by Sarina Bowen
Unfortunately, she picked up her heavy briefcase at just the same time, and the weight of his hand destabilized her. “Whoa,” she said as she teetered on the stilts that passed for her shoes.
Her father reacted fast, catching her by the elbow before she could fall down. “Christ, Princess! Are you okay? Should you be wearing those things? I thought you swore off heels after that incident at your eighth grade graduation . . .”
Nate snickered behind his desk, and Georgia felt her face flush.
She stood up straight again. “Coach, a favor? Don’t call me Princess at work.”
Her father tucked the strap of her briefcase over her shoulder, the way you would for someone who was about five years old. “Sorry, Miss Worthington.” He grinned. Then he pecked her on the cheek.
Yeah, they were going to have to work on his style of office interaction. But at least he wasn’t yelling anymore.
She made her way back to the outer office of the C-suite. Sure enough, a couple of the people sitting on Nate’s exquisite leather sofas tried hard to look bored as she passed through.
Not a good sign.
Georgia hiked her bag a little higher on her shoulder as she turned into the hallway. She gave a wave through the open doorway to the bullpen area, where most of the assistants and interns sat. “Morning,” she called to Roger, the publicity assistant.
“Morning!” He waved. “I’m going for donuts in a few minutes. You want jam-filled or chocolate?”
Georgia dug into her pocket for some money, noticing that Roger had not asked if she wanted a donut. That was just assumed. Georgia’s metabolism was well known around these parts. “Jam,” she said, darting in to put a five on his desk. “Thanks. You’re the best.”
He gave her a salute as she stepped back into the hallway to open her office door. Her keys eluded her, though. She had to dig all the way into the bottom of her bag to find them. When she finally fit her office key into the lock and turned, it was heartening to hear the squeak of old wood giving way. At least for today, this office was still all hers. She stepped inside, but then dropped the keys to the floor, where they made a small metallic crashing sound. She bent over to pick them up, and had to smile because the ground was farther away than usual. So this is what it’s like to be tall.
If she’d been just a little less clumsy, she might have missed the conversation at the other end of the hallway.
“Come right this way,” she heard her coworker and roommate Becca say, the clomp of her Dr. Martens echoing through the grand old passageway. “The general manager is still sitting in traffic, but Nate is excited to meet you.” Becca was Nate’s assistant, and Georgia lingered half a second to wave her down and ask if she wanted a donut, too. But Becca didn’t happen to look in Georgia’s direction as she led a tall man down the corridor. Something about his gait snagged Georgia’s subconscious. So she took a second look.
And that’s when her heart took off like a manic bunny rabbit. Because she knew that man. She knew the chiseled shape of his masculine jaw, and the length of his coal-black eyelashes.
Oh my God.
Omigod, omigod, omigod.
“How was your flight?” Becca asked him, oblivious to the fact that Georgia was spying.
“Not too bad. I got in late last night.”
The sound of his voice fluttered right inside Georgia’s chest. It was the same smoky sweet timbre that used to whisper into her ear while they made love. She hadn’t let herself remember that sound in a long time.
Now it was giving her goose bumps. The good kind.
“Welcome to Brooklyn,” Becca said while Georgia trembled. “Are you familiar with the area?”
“Grew up about thirty miles from here,” he answered while chills broke out across her back.
Holding her breath, Georgia eased her office door further closed, until only a couple of inches remained. She could not be caught like this—freaked out and speechless, hiding behind a door.
The movement caught Becca’s eye, though. Georgia saw her turn her head in her direction and then pick her out in the crack where the door was still open. Becca raised one eyebrow—the one with the barbell piercing in it.
All Georgia could do was close her eyes and pray that Becca wouldn’t call out a greeting.
There was a pause before Georgia heard Becca say, “Right this way, please.”
Quietly, Georgia stepped farther into her office and shut the door. After flipping on the light, she let her briefcase and pocketbook slide right to the floor. Only the folder that Nate had given her was still in her shaking hands. She flipped it open, her eyes searching for the new player’s name on the page.
But she didn’t even need the paperwork to confirm what her racing heart had already figured out. The newest player for the Brooklyn Bruisers was none other than Leonardo “Leo” Trevi, a six-foot-two, left-handed forward. Also known as her high school boyfriend, the boy she’d loved with all her heart until the day that she’d dumped him. And now he was here?
“Thanks, universe,” she whispered into the stillness of her office.
After tossing the folder on her desk, she gathered up her bags and shook off her coat. She sat down in her office chair, her back to the Brooklyn Navy Yard out the window behind her. Usually she stopped for a moment just to appreciate the view, but now her phone was buzzing again. It was DJ calling once more, and now she understood why—her old friend DJ just happened to be Leo Trevi’s little brother.
The phone stopped ringing before she could answer it, but a text appeared next. Call me? I need to tell you something, so you won’t be shocked later.
Georgia’s answering text was only two words: too late.
The phone rang in her hand again, and she answered it this time. “Hi,” she said. “How are you?”
“Pretty damn good,” he said. “I’m on winter break in Aspen with Lianne.”
“Nice. I sort of remember what vacations are like. Though the details are fuzzy.”
He chuckled in her ear. DJ and his older brother sounded nothing alike, which was one reason she found it easy to stay close to him. Their friendship was totally separate from the past she had with his brother. “Gigi, are you okay?” he asked.
“Um, sure?” she said, convincing nobody.
“I mean . . .” He was quiet for a moment. “You never talk about him. Like, never. And whenever I mention him in passing, you always change the subject.”
That was entirely true. “Why can’t you be like other men, who don’t notice things?”
“Sorry, girl.” He snickered. “Have you seen him yet?”
“No,” she said quickly. Because she was sure DJ was asking whether she’d spoken to Leo, and not whether she’d spied on him through a two-inch crack in the door. “All right, then. Since I never ask, give me the 411 on your brother.”
“Well, the big news is that he’s the newest rookie forward for the Brooklyn Bruisers.”
“You’re hysterical.” Some warning would have been nice. But trades happened swiftly and secretly. That was the nature of the beast.
“He just got the call yesterday, Gi. I heard late last night when I finally turned on my phone and found a voice mail from my mom.”
“Huh,” she said. Her boss had been a busy man yesterday. Why had he bothered acquiring a new player the day before her father showed up? Even if he’d made it too loudly, her dad did have a point.
“Leo’s been busting his ass on that AHL team for a season and a half. He’d been hoping to get called up to Detroit, but a trade gets the job done just the same.”
“What else?” Georgia asked, wincing at the vagueness of her own question. The things she really wanted to know were the things she did not have a right to ask. Did Leo ever talk about her? Did he have a girlfriend? Or worse—was he engaged to be married?
God. That idea made her shudd
er. If there was a fiancée in his life, she needed to know now so she could work on her game face.
“I dunno what he’s been up to this season. I haven’t seen him since Christmas. But I guess I’ll be coming to a Bruisers game pretty soon. If they’re really going to play him in the big house.”
“Come anytime,” she said. “Can’t wait to see you.”
“Let me guess—that’s not what you would have said to Leo.”
Busted. “Well . . .” She cleared her throat. “It’s hard.”
He went quiet again. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be. It’s been more than five years, you know? He’ll probably be really happy to see you.”
She doubted that very much. The last time they’d spoken was the day she dumped him. “We’ll get through somehow,” she said, praying it was true.
“Hang in there,” DJ said. “Call me, okay? Lianne and I aren’t skiing today. We’re too sore from yesterday.”
“How will you fill the time, then? Just the two of you in a hotel room . . .” She giggled into the phone.
“No comment,” he said, laughing. “Bye.”
“Bye!” She hung up the phone with a smile, but it faded quickly. Talking to DJ was easy. Talking to his brother would not be.
And she had a press conference to throw. Pushing Leo’s file folder away from her on the desk, she tried to get to work.
TWO
For Leo Trevi, the last twenty-four hours had been a wild ride in the best possible way. He could hardly believe he was standing just outside Nate Kattenberger’s inner sanctum.
On the taxi ride over from the hotel, he’d wondered what to expect from the great Kattenberger hockey headquarters. Leo had pictured the Internet billionaire as the sort of guy to command the entire penthouse floor of a Manhattan skyscraper, with his desk in the center of a grand, rink-sized room. And maybe that’s the setup he had at his corporate headquarters in Manhattan. But this space felt more like a sound stage on an old movie set. Leo kept expecting guys to step out of the shadows in bowler hats and sporting handlebar mustaches. Instead, there was the friendly female office manager with purple hair and Dr. Martens.
It was all very unexpected.
Twenty-four hours ago, he was still working the line on an AHL team in Michigan, earning a salary of $42,000 and busting his ass for a shot in Detroit. Then, just after the morning skate, he got the big call from his agent. A few hours later he was on a flight to JFK airport. His paycheck? More than ten times higher than it was before the phone rang.
This morning he’d woken in a fancy hotel room a half an hour from where he was born and raised. It had been the most exciting day of his life so far, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock.
Standing there in his best suit, Leo didn’t have anything better to do than to admire the cool old factory building, with its exposed bricks and its industrial-looking ironwork. A couple of other guys sat perched on chairs by the windows, typing rapid-fire into their laptops. Whatever they were doing, it looked urgent.
Mr. Kattenberger’s assistant went to sit behind her desk, and for a few minutes nothing happened.
To amuse himself, Leo Googled “Dumbo” on his phone. He didn’t know why this Brooklyn neighborhood was named for a Disney elephant. As it turned out, Dumbo was an acronym for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. The O for “Overpass” was stuck on there for aesthetic purposes, he guessed. Without it, the neighborhood would be called “Dumb.”
Keyed up as he was, this idea hit him as hysterical. He actually snorted to himself as he put the phone away. Hell, he’d live in a neighborhood called “Dumb” if it meant he could play for this team. In fact—they could put “Dumb” on the back of his jersey if they felt like it. He wanted this opportunity badly, and he could barely believe that it was finally happening.
It was about a minute later when everything went south.
His first clue was an angry growl from the owner’s office. The assistant—purple-haired Becca—peered nervously at her watch. She was perched on a chair behind a modern, kidney-shaped desk and stealing glances at her boss’s office door. “I’m sure he’ll be right with you,” she said. “We’re going to have a crazy day today—there’s going to be a press conference announcing the brand-new coach.”
“Oh?” This was news to Leo. His agent hadn’t said anything about that. Everyone knew the Brooklyn Bruisers had been interviewing coaches for a year now. It was something of a joke in the press. Pundits had written that maybe Kattenberger wanted the job for himself. “Who is it?” he asked.
She winked her right eye at him—and the diamond stud in her nose twinkled under the antique lighting. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“That would shorten my career,” he joked. “I guess I’ll live with the mystery.”
Though it turned out he didn’t have to. Because somebody began yelling behind Mr. Kattenberger’s closed office door. “I don’t want this fucking player! Find a way to undo it!” And, damn. That voice sounded familiar.
Someone argued back in a low voice that Leo couldn’t quite make out.
“Oh yeah?” The first voice again. “We’ll just see what the lawyers say. Send him right back to Michigan or where-the-fuck-ever.”
The realization that he was talking about Leo hit him like a crosscheck into the plexi.
And just to extinguish any lingering doubt, Becca leapt out of her chair and scrambled to tap on the office door. Then she opened it a crack and stuck her head inside to say, pointedly, “Mr. Trevi has arrived, sir.”
If only. His big entrance suddenly seemed a hell of a lot smaller.
There was a murmured reply, after which the door was yanked all the way open. That’s when Leo saw him—the coach who had once been his mentor, until the man had decided he wasn’t anymore. Coach Karl Worthington leaned forward, searing Leo with his beady gaze, grimacing as if Leo were a cockroach who’d just scuttled in.
For one fraction of a second, he felt like one, too. But then his blood pressure spiked. This was a big day for him—or it had been until a minute ago. It had always been a mystery to him why this man had turned against him. And now he’d been hired as head coach of the Brooklyn team?
Hello, roadblock. But fuck that. He wasn’t going to let Worthington ruin this opportunity for him, not without a fight.
“Hi, Coach,” he said. And maybe Leo’s smile was more of a grimace. But it was the best he could manage right now.
The moment dragged on while Leo stood there wondering—what was the shortest NHL career in history? Two games? One? If Coach Karl had his way, his might be a single hour. Leo fingered his phone in his pocket, wondering whether he could call his agent this early in the morning. The man was on West Coast time, but this probably qualified as an emergency.
Coach Karl returned Leo’s greeting with nothing but a nod. Leo bet the two of them looked like a pair of angry dogs who were trying to decide who’d be the first to attack.
Becca cleared her throat. “Nate, would you like Mr. Trevi to wait in the lounge?”
The team’s owner stepped in front of Coach Karl and offered Leo his hand. He looked just like his photos—a lanky man with untamed hair and shrewd eyes. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Trevi. I’ve been following you for years. I’m a Harkness College man myself.”
Leo offered his hand for what turned out to be a surprisingly fierce handshake. “Hey, I remember reading that. Which house were you in?”
He gave Leo a grin. “Turner. Inner tube water polo champions of 2006.”
“Congratulations.”
Coach Karl didn’t like that bit of alumni bonding at all. While Nate Kattenberger smiled, he actually let out a little growl.
But fuck ’em. The owner was trying to give Leo a chance, and he was grateful enough to do a little harmless ass-kissing. Even if Coach already had steam coming out of his ears. “I still
have a couple of Frozen Four T-shirts from last year. I’ll bring you one.”
“Awesome,” the billionaire said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we have a press conference to prepare for. You’ll be briefly introduced at the end, before Coach Worthington’s Q and A.”
“Thank you. That sounds great.” Since Becca had drifted toward the door, Leo knew he was supposed to follow her. But instead, he stuck out his hand toward Coach Karl. “Good to see you, sir.”
There was a very awkward beat while Leo waited to see what he’d do. The coach’s eyes narrowed, as if sensing a trap. Then, having little choice, he grasped Leo’s hand, giving it a bruising shake that threatened to break his arm in half. He muttered something that was supposed to be a greeting, and Leo refrained from giving him an inappropriate smirk.
Having survived the handshake, Leo turned his back on him and followed Becca into the hallway again, feeling victorious.
“I’m taking you to HR first,” she said. “There’s paperwork. And then someone will walk you into the lounge, where the rest of the team will gather for the press conference.”
“Thanks,” he said, tugging at his necktie. He was experiencing a very quick comedown from the high of forcing Coach Karl to be civil, because playing for a man who hated his guts would probably end in disaster. He’d been so ready to celebrate this milestone, but now that seemed premature. Instead, he’d be putting in a call to his agent to discuss disaster scenarios. If Coach Karl wanted to be a dick, he could send Leo back to the minors. At least his signed contract probably meant that they’d still have to pay his NHL salary. Unless there was some loophole Karl could activate—a way to send him back to the minors empty-handed.
He sure hoped not.
* * *
In the HR office, Leo filled out approximately seven thousand forms. There were contact forms and health forms. Tax documents. A public relations survey—favorite charities and past experience. The stack of paperwork was endless.