’s worth a good dirty dream at the least. I approve of your ogling and lust. Nicely done, Holls.”
“So, I’m actually calling to see if I can crash with you while the team is in LA for games later this month.”
“Never a problem, but won’t the Crush put you up in a hotel or something?” she asks. “They that cheap?”
“Oh, they would, but I’d have to share with another person and I’d much rather bunk with you. It’ll give us a chance to catch up. I miss my roomie.”
“Aww, I miss you too, and it’s never a problem. Just text me the dates.”
We chat a little more about her job and some guy she’s been seeing before she turns the conversation back to Evan. “So, I think I’ve heard about this guy.”
“Evan, really?”
“Yeah, remember Tony? The guy I dated a little last year?”
“I guess…”
“Well, he was a huge LA hockey fan and we went to a game against the Crush. I remember that last name coming up. He was new to the NHL, but Tony said he’s like a scoring machine. Fast, lethal, totally focused on the game. But I guess he’s got a bit of a reputation. He and his buddy…whatever the defenseman’s name is. That guy’s a big partier, sleeps around a lot.”
“Wow, you do know things,” I say. “Georg is the other guy. He does have a reputation around here. Jury’s out on Kazmeirowicz.”
“Well, be careful,” she warns. “Guy like him will chew you up and spit you out. Though it might feel good to—”
“Nope. This conversation is over,” I laugh back. “I’ll send you those dates, Pammy.”
We finish the call and I head back inside. I start doing some research on a Facebook series I want to develop and end up coming across a bunch of pictures of the players at special events. There are a lot of Evan. It looks like they tote him out as a poster boy to all kinds of charity and sponsor events. It makes sense. He’s a natural in front of the press, very cocky but never saying anything that will cause the team any trouble. He looks good on camera, of course. But in the photos I find, there are always women at his side. Different women, never the same ones twice.
He’s probably a total player. Which is not something I’m interested in. My friend Pam isn’t wrong. I’m too much of a good girl for a guy like him. I only dated three guys all through college, including the one I got engaged to before I realized he was having a side gig with someone from the women’s soccer team.
Yes, best just to shut the book on this little fangirl crush. Evan is way out of my league and I don’t need the trouble a guy like him inevitably stirs up. It might be worth a one-night-stand, but…I am so not that kind of girl.
Forget it and move on. That’s what I’m doing.
Reunited with my sense of self-preservation, I’m able to really focus on my work for the rest of the day. I power through some planning for all of our platforms before sending my suggested calendar to Fiona for a look-over. I won’t say she’s been unsupportive, because it’s not the case. But she’s sort of disconnected. She pops in periodically and seems unenthused with individual ideas, even though those ideas are part of a larger plan. I figure she just needs to see the grand vision and how it all fits together, both from platform to platform and also within the loftier branding plan.
“Butts in seats,” she has said on numerous occasions. “Everything we do to promote this team, Holly, needs to be with the overarching idea of driving people to want to be in our stands.”
I feel most people want to connect with their heroes. They want to feel like they really know them, and social media creates this illusion. So, we need not focus on their hockey stats, they’re just one part of the plan. We should also allow small glimpses into who they are as people, as much as we can safely do without lying or disrupting their privacy.
When I leave for the day, my head is swirling with thoughts about my work. This is not a bad thing, but it’s hard for me to wind down. I decide to go for a run to expel some energy.
Putting one foot in front of the other has always been my centering activity. No matter what was going on in my life, I could put in my earbuds, turn up a song with a good beat, and just run. So, after this productive day that’s left my mind racing, I decide to lace up my shoes and take a long one. I run and run, probably seven miles, before I stop in my tracks gazing at a billboard featuring the faces of the Crush’s top scorers. Of course, dead center, is the gorgeous Evan Kazmeirowicz.
“Ugh,” I grunt to myself as I pull my water bottle from my running belt and take a swig. Why’s he got to be so beautiful?
With work successfully out of my head, I spend the seven miles back home thinking about a certain winger with a deadly smile, and a head of hair I’d give anything to put my hands in.
Six
Evan
I know, I know, my car is awesome. It should be, for a $400,000 Lamborghini Aventador. I like the way it comes off the tongue. Aventador.
It’s white and fast and the V12 engine sounds like a mountain is about to come down on top of you. Especially in the parking garage at the arena as I rumble down several levels to the team’s private parking area. I pull into my spot, next to Georg’s candy-red Audi, and turn off my baby’s purring engine. Georg is also into motorcycles, but his contract prohibits him riding during the season. He bitches about it, but the rule is there for a reason.
Can I just share I spent all of last night tossing and turning, thinking about the luscious lips on Holly Laurent? I normally don’t spend a lot of time thinking about any one specific woman. Certainly not to the degree I’ve thought about her. Wonder why that is?
Either way, it left me feeling pent up and in need of some serious stress reduction, so I came in early to hit the gym before a meeting with my agent and the team’s owner. With two goals in my first game, we’re gearing up a discussion about a bonus for consistent performance. I’ve got a sweet deal, no complaints, but NHL teams fill seats by scoring, and by winning. I’m leading that charge and I don’t see a thing wrong with setting up a little carrot for myself, just a little something to keep me motivated.
My workout helps calm my overworked mind for sure, but my body is still spring, like a snake waiting to strike. I have a feeling whoever gets in my way on the ice next is going to regret it. Look out, Mikhail.
After a quick shower, I change into dress pants and a sharp button-down. Not too dressy but not too casual. Usually Scott Rose, my agent, is in a suit while Max Terry, the owner, will be in golf-wear. If he’s in his suite for games, he’s usually in a suit, looking slick, but on these days, he’ll be gearing up to head out on the links.
I wander into the owner’s suite and find both of them already there, enjoying Scotch on the rocks.
“Start the party without me, why don’t you.” I go in joking.
“Get you one?” Max asks.
“Nah, thanks, I just came from the gym.”
“Good for you,” he says. “We need you in tip-top shape if we’re going to keep squeezing goals out of you.”
“No squeezing necessary, I’m just doing what you pay me to do.”
He laughs. “Yes, you sure are. Thank God someone is.”
We all laugh, and Scott jumps into the conversation. “Well, since we’re talking about this, I wanted to run something past you.”
“What’s that?” Max asks.
“Evan here is metrics driven,” Scott says. “He’s like the best guy on your sales force. He’ll meet his numbers if you pay him well, but he’ll triple his numbers if you dangle a little bonus in front of him.”
Max lets a little, amused laugh out through his nose. “More money, huh? It’s only game one. Long season ahead…”
Scott jumps in and the two banter about it, but in the end, Max Terry is no dummy. He knows I’m leading scorer in the Western Division. I led us straight into the playoffs last year and it was only a torn ligament that kept me off the ice for the final few games and All-Star series. Max brings this up, worried I’ll push myself too hard, injure myself and cost us the playoffs again.
