Want You to Want Me

by Lorelei James

  “Yes.”

  Now that made sense. The UMD men’s team had just won the Frozen Four. If Wolf Sports North owned the broadcasting rights, that meant if the team made it back to the finals, the big sports channels would have to pay Wolf Sports North for the right to broadcast. However, it didn’t mean that as a local commentator I’d get a chance to call the games for the biggest championships in college hockey. But both UMD men’s and women’s teams were NCAA champions—the women’s team were five-time champs—so I would have visibility and that could launch me into an even bigger market.

  “Like we said, we’ve been vague about this position because it’ll be new to us as well.”

  “Does that mean you’ve already decided on the male half of the broadcasting team?”

  Alan nodded.

  “Does he have any input on who is selected as his co-commentator?”

  “Outright? No. We’ll review the short list with him.”

  I knew they wouldn’t tell me who they’d picked so I didn’t ask.

  “Gabi, while we can’t disclose how many applicants we’re currently considering, we do want to let you know that you are being considered for both of those positions.”

  Be cool. Don’t tell them which position you’d prefer. “That’s exciting.”

  By their blank expressions . . . had I been too blasé?

  “Do you have a time frame on when you’ll get back to applicants . . . win or lose?”

  “Honestly? Nothing solid. Right now we’re in the middle of a merger, which is how we’re picking up UMD broadcast rights and diversifying into a streaming service.”

  “So you’re aware,” Minka inserted, “the merger is not public knowledge so anything we’ve discussed here today . . . it’s vitally important nothing is disclosed to anyone outside this room.”

  “Understood.”

  “Anything else you have questions on?” Alan asked.

  “Yes. To start . . . salary, benefits, travel per diem, as well as wardrobe expectations and compensation. Now that I know moving is a requirement, relocation expenses as well as potential housing allowances.”

  Minka smiled as she handed me a stapled set of papers. “We’ve prepared the benefits package information, which includes the housing allowance. The relocation expenses are reimbursable at one hundred percent but aren’t included at this time.”

  I scanned the first page. Flipped to the second. And wanted to flip a damn cartwheel when I saw the base salary—more money than I’d ever made. More than I’d hoped for. Somehow, I played it cool as I speed-read through the rest of the information. Finished, I glanced at Alan. “May I keep this?”

  He shook his head. “This is a preliminary interview. If you’re hired, you’ll have immediate access to the financial benefits package being offered in the contract.”

  Which meant the numbers were negotiable. I’d need to research starting salary in the industry and not assume it was the best they would offer. I handed Minka back the packet.

  “Is there anything else we can go over with you?”

  “Not right now.”

  “All right.” Both Minka and Alan stood. “Thanks for coming in today. We’ll be in touch.”

  I snagged my purse before I got up. “I’ll hear from one of you? Or Dahlia?”

  “From here on out you’ll be dealing directly with us,” Alan assured me.

  Another round of hand shaking and then I was returned to Dahlia’s care.

  Once again, she didn’t speak as we hustled through the hallways. This time she didn’t escort me into the reception area.

  The receptionist didn’t even glance in my direction when the door closed behind me.

  But the blonde flipping through the magazine in the corner looked up.

  A beautiful blonde I recognized.

  There was only one reason she’d be here; she was interviewing for the job too.

  I felt my hope start to slip away.

  She stood and sashayed over to me.

  Maybe it was petty, but her outfit wasn’t as stylish as mine.

  But her face isn’t bruised . . . oh, and she’s gorgeous. And smart. And experienced.

  “Gabi Welk? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Jubilee, it’s me.”

  She stopped and gasped. “Omigod. What happened to your face?”

  Yep. She was still a total bitch.

  “Hockey.”

  Her red lips curled up. “You’re not supposed to try and stop the puck with your face. I thought you would’ve figured that out by now.”

  “Really? Wow. Great tip. But now that you mention it . . . they did teach us that in 2010 at the U.S. Women’s Winter Olympics training camp, don’t you remember?” I paused. “Oh right. You weren’t there. My bad.”

  “Yes, that’s the year you lost to the Canadians. Again.”

  And . . . I was done. I walked over to the coatrack for my jacket. When I turned around, Jubilee was right there.

  “Sorry. That was uncalled for. I know you girls tried your best. Anyway, what are you doing here? It’s strange to run into you at a broadcast studio, of all places.”

  She fucking knew why I was here. She just wanted me to ask why she was here.

  How fun to deny her the chance to brag.

  “Oh. I played in an NHL exhibition game last night at the Xcel Center before the Wild game. They caught my interview with Pashma Patel on Channel 9 News . . . did you see it?”

  Her blond mane brushed her shoulders as she shook her head.

  “I guess the Wolf Sports North news crew tried to find me after the game to do a follow-up interview on being the first woman to play in an NHL-sanctioned matchup, but I had so much going on that I had to postpone until today.” I smiled. “Take care.”

  I walked off.

  Ultimate mic drop moment and no one there to see it.

  * * *

  * * *

  I didn’t call Nolan to tell him how the interview went until I got home, changed into my real clothes and flopped on the couch.

  He answered, “Hey. I was starting to get worried that I hadn’t heard from you. How’re you feeling?”

  “Fine. Sore. My face is a train wreck. But I think I pulled off the ‘semi-charming rapscallion hockey player’ in the interview so they overlooked the bruises.”

  “How did it go?”

  I told him about meeting with the VP of Programming, and the production manager, and the kudos I’d gotten on my outfit. I rambled a bit about the actual job, that it was an on-air position, but I kept the rest to myself.

  “Nolan?” He’d been quiet for so long I thought we’d lost the connection.

  “Sorry. Today is the definition of a shit show. I’m trying to do ten things at once—”

  “That’s fine, I’m sorry I interrupted you. I’ll go. We can talk about it later.”

  “Gabriella. Don’t you dare hang up.”

  Just because I’d let him get all bossy last night did not mean I’d let him get away with it today.

  “Hold on one second. Please.”

  Okay. The please worked for me.

  Who are you kidding, Gabs? There’s so much about this man that works for you.

  So. Much.

  “All right. Now I have a moment to talk. And by talk, I mean demand to hear what you’re not telling me.” He paused. “Because I know there’s something.”

  Shrewd man. “Two things. You’re a businessman. What employment website gives the most accurate info for salary and benefit packages? I need to make a comparison analysis of what they offered me versus industry standard in case an offer does come through.”

  Silence. Then, “That might be the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me, Gabriella.”

  I laughed. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” Then he
gave me the names of three websites. “Now, what’s the next thing?”

  My smile faded. “I honestly thought I did great in the interview. Asked insightful questions, reiterated my experience and passion for the game. Naturally they wouldn’t tell me if they planned to offer me the job, and then they also couldn’t give me any idea of when I’d hear back from them.”

  “If you’re feeling confident, what’s the problem now?”

  “I was feeling confident . . . until I returned to the reception area and saw someone I knew. Two guesses why she was there.”

  “She was interviewing too.”

  “Ding, ding, we have a winner.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Jubilee Jones.”

  Nolan snorted. “That’s her name? For real?”

  “Nolan, that’s a great name for someone in broadcasting. Can’t you just hear it? ‘Now from Studio B, Jubilee Jones, senior analyst for Wolf Sports North news.’”

  “I disagree, it sounds like a stripper’s name. Is she a hockey player?”

  “No. A figure skater who got fifth place at Nationals.”

  “See? Then she’s no competition. Why did you let her torpedo your confidence?”

  I sighed. “Because she is my competition. After she didn’t make the Olympic team, the PR department hired her to do ‘slice of life’ type stories of other Olympic athletes on TV. She lived in Olympic Village with us.”

  “So?”

  “So Jubilee is beautiful and graceful and smart and experienced, and they’d be stupid not to hire her because she’s the whole package.”

  “Welk, you’re the whole package. You’re not a bit of fluff. A flash in the pan. You are the real deal.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment and just basked. “Thank you.”

  “Look, I can meet you tonight. It’d be much later because I have no idea when we’ll get a handle on all that needs to be done here at the bowling alley before tomorrow, but I will make it work if you need me.”

  “I am grateful for the offer, but I have to ref at four and then I have my 14U class to teach after that and I know I’ll be tired. So you do you tonight.”

  Nolan groaned. “Are you trying to get me to admit that I’d like to do you tonight?”

  Would you? hung between us.

  “Say the word, Gabriella.”

  “Yes. But we’ll talk more about this tomorrow after your event.”

  “I’m holding you to that.”

  Nineteen

  NOLAN

  Sam and I showed up early Friday at the bowling alley to set everything up for Saturday’s LGBTQ mixer sponsored by LCCO. Unfortunately I hadn’t realized how rundown the place was; I wished I’d done a more thorough inspection before we finalized the mixer.

  I couldn’t blame the condition of the building on Jax’s neglect. He’d ended up buying Lakeside Ice Arena and Rosewood Bowling Alley as a package deal. Not only had his focus been on dealing with staffing issues at the ice rink, he’d spearheaded a complete renovation of the former Boundary Waters bar into Full Tilt Barcade. Plus, in his personal life, he and Lucy had reconciled, moved in together with their daughter, Mimi, and tied the knot the day after Christmas. It’d been a busy few months.

  Rosewood Bowling Alley had thirty-six lanes with automated scoring machines on each lane, which was the only decent thing about it. The building still reeked of smoke from three decades of Salems, Lucky Strikes, and Pall Malls. The décor retained that ’60s vibe, Danish modern minimalism meets the Jetsons, from the curved bright orange bench seats to the scoring tables accented in pale teal to the odd placements of the decorative spindles throughout the space.

  A standard feature in a bowling alley was the shoe rental counter, where the casual bowler paid three bucks to rent the most hideous-looking shoes known to mankind. Here, the entire area and all the shoe cubbies had been upgraded to carpet. Too bad they hadn’t upgraded the shoes themselves. There were maybe . . . fifty pairs total, from the 1950s if my estimate was accurate.

  Sam and I explored the men’s and women’s locker room areas with twin expressions of horror. There was one bench in the center of each of the rooms. We couldn’t get ten kids in here at one time, say nothing of the one hundred and fifty we were expecting.

  But at least there were bowling balls of every weight and color everywhere we looked.

  The restaurant had closed years ago, and in an effort to be more family friendly, the previous owner had sold the liquor license. The only food available was from the ancient popcorn machine—which I was pretty sure used the same oil for the butter topping that the janitor used on the bowling lanes—plus jars of Tijuana Mama hot meat sticks and even bigger jars of gigantic dill pickles. And the soda machine wasn’t working.

  No food. No drinks. No place to change. I had the sinking feeling that my first solo LCCO project was about to be an epic failure.

  Amidst self-recrimination that I should’ve prioritized this project among the twenty other irons I’d had in the fire the past month, I was sorely tempted to send out an SOS to Aunt Priscilla, Aunt Selka and my mother. But as far as I knew, none of my other family members had been bailed out. I was competitive enough that I would not throw in the towel and ask for help.

  I could fix this. With LCCO funds at my disposal, I called in an industrial cleaning crew. Pay the emergency fee and a dozen men will show up in thirty minutes.

  Luckily Sam had hired four food trucks for Saturday, so lack of kitchen equipment wasn’t a problem. Actually, everything he’d been tasked with was done. I was the one with no follow-through.

  That’d been a favorite taunt from my grandfather. Second born, second string, second best—you’ll coast through life and let everyone else pick up the slack. There’s a word for that boy, and it’s lazy. That’s what you’ll be known as: No-Good Nolan, the lazy Lund.

  Even if I dropped the ball sometimes, I was always the first person to pick it back up and run with it until I crossed that goal line.

  Another perk of having the last name Lund? Businesses wanted our business. I put calls in to two sporting goods stores and within three hours Rosewood had one hundred new pairs of bowling shoes in various sizes. Not only that, the manager promised to drop off a banner with the store’s name as a proud sponsor of the event.

  Because the cleaning crew had needed six hours to finish, Sam and I didn’t get started setting up the registration tables until eight o’clock. I sent him home at ten and I locked up at eleven.

  Now today was the big day. I thought I’d vanquished all my nervous energy yesterday, but it was right there waiting for me first thing when I pulled up to Rosewood Bowling Alley.

  Fortunately, so was Gabi.

  My double take at seeing her must’ve been funny because she laughed so hard, she almost dropped the coffee she’d brought me.

  “That was definitely worth getting up early for, Lund.”

  “Speaking of early . . . you don’t have to be here for another hour.”

  “I know. But you seemed really stressed yesterday when we talked. I thought I’d come early to see if you needed extra help.”

  That was thoughtful of her. I loved that she showed me her sweet side. “And extra caffeine?”

  “That too.”

  I ambled closer to her. “I think you missed me.”

  “Yeah? You’re the one who’s stalking me like a big jungle cat right now.”

  “Guilty. Are you afraid I’ll pounce on you?”

  “No.”

  “Then hold still.”

  She blinked at me, but she didn’t move.

  Interesting. She’d worn her hair in a high ponytail, allowing a clear view of her face. I ran the back of my knuckles down the side of her jaw. “Any new bruising?”

  She shook her head.

  Her right eye had a black, raccoon-like ring
around it. The swelling on her cheekbone looked the same size as Thursday night, except now a dark purple bruise bloomed beneath her pale skin. I touched it with just the tips of my fingers, and she jerked back. “Sorry. Did that hurt?”

  “It just surprised me. It’s okay though.”

  Taking her jaw in my hand, I tilted her head slightly. My stomach bottomed out when I got an up-close look at her lip. Still split, still puffy, a dark mark below it and bruising above it. However, it did look a little better. “How bad does it hurt?” I murmured, softly stroking the skin between her jawbone and the bottom of her lip.

  “It smarts when I smile. So I’m smiling less than normal.”

  “You’ve been icing it properly?”

  “Last night I held a quart of Häagen-Dazs raspberry chocolate on it until the ice cream melted and I had to eat it.”

  I grinned at her. “That’s an excellent example of dual-purpose thinking.” I forced myself to stand back, even when I wanted to continue to hold her battered face in my hand.

  Gabi handed me a cup of coffee. “I didn’t bother with makeup today. You think I’ll scare any of these kids away?”

  “No.” Impulsively I leaned down and kissed her forehead. “And you’re not scaring me away either, Gabriella.”

  I strode to the front entrance and shoved the key into the lock. No security system. Then again, a brick through the glass door or any of the multitude of windows would render any security system worthless.

  After passing through the outer entrance, we were in a glass-walled entryway with another glass door that opened up into the bowling alley proper. Most places in Minnesota had this feature, giving customers a place to keep out of the elements while waiting for a ride or for their vehicle to warm up. Didn’t make economic sense to me, though, trying to heat spaces that were mostly glass walls.

  The tiled floor that led to the counter was pitched at an odd uphill angle. I wondered how many bowling balls had careened down that incline.

  “Wow. This is totally retro. I’d love to see what magic Dallas could work with a place like this.”

  “It’d need a lot, but it looks a million times better than it did yesterday. Amazing what gallons of bleach can do. The only place we didn’t allow the industrial cleaning crew was the mechanical area behind the lanes.” I frowned. “I hope Curtiss shows up today because I have no earthly idea how to turn any of the pin setting machines on. That’d be just my luck—”