Chapter Two
“Oh, damn it,” Eloise cursed as she hit the brakes. She knew she should have taken a different route to the TV station, but it was too late now. The construction zone where Murphy’s whiskey bar was going up alongside Rochester Arena had traffic jammed up both in front and behind her with no escape route. As the line of cars inched ahead, she could see the holdup. A group of people were on the street, waving and shouting, some carrying placards as though they were on strike.
She didn’t want to be late for her interview with local sportscaster Michelle Batiste, but as she drew closer and saw the crowd harassing the construction workers, she maneuvered her car to the curb and got out. The sidewalk had already been cordoned off for safety, and she strode underneath the canopy of scaffolding toward the main site with all the commotion. She spotted the foreman’s white hardhat amid the crew, who were taking down the forms from the freshly cured concrete.
“Excuse me,” she said, catching the man’s attention. “I’m Eloise Robertson and I work for the Riot. What’s going on here?”
The foreman turned to her, the name WALTERS stenciled on the front of his hardhat.
“Stan Walters,” he said, shaking her hand. “Say, if you’ve got any pull with the front office, can you get these locals to back off? They’re disrupting my workers, and we can’t afford to get off schedule. If Murphy starts losing money, it’s my ass.”
Eloise looked past him at the angry crowd. A man waved a cardboard sign that read unfair to small biz. “What do they want?”
Stan shook his head. “Something about the re-zoning law and restricted access. They think Murphy’s new bar will hurt their businesses because of more noise and impeded traffic. Right now, they’re the ones causing noise and traffic jams.”
Eloise frowned. “They have a right to express themselves, it’s a free country. And they do have some valid concerns. Their livelihoods might be affected by this project.”
“That’s their problem, not mine,” Stan said. “I have to answer to Murphy, so I need these people to clear out.”
He moved off in the direction of his crew and started shouting orders. Eloise glanced around at the scene, doubting there was much she could do to help. Plus, she had to be at the station in half an hour. With a sigh, she turned and walked back to her car.
***
Michelle Batiste exuded the same spirited, amiable persona off-camera as well as on. She laughed and joked with Eloise about the insatiable media machine, the smug, egotistical men in the sports world, and the pitfalls of being an attractive woman in a man’s industry.
“But I’m just one of the guys around here.” She guffawed, gesturing at the cameramen and other technicians buzzing around the set, getting ready to shoot their interview. A reedy five foot eleven with cocoa-colored skin and a blazing retro afro atop her head, Eloise thought Michelle would have looked just as comfortable on a basketball court as she did behind a sports desk. The woman oozed poise and resilience.
“What did you do before you went into broadcasting?” Eloise asked.
“Not a hell of a lot.” Michelle laughed as the two of them settled into the interview chairs. “Other than scare the bejeezus out of my mother who thought she’d raised a giraffe on crack. I was big into track and field in high school but gave it up once I discovered a microphone and started doing improv and stand-up. I kinda fell into broadcasting from there. What about you?”
Eloise cocked her head side to side. “I always knew I’d be in business. I have a masters in business admin from Carlson. I didn’t necessarily know I’d work in community relations for a pro hockey team, it wasn’t my favorite sport growing up. Too caveman. But I’ve been with them ever since I graduated, and I love it. I guess I’ve developed a taste for it.”
“Just like McDonalds, eh?” Michelle quipped, then looked up as the sound tech cued her. She nodded and turned to Eloise. “Everyone digs a Big Mac now and again. We’re on in five. Put on your game face, girlfriend.”
The tech counted down, then pointed silently at Michelle.
“Michelle Batiste here, with a special guest from right here in Rochester, the Director of Communications and Community Relations for the Rochester Riot, Eloise Robertson. Eloise, thanks for being with us today.”
“My pleasure, Michelle.”
“Eloise, now that the dust from the trade deadline has settled, everyone in Rochester is excited to hear about our new star center, the Beantown Bard, Cole Fiorino. What can you tell us?”
The Beantown Bard? Who the hell called themselves something so utterly ridiculous? Eloise smiled broadly at Michelle, never wavering or cracking under the shock, keeping her composure despite not having even met the man, and certainly never heard him called the Beantown Bard. Her assistant would pay for the oversight. Big.
“Yes, the team is undoubtedly looking forward to an explosive top line with the addition of Fiorino,” she answered. “The negotiations with the Bruins were tough, but I know our General Manager, Lou Spieker, made one hell of a deal.”
“I should say so,” Michelle agreed. “Rookie of the Year and nearly ninety points a season. That’s almost unheard of in the NHL. Every team in the league was interested in him. Did Spieker give away the farm to get him?”
“Maybe not the farm, but quite a few horses,” Eloise laughed, “and a chicken or two. But they were already missing their heads.”
Michelle gave a good-natured chuckle. “I’m sure the team’s new Owner and COO Sheehan Murphy must be pleased. I understand there are plans for some additions to the arena. What will that bring to the city?”
Eloise’s smile faltered a tiny bit, thinking about the scene she’d witnessed on her way to the station, but had prepared a pat answer well in advance.
“As you know, Michelle, Rochester is a vibrant and diverse community. Not to mention a die-hard hockey town. Murphy’s Finest will add its own unique color to the already rich tapestry of the arena district and will further enhance the fan experience. I, for one, am really excited to see it once it’s completed. Sheehan Murphy knows his whiskey. And hockey fans have been known to imbibe a time or two.”
Michelle nodded. “Indeed. That knowledge must extend to hockey operations as well. Owners typically fulfill a governor position, providing oversight to the overall business development of a franchise. Isn’t it a bit unconventional that Mr. Murphy has also assumed the Chief Operating Officer role with the team? How do you feel that will affect the Riot’s playoff hopes? Too many cooks in the kitchen?”
Eloise blinked and held her media face firm. Batiste certainly lived up to her reputation of asking pointed, philosophical questions. But she still liked and respected the journalist as she would any straight shooter. Eloise had nothing to hide.
While Eloise didn’t shy away from debate, she certainly couldn’t air her personal opinions on-air while representing the team. Murphy’s insistence in taking on hockey operations hadn’t met with universal approval but had been part of the ownership deal. As usual, money always won.
“Mr. Murphy is confident he will provide not only the guidance needed from the governor’s chair but sage direction in on-ice matters. We feel we have the best of both worlds.”
Pure. Media. Bullshit.
“Thank you, Eloise. We’ll look forward to the Riot’s playoff run, the grand opening, and to seeing Fiorino in action.”
“Thank you, Michelle.”
“And we’re out,” the tech called.
Eloise let out a long breath. Media appearances were second nature to her, but Michelle’s questions had set her on edge. The months ahead for the Riot would prove ground-testing, to say the least. Which meant she had to bring her ‘A’ game. A lot of long days and nights lay ahead. Good thing she had zero personal life to speak of at the moment.
After making a follow-up lunch date with Michelle, Eloise drove back to her office inside the Rochester Arena. Best to keep the woman firmly in her friend camp as opposed to adversary. Eloise had
gone to the station first thing and knew there would be work piling up on her desk and in her inbox. She hoped a nasty note from Ryder wouldn’t be among them. Because she was already over it. Too many women spend more time analyzing a date than men do thinking at all. Eloise would not stoop to that level.
With relief, she noticed the demonstrators around the construction site had disbanded. She pulled into the underground garage beneath the arena and parked in her designated spot, lucky number thirteen.
She’d barely turned the knob to enter the corporate offices when a whirl of fringed, plaid poncho and neck scarf flew at her from inside. “There you are,” the girl wearing them said, her pixie-cut pink hair glowing under the fluorescent office lighting.
“Whoa, take it easy, Kylie,” Eloise laughed as she pushed her way into the room.
Her assistant, Kylie Rose, seemed extra enthusiastic today, and Eloise loved her for her quick wit and vivacity. The pressures of her job didn’t leave a lot of room for personal relationships, and for the last several years, Kylie had filled the role of not only secretary and personal assistant but also friend and confidante.
“Let a girl get a foot in the door, will you?” she chided.
Kylie followed Eloise into her corner office complete with floor to ceiling windows and closed the door behind them.
“Well?” Kylie asked excitedly. “Spill it!”
“Spill what?” Eloise replied innocently, laying her briefcase on her chrome and glass desk. “That my lovely assistant failed to fill me in on our new hero’s unusual nickname?” Where on earth was her coffee? God, she needed to caffeinate herself since she’d been up half the night seething.
Kylie gave her an “oops” look, then plunged into her real line of questioning. “Deets! How was your date with Ryder last night?”
Eloise wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “It wasn’t a date, just dinner. And you don’t want to know.”
And I want to forget. If he didn’t work in this very building, I’d tell you he was an insufferable asshole that only wanted to get laid.
“I do so!” Kylie insisted, stamping her fuchsia Converse, which she’d probably used to choose her monthly hair color. “Who else can you tell if not me? C’mon, El, you’re killing me here. Did he look extra hot? Did his amazing lips trail kisses all over your body?”
Eloise sat down in her padded chair and rolled her eyes at her bubbly assistant. Kylie took her surname very seriously, ensuring almost everything she owned or touched came in shades of rose, including her brightly-dyed hair.
“Kyles,” she began, “it was a disaster. I should know better than to go out with corporate stiffs, let alone a co-worker. I’m so tired of arrogant, self-serving, bullshit men.” She pointed a finger at Kylie as she chuckled. “In fact, you should have stopped me. What kind of friend are you, letting me fall into that trap?”
“Hey, I’ve got your back, boss lady,” Kylie said in defense. “Ryder’s such a hunk, and you have so much in common. I really thought you two would hit it off, or I would have told you to quit while you were ahead. This sucks.”
Eloise shrugged. “Other than both our dads working in the pipe trades, and both of us working here for the Riot, the commonality ends there.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “He’s a big, dumb ex-jock who doesn’t see past his next lay, and it’s not going to be me,” she stated matter-of-factly as she hissed in a fortifying breath.
“He really tried to get in your pants?” Kylie asked, her eyes wide and a quasi-jealous smile curving her lips.
“Tried is the operative word. A stretch pass with no completion,” Eloise joked.
Kylie laughed at the hockey metaphor. “El, I know an ambitious gal like you thinks she should date an equally ambitious, successful guy. But that’s precisely the problem – everybody in the corporate game is too ambitious. You’d never have time for each other, or worse, be constantly trying to outdo each other. Maybe you should date someone a little more...” Kylie paused and waggled her chin searching for the right word. “…bohemian. Like a barista.”
Eloise raised an eyebrow. “Bohemian?” she repeated, as though confirming she heard right. “Okay, Kyles, I promise I’ll marry the very next poet, painter, or latte artiste I meet, how’s that? Deal?”
Kylie smiled broadly. “I’ll put it in your Outlook calendar. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll make you pinkie swear.” With a curt nod, she twirled an about face amidst a sea of wool fringe and returned to her own desk just outside Eloise’s door.
Eloise chuckled and watched her exit. I can’t imagine what I’d do without her. Kylie truly was the closest thing she had to a friend besides her sisters. And today, she really needed one.
The next time Eloise looked at a clock, five had come and gone. She rubbed her fingers at the nape of her neck to loosen the stiff muscles and eyed the lotion on her desk. Jesus. She felt dry and achy all over. She did a quick few yoga stretches, then reached for a squirt of her favorite coconut-melon lotion. The refreshing fragrance wafted up to her nostrils as she rubbed it into both hands, helping to clear the day’s events from her mind. Time to go home. In her haste to make the interview this morning, her jungle of houseplants had gone unwatered, and she’d forgotten to pick up her copy of Inside Sports, a weekly gossip rag she’d planned to start reading to keep up on the underbelly of the NHL.
Instead of going directly to the underground parking ramp, she took a detour to the newsstand on the corner. She flipped up the collar of her cashmere trench against the crisp February air and quickened her step. It was dark already. Eloise had never completely shaken her fear of winter nights in Minnesota and hugged her warm coat a little tighter to her body as she walked. Scanning the racks quickly, she grabbed her paper and moved to the checkout.
“That’ll be three dollars, lady,” the clerk said.
As Eloise rummaged in her leather clutch for some singles, she automatically salivated at the item sitting right next to the cash register. The one item she could never resist. Her stomach rumbled as she ogled the lone package of powdered mini-doughnuts, clearly the last one at this newsstand. She’d barely had lunch, and the lure of white sugary scrumptiousness was too powerful to ignore. “And these,” she said quickly, her hand darting out to grab her favorite guilty pleasure.
Before she could reach it, a large gloved hand closed on the same cellophane-wrapped treasure. Startled, her irritated gaze trailed up a long arm and found it connected to a tall man wearing a hoodie and sunglasses. In the dark? Did he have some kind of visual impairment? No way. This guy was a solid mass of impenetrable muscle. His upper lip and jaw sported an untidy bit of sexy scruff. Eloise darted her gaze around the perimeter, checking for gangbangers.
“I’m sorry, ladies first,” the man said in apology when he saw her, releasing the package and indicating she should take it.
“Oh,” Eloise said. “No, I think you had it first. You take it.”
The man’s lips curled into a brilliant white smile. “Play you for it,” he said, holding up a fist. “Rock-paper-scissors?”
The clerk sighed impatiently. “You still want the newspaper, miss?”
Eloise had difficulty dragging her eyes away from mister man candy, even more mouth-watering than the treat they’d be sparring over. A doughnut war. In spite of his unshaven state, he looked no more than thirty or so, and that smile had certainly dispelled any concerns over his homeys lurking nearby, sporting pearly white teeth and a charming dimple in his right cheek. At closer glance, his distressed jeans were True Religion. She glanced over at the clerk.
“Yes, thanks. Just a sec.”
“Ready?” man candy said.
“Ready,” she answered.
“One, two, three …” Their closed fists pumped the chilly air. Eloise’s gut told her to go with rock, and frowned in disappointment as his hand went flat, but her heart rate spiked as his open hand closed over her fisted one. A frisson of electricity crackled between them and traveled from his gloved hand straigh
t up her spine. He smiled, and her knees wobbled. One platonic touch and she was already gone.
Long gone.
“Paper covers rock,” he said. “I win.”
“That’s a buck either way,” the clerk muttered.
Man candy fished a dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it to the clerk. He pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose with one gloved finger, and with his other hand slid the doughnuts toward Eloise. She stared. Eloise shook her head to try and knock some sense back into her numbed out brain. She’d never felt this way in a man’s presence. Ever. And she didn’t like it. Eloise Robertson did not fawn over the hot guy. She didn’t fawn over any guy.
“My gift to you, pretty doughnut-lady. I like a woman who can handle processed carbs and sugar. Makes me think there are other things she could handle just as well.”
Eloise felt her cheeks flush in spite of the temperature. She could see their breath floating in the cold air between them.
Say something witty. Flirt with him. Say anything, you dolt.
“Thank you,” she said, gave him her rigid back and handed over her money for the paper. Grabbing the newspaper and the doughnuts, she searched for him through her peripheral vision, eager for one more hit of adrenaline, but man candy had already stepped away toward the curb. On a whim, Eloise peeled away a corner of the cellophane and plucked out one sugary little ring.
“Consolation prize,” she said, offering it to him. “I can never get enough of these things,” she conceded. “My one guilty pleasure.”
“Only one?” he said with a smirk. “Guilty pleasure, I mean?” He popped the hole into his mouth and moaned, the sound better than Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Heat crawled up her legs to pool in her panties. God, she wanted to hear him groan for the rest of her life. Or just one night.
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