I ignore the voice, say, “I’d like that.”
After touring the training room, meeting the physical therapists, and shivering down by one of the rinks, we finally delve into a sleek, modern set of offices that house the administration and team responsible for organizing and coordinating the Milwaukee Frost.
“Alright,” Vic says, leading me into a conference room and slapping down a binder on the table. “Tomorrow is your meeting with the HR people to set up your payroll, go over your job description, all that. But right now, we’re gonna meet with some of the other decision-makers on the team.”
“Decision-makers?”
Straightening up, he fixes me with a look. “The people I had to convince to get on board with hiring you.”
As though summoned by his words, the door opens and people start flooding in. I’m introduced first to Derek Sullivan, assistant coach.
“Call me Pops,” he says, shaking my hand. His smile makes his cheeks round and red like an old man from a Disney movie. “We’re all so happy to have you here.”
Vic shoots him a look that says that’s not entirely true, but every person to come into the conference room is nice, welcoming. The Vice President, the Director of Guest Relations, every coach and official shakes my hand, welcomes me to the team, asks me about my background, and shows the appropriate amount of recognition for my last job with the FBI.
That is, until we’re all seated just about to start the meeting, and the door opens one more time.
I look up and make eye contact with a tall—verytall—and strong man with a straight nose and golden-brown hair in loose waves.He’s the epitome of All-American, the kind of guy you wouldn’t question for the part of Clark Kent. If he ran for office, he’d get votes based on his jawline alone.
Just looking at him, I know he’s the kind of man who’s had everything handed to him in life. I imagine he has two loving parents, a huge family barbecue every summer. He probably grew up playing fetch in the yard with a fucking Goldendoodle.
“Vic?” he asks, his eyes darting to Coach, who looks up to see his player and doesn’t seem surprised at all that he’s here.
“Luca,” Coach Vic says, nodding at him. “You got my email.”
“Yeah, came straight from training,” Luca says, stepping into the room in one long stride. He pulls out a chair and takes a seat like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Why is there such a bad taste in my mouth about this man?
When he looks at me again, those brown eyes glinting in the fluorescent light, I get the sense that the feeling is mutual.
“Are we ready to get started?” the Vice President asks, and to my shock, Luca holds up his hand, his gaze still locked on Vic to my left.
“Not quite yet,” he says. I look back and forth between them only to find the VP nodding. Whoisthis? What player has the powerto walk into a meeting room and hold his palm up to a higher-up like that?
“Vic, actually,” he goes on, “I was hoping we could have a talk about this—”
“I know you don’t like it, McKenzie,” Vic says, not unkindly. I’m not sure he could do anything unkindly. “But it’s happening. We’ve all signed on.”
Something in Luca’s jaw ticks, and he glances back and forth between Vic and me. I sit up taller. I’m not sure exactly what’s happening right now, but it’s clear Vic is on my side.
“Fine,” Luca relents, and it seems like everyone in the room lets out a breath at that response. Then, his eyes land on mine, firm, unwavering. “But if she’s working on strategy, then I’m working on it with her.”
Luca
I don’t trust her.
“Well,” Coach Vic says, his eyebrows shooting up, his gaze swinging between Wren Beaumont and me. “I…don’t see why not. As long as it doesn’t interfere with your performance on the ice.”
Vic can’t resist a social experiment, and he also knows that I’ve been instrumental in building this team. The guys would follow me to the ends of the earth—that’s what it means to be team captain. I look out for them. I’m the connection between admin and players, and I’m very good at my job. I pick up on things and see the dangers where others—including Coach Vic—might not.
Which includes the woman sitting across the table from me now, looking at me like she wants to take out my batteries.
To anyone else, she might look perfectly professional in a sleek, black, paneled dress that hugs her curves but covers her chest. Shoulder-length, strawberry blonde hair and a spattering of freckles over her nose. She manages to appear both competent and non-threatening at once, a camp counselor, bank teller, doctor.
Slim nose, high cheekbones. She’s attractive, wearing tasteful silver jewelry, a bracelet and a chain around her neck. Makeup so subtle most men wouldn’t think she was wearing any.
But I know better.
