The Keeping Score Box Set

by Tawdra Kandle

  “Nah.” George shook his head. “You know he’s getting ready to retire. He’s just marking time. Doesn’t want the job. Martin hired Jeff Hayes from Denver.”

  “I’ve heard of him, but just that. Is he a good guy?” The Rebels organization was my family, and I was protective of us.

  “He is, from everything I’ve heard.” George shrugged. “We’ll see. But what I need from you is help getting him up to speed. We want to make sure the PR for the whole situation is excellent. You’ll need to establish his social media accounts, help him out if he doesn’t know how to deal with all that . . . you know, the typical set-up.”

  “You mean you need me to schmooze a guy who only wants to think about pass defense and blocking so that he’ll cooperate with our PR program?” I quirked an eyebrow. “What else is new?”

  “Have I told you lately that you’re the best, and that the Richmond Rebels are lucky to have you?” George’s grin became even more toothsome as he sucked up to me.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sell it to someone who’s buying.” I patted my stack of papers. “I’ll get through some of this, and then I’ll deal with the new guy.”

  “Uh, actually, Morgan, do you mind coming with me right now to meet him? He’s in the office, and if I handle the official introductions now, I can get on with the rest of my day.”

  I bit back a sigh of frustration. Sure, George could get on with the rest of HIS day, but mine was doomed now. I’d be bogged down in teaching some dude who didn’t know Twitter from Instagram how the brave new world worked.

  “Of course. Whatever makes it easier.” I trailed behind my boss, struggling not to let my annoyance show on my face. That was no easy task; I was well-known for wearing my heart on my sleeve and every feeling in my eyes. But I could manage a game face when it was absolutely necessary.

  And just now, it was absolutely necessary for sure, because the man leaning against the corner of the desk was seriously fine. He was hot in a way I hadn’t seen in a long time . . . and I worked with a whole team of professional football players, any one of whom could have graced the pages of Sexy Men Unlimited. But this guy . . . he was tall and broad and built, filling out the T-shirt that clung to his chest. Below his shorts, his legs were long and roped with hard muscle. I had a sudden vision of how they might feel against my upper arms if I was kneeling between them . . .

  He glanced up as we stopped just outside his office, and I had a few more fleeting impressions. His hair was cut short, which was typical in this business, but what was there was dark, with just the tiniest bit of graying at the temples, which I suspected was premature, because he didn’t look old enough to be rocking the salt and pepper look. The eyes that swept over me were a vivid blue, startling in their intensity.

  A little thrill of lust sizzled through my blood, but I concentrated on looking professional—oh, and on not drooling. That would’ve been embarrassing as hell.

  “Hey there, Hayes.” George knocked on the jamb of the open door. “Sorry to bother you when you’re just getting started, but I wanted you to meet Morgan. She’s on our public relations team, specializing in social media management for the entire Rebels organization. She’ll be getting all your accounts set up or updated, if you already have them, and she’ll also go over some of our policies and guidelines when it comes to all of that.” George pressed one large hand between my shoulder blades, pushing me forward in his not-so-gentle way. “Morgan Baxter, Jeff Hayes. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’m running late for a conference call. Thanks, Morgan. Good luck, Jeff.”

  And with that, my boss was gone, moving at lightning speed down the hallway toward the elevator. I cast one withering glare at his departing form before scrounging up a smile and turning to the new DC.

  “So . . . it’s nice to meet you. Sorry that you kind of got thrown to the wolves here.” I pointed to my chest. “Me being the wolf, I guess. But I promise, I don’t bite.” I’d meant that last remark to be a light joke, a sort of ice breaker, but apparently, Coach Hayes didn’t have much of a sense of humor. He blinked at me slowly and didn’t even crack a smile.

  Nor did he respond in any way at all, leaving me to keep right on blathering away.

  “If you’re in the middle of something right now, I’d be happy to email you the general policies and so on. You can look them over when you get a chance, and then we can schedule a time to meet and go over your accounts. If there’s any media that you’re not currently using, I’ll set them up for you. We can talk about your comfort level when it comes to social media, how much you want to handle personally and what you’d prefer my office to manage.” I paused again, because that was all I had at this point. I couldn’t go any further without some sort of indication from the silent man in front of me.

  He must have read that clearly on my face—that, or the awkward moment of silence that followed clued him in. “That would probably be the best idea. Send me whatever, and then we can figure it out.” He shrugged. “Right now, I’m swamped with trying to get up to speed.”

  “Oh, sure.” I waved my hands and then clasped them together, positive I’d looked like a doofus, flapping like an idiot. “I get it. I’ll go ahead and send you everything, and then you can be in touch when you have, say, thirty minutes or so. If I don’t hear from you in a few days, I’ll check in to see how I can help.”

  “Sure. Sounds good.” He turned as though dismissing me and then paused. “Do you need my email address?”

  “Nah. You’ll have one assigned to you through the organization, so I’ll just use that. I’m sure someone will tell you how to access it, if they haven’t already.”

  “Yeah, probably. Okay. Thanks.” This time, the message was crystal clear: we’re done here. Get gone.

  Because it didn’t take much to tell me when I wasn’t wanted, I understood. “Well, um, good to meet you.” I lingered a few more seconds to see if he’d reciprocate the sentiment.

  But he didn’t. Instead, those intriguing blue eyes narrowed as he flipped through the tablet in his hand, and without looking up, he reached over and nudged the door shut.

  My mouth dropped open. I’d been around football, football players, coaches and other staff for a long time. I’d never been treated as rudely as I just had. Irritation bubbled up in my chest, but before it could go too far, I forced myself to take a deep breath.

  That hadn’t been personal. It couldn’t have been. The more reasonable explanation was that the new defensive coordinator really was struggling to get up to speed, and maybe he was feeling overwhelmed and a little anxious about his new job, in a new community, with all new players. Maybe he saw me as just one more new person he had to deal with meeting.

  And maybe, once he wasn’t feeling so stressed out, he might actually turn out to be a decent guy.

  “Hope springs eternal,” I muttered to myself as I pivoted on my heel and stomped back toward the steps that led to my own office. It wasn’t like I didn’t have plenty to do. The papers and folders I still carried in my arms told that story. But still, I’d made time to try to do the right thing with the new guy. I’d been friendly and helpful. And he’d tossed it right back into my face. I still couldn’t quite believe that he’d closed his door on me like that .

  Well, I knew how to be professional. I knew how to be gracious. So when Mr. Defensive Coordinator Jeff Hayes came back to me for help with his posts and tweets, I wouldn’t hold this lapse in manners against him.

  And there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that he’d need me . . . sooner or later.

  Seven Weeks Later

  “George, I’m sorry. I did everything I could.” I rested my hands on the edge of the desk and leaned forward. “I’ve emailed him, I’ve called him, I’ve stalked his office . . . and nothing has done any good. He doesn’t answer. He avoids me. He hasn’t activated any of the accounts I set up for him. He hasn’t posted, tweeted . . . I don’t know what else I can do. I’m at my wits’ end.”

  My stomach churned as I straightened
up, and its gurgling echoed in my empty office. I’d been rehearsing what I was going to have to say to my boss for the past half-hour, trying to walk that fine line between explaining why I hadn’t been able to accomplish my job without sounding like I was whining, throwing the new DC under the bus—where he totally deserved to be, in my not-so-humble opinion—or make excuses for my failure.

  The ping from my phone alerted me that it was time to make my way upstairs for the meeting I’d requested with George. Skirting around my desk, I retrieved the folder that contained printed copies of all the emails I’d sent Jeff Hayes, along with my notes on the phone calls, texts and drop-in visits I’d made to his office. I’d also included all the information on the social media accounts I’d created for him, with screenshots of their unused status. Hooking the leather bag that doubled as my briefcase over my shoulder, I made my way out of my office and into the silent hallway.

  My heels clicked on the tile floor, and I paused just outside my door, smooth down the fitted black skirt I wore. Most of the time, those of us who worked in the management of the Richmond Rebels stuck to more casual wear. Martin, the owner of our franchise, loved to see us decked out in the team’s colors and jerseys, and I enjoyed the fact that my usual uniform was jeans and one of the collection of Rebels shirts I owned.

  But today, knowing I had this chat with my boss, I’d upped my game, pairing my skirt with a silky white and blue printed shell and black heels. It made me feel more professional, more in charge and more capable. Or at least, that was what I told myself. I needed every advantage and every boost to my confidence I could get today.

  Hell, the truth was that I needed that boost every single day. Here in the twenty-first century, we liked to believe that women working in the world of professional sports were accepted and respected—and for the most part, we were. I knew that Martin considered me a valuable part of his business team, and the other men who worked for the Rebels always treated me with deference. But I frequently felt a silent and underlying need to prove myself. I had to be better than the men; I had to work a little harder, stay a little later and succeed a little more completely.

  Buried deep in my psyche was the conviction that if I didn’t excel, I’d be letting down not only myself but my entire gender. If I tripped up, I was sure that more than one person would assume that it was because of my gender, and as far as it was in my control, I wasn’t going to let that happen.

  That was one reason today’s meeting had to go well. It frustrated me to no end that one person in the form of Jeff Hayes could mess up my carefully cultivated persona of efficiency. I shook my head a little as I walked in the direction of the elevator. All the asshole had to do was to activate his damn social media accounts and post or tweet once in a while. Or he could’ve dropped me a quick two-line email or text message, informing me that he planned to use his existing profiles. It struck me as the height of arrogance that he hadn’t cared enough to sacrifice five minutes of his precious time for simple courtesy.

  I reached the elevator doors and jammed the up button until it lit, tapping my toe softly on the floor as I waited. The windows adjacent to the elevator looked out over the parking lot of the sports complex, and beyond the miles of cars and trucks, the sky was gray and ominous. I’d been so preoccupied with prepping for this meeting that I hadn’t noticed a summer storm was approaching fast. That was good; we needed the rain, I thought distractedly. My lawn had begun to look a little brown.

  The doors in front of me slid open, and I had just stepped inside when I heard a voice calling.

  “Hey! Can you hold that, please?”

  Instinct had me flinging out a hand to cover the edge of the door before I even saw who was jogging toward me. But once I realized who’d made the request, I was more tempted to hit the door close button instead.

  Jeff Hayes froze in the hall just outside the elevator, his forehead wrinkled as he stared at me as though I was the ghost of Super Bowls past. His mouth dropped open, and for a solid ten seconds, he stood there gaping.

  For once in my life, I managed to come up with the right thing to say at the perfect time. “Well, Mr. Hayes. How nice to see that you still work here with us. I’d assumed that you had changed your mind and gone back to Denver. What a surprise to run into you here.”

  He had the decency to wince a little. “I suppose I deserve that. If I get in the elevator with you, is it possible I’ll live to get out at my floor?”

  I twisted my lips into an exaggerated smile. “Of course. Why wouldn’t you?”

  The DC grunted, and I thought there was more than a little skepticism there, but he took a long step forward into the car with me. The doors slid shut behind him, and I leaned up to push the button I needed.

  “Where are you going?” I tilted my head.

  “Seventh floor.” He braced his feet a little more than hip-width apart and fastened his eyes on the lit-up numbers above the doors. If he thought not looking at me would make me keep my mouth shut, he was about to find out differently. The mad that had been smoldering under my skin for almost two months was about to boil over.

  “So listen,” I began. “I feel like I should apologize.”

  That got his attention. He frowned, glancing down at me, but didn’t say anything.

  “I just feel so bad that things have been rough on you since you joined the Rebels organization. I mean, I know it was sort of a last-minute deal, but you’d think that our IT would’ve been able to set you up with email and phone service by now. Or voice mail, at the very least.”

  A tic jumped in Hayes’ cheek, but he kept silent.

  “And Gretchen—your admin—here I thought she was so efficient and wonderful, since I’d heard great things about her from others, but I guess she’s not doing a very good job after all, huh? Clearly, she’s not passing on messages and notes to you.”

  “Now—” Jeff began to speak at last, but before he could get out more than one syllable, there was a loud clap of thunder and the whole elevator car shook. Instinctively, I shot out one arm to steady myself against the side, but before I could find my balance, the upward motion of the elevator halted briefly. For a couple of heart-stopping seconds, it dropped and then lurched to a stand-still.

  “Oh, my God!” I fell back into the corner, dropping my bag and the folder on the floor. Papers flew all over, but that wasn’t exactly my biggest worry at the moment. Next to me, Hayes swayed, too, and struggled to stay on his feet. With one hand gripping the wooden rail that ran along the perimeter of the car, with the other he reached for me, grasping my upper arm.

  The heat of his fingers circling my skin sent a shock through my system. I sucked in a breath, and my heart pounded for reasons that had nothing at all to do with whatever was happening to this elevator.

  “Are you all right?” His gaze raked over me, as though he expected to see evidence of some kind of injury.

  “Yeah. I think so.” I leaned gingerly against one wall. This thing still didn’t feel so stable, and I was half-afraid that any sudden movement might send us plummeting to our deaths. “Um, how about you? You okay?”

  “Yup.” He let go of me, and I felt oddly disappointed. “What the hell is this? Are we stuck?”

  “I don’t know. I’m thinking . . . maybe the power went out. It felt like the whole building shook.” I dug into my bag, and finding my cell phone, I auto-dialed George.

  There was barely time for it to ring before I heard his voice on the other end. “Morgan? Power’s out, if you didn’t notice, so let’s push off our meeting until later. I’m going to check on it, but I’m pretty sure it’s a wide outage. We’re getting hit with a monster storm. I heard we’re under a tornado warning, too, so be ready to head for the basement if the alarm sounds.”

  “George.” I finally managed to get in a word. “I’m in the elevator, and it’s stuck. It’s not moving. Can you call—I don’t know, building maintenance? The fire department? Someone? There’s got to be a generator, right? Something tha
t will get this moving?”

  “The elevator?” My boss barked out the word. “Why the hell did you get in the elevator?”

  I clenched my jaw and spoke through gritted teeth. “Because I was on my way to your office, and it wasn’t even storming at the time.”

  “Oh. Well . . . let me see what I can do. Damn, what a mess. I think the generator only supports essential electric.”

  “And the elevator isn’t considered that?” I expelled a long breath. “Whatever you need to do to get us out of here, please do it. I’m not feeling very safe just now.”

  “Us? Who’s in there with you?”

  I swallowed. “Uh, Jeff Hayes.”

  “Ohhhh.” There was surprise and humor in George’s voice. “Well, that’s . . . that’s an interesting turn of events, isn’t it?”

  “Just get us out of here, please.” I wasn’t in the mood for any of George’s humor. “The way this car is shaking isn’t inspiring much confidence in me that we won’t end up pancakes when we go crashing into the ground.”

  “Oh, relax. It’s perfectly safe. We’ll do our—” The connection ended abruptly, and in place of my boss’s voice, I heard a loud and intermittent tone before my phone’s screen informed me that the call had failed.

  “No shit,” I muttered to myself. Turning toward Jeff, I held up the phone. “I think the signal dropped. But at least someone knows we’re stuck here, and George will manage to figure out something.”

  “Let me see.” He reached for my cell, but I jerked it back.

  “Um, no. I don’t need you to tell me that because we’re having a storm, the cell coverage is down.” I batted my eyelids. “I happen to know that you’re particularly challenged when it comes to technology. I wouldn’t want you to stretch yourself or anything.”