by Sarina Bowen
“Nope. I found it on Craigslist.”
His coffee mug stops halfway to his mouth. “That’s dangerous, Heidi Jo. It’s unregulated.”
“I’m careful,” I argue. I couldn’t afford to use a rental agent, because they charge broker’s fees.
“Is this a ploy to get me to vest your trust fund?”
“You wanted me to learn to be independent,” I snap. “Here’s what that looks like.” I roll my suitcase onto the marble tiles in the entranceway and then march out of there.
It will prove to be my last smug moment for a while, though. My newest assignment from Daddy’s list of jobs starts today, and it’s worse than selling hotdogs. This week I’m working stadium security, and they’ve stationed me at the employees’ entrance.
Here’s what I’ve learned so far about low-paying jobs—they have a million rules and those rules don’t have to make sense. My boss for the week—Mr. Dunston, who has salami breath—has instructed me to spend sixty seconds on everyone who comes through the back door. No more. No less.
“Seventy-seven percent of security breaches in tier-one urban facilities come through the backdoor," Dunston lectures as I inspect the tote bag of a bored-looking ticket-taker.
“Yes, sir.”
It takes me fifteen seconds to establish that she’s got a functioning employee ID, a paperback book, and a salad in Tupperware. No weapons of mass destruction. But I still have thirty seconds to burn. “Please raise your arms?”
She does, with an eye-roll. Not that I blame her. With my face heating, I make a couple of non-invasive, half-hearted pats at the pockets of her cargo pants and then stand up really slowly. “You have a nice shift at work,” I tell her by way of an apology.
“Will do,” she mumbles before grabbing her tote bag and striding away.
“That was only forty-one seconds,” the boss complains.
“Sorry, sir. I’ll do better this next time.” He must have other people to intimidate, right? If he would just go away, everything would be fine.
The door opens, ushering in my next two victims. And as soon as I see Silas’s face, I feel immediately cheered. Unfortunately, it’s quickly followed by the one face I’ve been trying—unsuccessfully—to avoid.
Jason Castro, ladies and gentlemen. The sexiest, most eligible bachelor of hockey is in the building. And he’s staring right at me with those grumpy brown eyes.
“Hello, boys,” I say, lifting my chin. But embarrassment has already set in. And it’s not the navy-blue polyester uniform that’s caused it. Two weeks ago I kissed that man like the world was burning down around the carwash.
Then he rejected me. And I am so not over it. His kisses didn’t just curl my toes. They curled parts of me that I didn’t know were curlable.
But never mind. Another day, another small humiliation.
“Hey there, Heidi,” Silas says cheerily. “New post?”
“Yes, sir.” I glance at Jason, and his eyes darken immediately. He gets that dark look all the time now when he looks at me. It must be irritation. We keep bumping into each other. Last week when I was wearing a smelly brown polyester uniform, I swear I bumped into him a dozen times.
Every time, I get that same unhappy look from him—like he can’t believe he kissed the loser girl whose daddy took away her trust fund until she does ten weeks of manual labor.
And now I get to frisk him.
“Step right up, boys,” I say, patting the security table. “Would you kindly lay your bags on the table, please?”
“Sure thing.” Silas gives me a big grin, drops his duffel on the table, and unzips it for me. “Careful, though,” he says. “Some of these bags will have that hockey stench.”
“Trust me, it’s the scent of my childhood.” Maybe that’s why I have a thing for hockey players; I’m immune to the odor of sweaty pads. Silas’s bag is almost empty. Just a pair of headphones, a bottle of coconut water, and a tablet computer. No trouble here.
Unfortunately the whole inspection takes about five seconds. And Silas is about to step on past me.
Behind me, the boss clears his throat. “Security first!”
“Would you mind unbuttoning your jacket?” I ask Silas as embarrassment creeps up my neck.
“Not at all,” he says as his strong hands take care of the buttons. Players are required to arrive at the stadium in a suit and tie. Silas wears navy gabardine, a white shirt, and a tie in the team color—eggplant.
Just to use up seconds, I come around the table at a geriatric pace. Then I pat each of his suit pockets with all the force of a house fly landing on a windowsill. Because—come on—this is the biggest waste of time in the history of sports.
But logic does not prevail. And it’s not about post-9/11 fears anymore. The head of stadium security has a staff of fifty people, and he needs to keep them all busy so he can look important. I’ve worked here for less than two hours, and I’ve already got his number.
“Have a good game,” I tell Silas.
“Will do!” He winks and walks away.
Ignoring Jason has been easy enough so far. But now I turn and expose myself to the blast furnace of his studliness. Jason Castro in a suit is not a sight for the faint of heart. The jacket and pants are charcoal and cut to show off the perfect taper from his chest to his waist. The white shirt cuffs shine against his copper skin, and his green tie sets off the unusual brown of his eyes.
“C-could you please, um…” I briefly lose my train of thought. Could you please undress me? That’s what I want to ask.
He bails me out. “Here,” he grunts, dropping the bag on the table. “Watch out for the sandwich.”
“Is it ticking?”
“No.” He snorts. “But I don’t want to eat a squished sandwich.”
“It’s peanut butter and strawberry jam,” says another player from the doorway. There’s a line forming now. “Has to be strawberry. This one is superstitious.”
“Good to know,” I say, taking a quick look inside the bag. Aside from the sandwich, there’s a set of rosary beads, and a paperback book. A Tale of Two Cities. Castro has fancy taste in literature.
You could learn a lot about a guy doing this job. What if his bag was full of jock-itch powder? Or GasX?
I close the bag hastily.
“Check the pockets,” grunts Dunston.
“You’re right, sir,” I say grumpily. “Mr. Castro looks like a very dangerous man.”
The players lined up behind Jason all give hoots of laughter, but Castro just frowns down at me. I unzip the outer pocket at one end of his bag, and then immediately wish I hadn’t, because there are a handful of loose condoms in there. The only small mercy is that I don’t pull them out for everyone else to see.
I do, however, look up into Jason’s eyes with an expression approximating that of a kicked puppy.
His face is unreadable.
Hastily, I unzip the other pocket. When I plunge my hand inside, I only find a square object. I pull it halfway out to identify it.
It’s a silver picture frame the size of my palm. And the photo is of a laughing teenaged girl. A senior portrait, maybe. She has strawberry-blond hair and daring eyes.
Once more I glance involuntarily at Jason, who’s scowling up a storm now. “All good!” I say with forced cheer.
“Twenty-seven seconds,” Dunston announces.
“Seems like plenty,” Jason mumbles.
“Body check,” the boss says.
“Oh, fuck me,” Jason says on a sigh.
If only.
“Sir, please unbutton your jacket.”
But he’s raised his arms already. So I unbutton them, just to hurry things along. The tip of my thumb grazes his abs as I work. “Wowzers,” I whisper. “Someone keeps up with the core exercises.”
His jaw tightens, and he looks away as I spend about one second patting his pockets the way they taught me during my thirty minutes of training.
The last step is to check for an ankle holster. Because
whoever directs these procedures watches a lot of TV. So I sink down onto my knees and quickly pat down the muscular lower legs inside Jason’s suit pants.
“All set,” I say, which I’m sure is a relief to both of us. I raise my eyes from my kneeling position, ready to offer my favorite hockey player an apologetic smile.
But that’s not what happens. First, my gaze snags on the bulge in his trouser pants that wasn’t there a minute ago. And it is a bulge. At close range.
I feel my jaw flop open. And then when I manage to raise my chin, my gaze finds a set of lust-darkened eyes staring down at me over a jaw that’s locked tightly.
We regard each other for one more fractional second as I realize the position we’re in. And then we both come to our senses at the same moment. I leap to my feet while he takes a quick step backward, buttoning his suit jacket with hasty fingers.
“Good game!” I say in a shrill voice. “Knock ’em dead! Make ’em cry!”
“Will do.” He takes one eager step away from me.
But he only gets a few feet toward the hallway when Bayer calls after him from the line. “Wait up, Castro!”
Jason stops, but he’s gritting his teeth. As usual, he’s eager to get away from me. But I don’t mind half as much as usual, because it’s dawning on me that Jason Castro is still attracted to me. No matter that I puked when we were supposed to be hooking up, and no matter that my daddy wants to kill him.
That bulge, though. And the lust in his eyes when I looked up at him? It’s the only good news I’ve had today.
Bayer puts his gym bag down on the table and unzips it. I poke inside, mindful of the forty-five seconds I’m supposed to use up. There’s a pair of sneakers.
“I wouldn’t get too close to those if I were you.” He says.
“They could be a security risk, sir,” I say. “Stench weaponry?”
Bayer chuckles.
Dunston moves closer to hover like the grumpy barnacle that he is. “Oof,” he says as his foot finds something I’ve hidden underneath the table. “What’s this?” He bends over, where he’ll be treated to an eyeful of my giant rolling suitcase. “Hold on! Unidentified luggage? That’s a security risk.”
“It’s mine,” I say quickly, zipping Bayer’s gym bag. “Don’t worry about that.”
But Dunston has already rolled the bag out of its hiding place. “This can’t stay here. It’s against security regs.”
“Sir, there’s no place secure for me to put it. Can I lock it in your office?”
“You may not bring personal effects to work. It has to go.”
I swear the whole flipping team is lined up to get in now. And they’re all listening to this little humiliation. “I’m on the clock, though. What would you have me do?”
“There’s always the incinerator,” he says darkly. “That’ll learn you the rules.”
“What?” I squeak. “My Manolos are in there.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jason snarls. “I’ll take the bag. Can we just get a move on here?” He leans forward, grabs the handle, and jerks it toward his body. “This will go with me.”
“Nice color for ya,” Bayer pipes up.
I bend over and pat Bayer’s ankles with zero finesse. I do not, however, kneel at his feet with my face near his crotch. That’s a lesson they won’t have to teach me twice.
“That was twenty-seven seconds,” Dunston complains as Bayer departs with a grumpy Jason Castro.
“I’ll do better, sir.” I hold back my sigh as the next player steps up.
“Security first.”
“Yessir.”
9
Jason
There are just three minutes left in tonight’s preseason scrimmage. That’s a relief, because I’m dog-tired.
“Cross-body vision,” the assistant coach yammers at me as he leans over me on the bench. “Just as soon as you adjust your line of sight, you’ll be all set.”
“Cross-body vision,” I mumble so he thinks I’m paying attention.
“Get ready,” he says. “Your line is up.”
“Born ready,” I say. But it’s a total lie. My muscles are screaming, although that happens at the end of every game. My problem tonight is that my brain is fried, too. Last season I was able to relax into the rhythm of the game. But there’s been no relaxing since Coach Worthington stunned me by asking me to change positions.
Correction—he didn’t ask. The morning after the Hamptons golf tournament he just clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Think you can play right wing?”
I believe my clever response was, “Who, me?” Because I’m a lefty shooter who plays left wing, and always has.
“You’re playing right wing now,” Coach had said. “Starting today. Let’s get out there.”
After two weeks of bumbling practices, I’m still unsettled.
But now is no time to panic. I stand up on command and vault over the wall as Leo Trevi returns to the bench. We used to be on a line together, but now we can’t be anymore, because we play the same position.
Coach has me with Bayer and the new kid, Drake. To say that I’m disoriented is putting it mildly. I still launch myself into the game, accepting a pass from our D-man, Beringer, but the pass is coming into the wrong side of my body, of course.
Everything is just wrong wrong wrong.
I find an opening and get the pass off to Bayer before the opposing D-man can squish me. But the transfer feels less smooth than I’m used to.
It’s a long three minutes of trying to attack from the wrong side of the room. Driving a car in England on the wrong side of the road would probably be easier than this.
When the buzzer goes off, I’m full of relief. And—damn it—that’s not now I want to feel at the end of a game.
I skate past our rivals from across the river with a scowl on my face, shaking hands and good-game-good-game-good-gaming it as fast as I can.
When that’s done, I follow Silas off the ice. He yanks off the goalie’s helmet and gives me a giant, sweaty smile. “They don’t stand a chance in regular-season play.”
“Nice job tonight,” I grunt. Silas only let in one goal, and we won it 2-1.
No thanks to me.
“You look about as happy as a mushroom cloud.”
“I’ll come around,” I bark. Silas is my buddy, but it’s not my habit to let people know when I’m suffering. Ten months ago when I started on my scoring streak, the sports news described me as an “overnight sensation.”
Somehow I don’t think I’m going to be seeing those words in print for a while.
The locker room is the usual mayhem. Someone is blasting the Beastie Boys’ “No Sleep Till Brooklyn”—our win song. The head coach is congratulating Silas on his game. Everybody is pumped up that our up-and-coming goalie is finding his feet. They’ll use him more this year.
Ten bucks says Coach won’t seek me out for any back pats today, though.
I chuck my helmet onto its shelf and strip off my sweater. I’m shucking off my pads when I hear a voice behind me.
It’s Miranda Wager, a journalist I despise. And behind her hovers my favorite publicist, Georgia.
“Evening, Mr. Castro,” Miranda chirps. “Can I have a word?”
“Certainly,” I say, trying to keep my cool. But she’s just about the last person I want to talk to right now.
“Congratulations on your win,” she says. It’s just a ploy to soften me up.
“Thanks.” I brace myself for worse.
“What’s with the new suitcase?” She smirks at me. “I like your style.”
I glance down and remember Heidi’s suitcase. I’m sure as hell not mentioning her name to a reporter. “That’s my favorite color. Got a problem with that?”
“Nope,” the reporter says, her slick smile still in place.
Behind her, Georgia mouths the word relax.
As if.
“How’s the preseason feel for you so far?” the reporter asks.
“I love the p
reseason,” I say, because that used to be true. “It’s a great way to get some early action without having to travel. And the fans love the cheaper tickets and the relaxed atmosphere.”
I’m apparently the only one who’s not relaxed.
“But what about you,” she presses, and I want to kick something. “How do you feel about Coach Worthington asking you to switch to right wing?”
I toss my chest pad aside and face her bare-chested. I’m a pretty fine specimen, so I suppose there’s an outside chance that my strapping, naked torso will distract her from this line of questioning. “I’ll do whatever my team needs. That’s how we roll in Brooklyn.”
“But what’s it like to suddenly switch? How long have you been a left wing?”
I chuckle, trying to sound lighthearted. “Since I can remember.” The last time I skated on the right side of the ice, I was probably twelve, had a baby face, and still thought Marvel superheroes were the shit. “It’s going to take some work. But hard work is what I’m here for. Change is always a little bracing, but I got here by tackling each new challenge head-on.”
Georgia beams at me from behind the journalist, so I must be doing okay.
“I noticed you didn’t get a goal or an assist during the game,” Miranda presses. “Last season you averaged a point a game.”
“Yeah, thanks for remembering that,” I say with my most plastic smile. “But that’s an average. Should we go over how averages work?”
Georgia puts a hand over her mouth. I’m sure she’d rather put it over mine.
“That won’t be necessary,” Miranda says. “I’ll just watch your next game for two points, so you can even things out.” She smiles like a cat who’s ready to pounce.
“You do that,” I say, because I’ve backed myself into a corner.
“Have a nice night,” she says. “Good chat.” And then she finally walks away.
Georgia shoots me a look that implies we’ll be having a talk later. One that I totally deserve.