Winning Hard

by Lisa B. Kamps

  Taylor frowned, not bothering to hide her bewilderment. "Why wouldn't I? You were in perfect position."

  "Not really. You could have just as easily made that shot. We both know it."

  "No. I was too far away. You had the better chance."

  Jordyn watched her for a long second, her gray eyes serious and focused. She glanced over at Rachel and Amanda then turned back to Taylor. "Not everyone would have done that, and we both know it. So, thanks."

  Taylor stood there, stunned, as Jordyn walked away. She hadn't expected that—any of it—and she wondered what was behind it. If there was a reason Jordyn had approached her. Maybe she actually meant the words, maybe she didn't. Did it matter?

  Not really. Taylor hoped that it meant they'd at least be on friendly terms, but she wasn't going to hold her breath—not after all the friction and tension that had been between them the last few months.

  Sammie stepped closer, her gaze on Jordyn as the other woman headed into the nightclub. "What was that all about?"

  "Honestly? I have no idea. But I'm hoping it was a step in the right direction."

  "Hm. Maybe. But I wouldn't really trust her just yet." Sammie stared at something behind Taylor and frowned. "And I sure as anything wouldn't trust those two."

  She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze meeting Rachel's for several long seconds. She tried to ignore the anger and hatred that flared in the other woman's eyes, tried to tell herself it didn't matter. But it did, and she wasn't sure why.

  Taylor turned back around with a sigh and followed Sammie across the floor. "Trust me. I don't."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Charles hung up the phone then leaned back in the chair, disappointment threatening to cloud his vision. He wanted to scream. To kick something. To curl his hand into a fist and put it through a wall.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath instead, slowly releasing it through his clenched teeth. This was nothing more than one more disappointment in a long line of disappointments. Just another obstacle. He should be used to it by now, right?

  Hell, he had told himself he wanted the challenge, that he was up for it. Nothing like a nice challenge to sharpen his skills and focus his mind.

  But fuck, it would be nice to catch one break. Just one. Was that asking for too much?

  Apparently.

  He glanced at his watch and bit back a curse. The meeting was starting in five minutes and he had absolutely nothing new to report. There was no more interest now than there had been since the first game three weeks ago. And the Blades had won all three—their first two at home, as well as their road game in New York on Saturday.

  It didn't matter that the other teams were hitting the same brick wall he was: a complete lack of interest in women's hockey. It made no sense. He hadn't expected news outlets to be beating down his door with requests, but he hadn't expected this depressing wall of silence, either. Would this weekend's little exhibition at the Banners' home game help? Maybe. But he couldn't count on it.

  And with a very limited budget for advertising, he was trapped. Social media only worked for so long. Low-budget ads in the local papers only reached so far. And forget television spots—there simply wasn't enough money for that.

  Hell, the team barely had enough money to fix the fucking ice, something the girls had complained about—loudly—after their first game. He'd gone out there himself and could see exactly what they were talking about. And if he could see it, with his limited experience, why the hell couldn't Murphy?

  Because Murphy wasn't looking at it the same way. Not even close. To Murphy and the rest of his cronies, this was nothing more than a quaint experience. A chance to live out a dream of owning a sports team. If it didn't work out, it would be nothing more than a tax write-off for the older man.

  But it was a hell of a lot more than that to the ladies. To Taylor. Why couldn't Murph see that? It wasn't Charles's job, not even close, but even he could see something needed to change. If it didn't, Taylor's fears would become a reality: everything would implode before the season was halfway over.

  Charles pushed back his anger and grabbed the thick file from the corner of his desk. He wasn't looking forward to the meeting, wasn't looking forward to dropping some cold hard truths on the table. It needed to be done, though, and he wasn't sure there was anyone else who could do it.

  He pushed through the doors of the conference room, his gaze sweeping across the expensive leather chairs and gleaming surface of the custom table. Anger flashed through him again but he pushed it down, holding it in check as James turned toward him.

  "Chuck. I was just getting ready to call you. What have you got for us? Good news, I hope. Ticket sales aren't even close to what we were hoping for."

  Charles opened his mouth then quickly snapped it closed. His carefully planned speech hovered right on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't get the words out. Six sets of eyes watched him, their bored faces filled with nothing more than polite patience. Only Murphy looked like he was remotely interested, but not for the right reasons.

  Not even close.

  Charles scanned each impassive face, taking in the expensive designer suits and flashy rings and watches. His gaze rested on the large, intricately-cut Waterford crystal bowl that sat in the middle of the polished table then traveled to the new, state-of-the-art AV system built into the far wall. Why the hell did they even need it? Nobody was using it as far as he knew, not even the coaching staff, who filmed the practices and games on someone's personal camera then watched them at home.

  Charles tossed the overstuffed file onto the table, hard enough that papers scattered across the surface. He leaned forward and planted his fists on the table then fixed Murphy with a frigid glare.

  "How much was this table?"

  Thick white brows shot up above steely eyes. "Chuck, I don't think—"

  "How about this bowl? How much? A couple grand?" Charles pushed away from the table and moved to the end of the room, all eyes focused on him as he stopped in front of the AV system. "Or this? How much?"

  "I don't see—"

  "When the hell has anyone ever used it, Murph?" He pulled in a deep breath and let it out, slow and even as he walked around the table. Murph was staring at him, surprise and anger simmering in his steely eyes. Had Charles expected anything different? No, of course not. Not really. Hell, he didn't know what he expected.

  So he might as well keep going.

  "You've spared no expense when it comes to this front office. It was designed to impress and it sure as hell does its job. The only problem is, nobody is interested in coming here. Local media is less-than-enthusiastic about the entire team. The majority of the public doesn't even know the Blades exist. And those that do know don't care enough. There's nothing to entice them into coming. Nothing—"

  "That's exactly why we brought you on, Chuck. It's your job to get them here."

  His temper flared and he leaned across the table again. "With what? You gave me a job to do but absolutely no budget to work with. You sit up here in your designer suits surrounded by all the trimmings that scream success while downstairs, the girls are risking broken ankles by playing on destroyed ice. And they're doing it for damn near free."

  "That's not true. They get paid. All of them."

  Charles laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. "Paid? You can actually sit there and say that with a straight face? Every single one of them works another job. Some of them are working two jobs. But they keep showing up here, busting their asses, because they love the game."

  "And where exactly do you suggest we pull money from? Ticket sales are stagnant. Like you said, people aren't interested. That was your job, Chuck. To get them interested."

  Charles didn't miss the man's use of the past-tense. Had he just shot himself in the foot? Maybe. What the hell. He might as well keep going. It certainly couldn't hurt.

  "You need to increase the marketing budget. Let me run some real ads. Come up with some giveaways and incentive
s to get people through the door. Look into sponsors. Spend some money for a line of souvenirs to offer for sale. Hell, something. Anything. Get the damn ice fixed before someone gets hurt. And do something about that damn bus you've got the team using for their road games. It has an exhaust leak that's damn near deadly."

  Silence, thick and heavy, settled over the room. A few of the men dropped their gazes, focusing on the table. One or two looked out the large tinted window. But not Murphy.

  The older man watched him with those steely eyes, his jaw set and his back and shoulders rigid. Charles met that cold look. Refusing to look away, refusing to back down.

  He expected Murph to tell him to get lost. To tell him to clean out his desk and start looking for a new job. Fair enough—Charles knew that was a possibility before he opened his mouth. It would suck, but he could find another job. Because he was that good.

  At least, he was that good when he actually had something to work with.

  Murph finally broke eye contact and glanced around the table. He frowned then turned back to Charles. "How do you know all this?"

  "Know all what?"

  "About the ice. The bus. The girls working other jobs. How do you know?"

  Christ, was he serious? Yes, he was. Charles ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. "Because I talk to them, Murph. Because I've gotten to know them. Maybe you should try it."

  And yeah, that time he had gone too far. He could see it in the way color blossomed on Murph's face and in the way the older man's eyes narrowed. The man next to Murph—Charles couldn't remember his name—leaned in and said something in a low voice. Murph frowned again, shot another dangerous look at Charles, then turned back to the other man, still listening to whatever was being said. A long minute went by, filled with thick tension.

  Murphy released a loud sigh, sat back in the chair, and steepled his fingers under his chin. The silence continued to stretch around them, long enough that Charles actually shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling like a kid ready to receive some kind of harsh punishment.

  "I'll make sure money is added to your budget. And I'll have someone look into the bus situation. Will that work?"

  Charles blinked, wondering if he was hearing things. No, he wasn't. It took more control than he thought it would to keep his mouth from dropping open in shock. "Yeah. Yes. That would be great."

  "Good. Now, about the other things." Murphy glanced at the man next to him then turned back to Charles. "A few of us will be at practice tomorrow night. Make sure you're there. I want you to introduce the girls to everyone. And then I want you to have someone show me what the problem is with the ice."

  "Yes, of course. No problem."

  "Good." Murph pushed away from the table and stood, a clear signal of dismissal. Charles reached for the scattered papers and shoved them back into the folder, ready to disappear before Murphy changed his mind.

  "Chuck? One more thing."

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm still expecting results. And soon. Understood?"

  "Yeah. Absolutely." Charles nodded, glanced around the room and nodded again, then hurried out.

  Holy shit. It had worked. Not that he had been planning on saying any of that, but it had worked. It was a start.

  He glanced at his watch, wondering if it was too early to call Taylor. She was working at the gym until five tonight but her job was pretty flexible. Did she have a client right now? He couldn't remember.

  It didn't matter. He'd still call her. If she couldn't talk, he'd leave her a voicemail and give her the news. Maybe she'd even have some ideas on what to say and do tomorrow night because he sure as hell didn't.

  Chapter Nineteen

  "This wasn't exactly what I had in mind, Tay-Tay."

  "But it's brilliant. Come on, even you have to admit it."

  Charles shook his head then leaned against the boards, damn near falling on his ass in the process. He ignored Taylor's small laugh and regained his balance, using the stick almost like a crutch. The only consolation was that he wasn't the only one having trouble staying upright on the ice.

  "It's not going to be so brilliant if Murph keels over from a heart attack. It's never a good idea to kill the man with the money" He glanced at Taylor, something warm spreading through his chest at the sight of her small smile. She looked so natural, standing there on the ice, the skates nothing more than a natural extension of her body. Her thick hair was pulled back in a ponytail, the lights from above dancing on the light brown and honey blonde strands each time she moved. She was wearing warm-up pants—probably over a pair of sweatpants, judging from the slight bulk—and an old green jersey free of any designs or logos. She held the stick in her gloved hands in front of her, her grip relaxed and casual.

  She belonged on the ice, more than anyone else he'd ever seen. That didn't stop the urge he had to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off the ice. He almost laughed when he imagined her reaction. Yeah, he wouldn't get very far, not after she slugged him and dropped him on his ass.

  "Mr. Murphy really isn't doing that bad."

  Charles forced himself to focus on the here-and-now and looked over, his eyes automatically finding the owner of the Blades. He was at center ice, his ankles wobbling and his feet shuffling under him as he made slow progress along the ice. Sammie stood just in front of him, gliding backward, her arms held slightly in front of her—like she'd actually catch him if he fell.

  "Do you really think pairing him with Sammie was a good idea? He'll crush her if he falls on top of her."

  "Don't underestimate her size. She plays defense, remember? She can handle it. Besides, everyone loves Sammie. She's perfect for what's going to happen."

  Charles turned his head to the side so fast, he nearly fell again. He ignored Taylor's outstretched arm and frowned, a sense of foreboding rushing through him. "What do you mean, for what's going to happen? Taylor, what the hell are you cooking up?"

  "Relax. I'm not cooking up anything. You wanted him to get to know some of the team, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, like I said, everyone loves Sammie. I mean, look at her. Those big brown eyes and that dark mop of curls. The way she's always smiling. She teaches kindergarten, for crying out loud."

  "What does that have to do with anything?"

  "Well, just look. Mr. Murphy is already entranced by her. See the way he's watching her, like he'd do anything to keep her safe?"

  Charles looked closer, convinced Taylor was seeing things. Well, okay, maybe the older man did look like he could turn into a protective guard dog at any minute. Maybe—if Charles squinted his eyes and tilted his head to the side then looked really, really hard.

  He shook his head and turned back to Taylor. "No, not really."

  "You have no imagination, Chuckie." She laughed and tapped him on the leg with the bade of her stick, then used it to point. "Trust me on this, okay? And when Sammie starts telling him her story, he's going to go all soft and gooey and be willing to do anything for her."

  "Her story?"

  "Yeah. About how she fell so hard in love and got married and had Clare and thought it would be forever. Except then her jerk husband shipped out and served her with divorce papers from overseas with no warning. The dumb fuck."

  "Uh, I don't think—"

  Taylor cleared her throat and placed the blade of her stick back on the ice. "She's not going to say it quite like that."

  "I hope not. But I don't think making up a story is going to help."

  Taylor turned to face him, something sharp and cold flashing in her whiskey-colored eyes. "It's not a story. He really did divorce her. She packed up her few belongings and came back here to move in with her parents. I thought you knew that."

  "No. I mean, I knew she was a single mom but I didn't know the rest of it." Charles looked over at the petite woman, sympathy welling inside him. He noticed that Murph suddenly looked sympathetic as well—sympathetic and troubled. Sammie shrugged and wiped a sleeve acro
ss her face as a wobbly smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Then her arms shot out to the side and started pinwheeling a second before she fell sideways on the ice.

  Murph's eyes widened in surprise and he reached for the woman, doing his best to help her up. Sammie struggled to stand, her right foot wobbling and sliding out from under her.

  "Oh shit. She's not hurt, is she?"

  Taylor dropped one hand on his arm, holding him in place before he could start forward. "Just watch."

  Sammie's foot slid out from under her one last time. She reached up, her hand catching Murph's, pulling him off-balance as well. The older man fell to his knees, an expression of astonishment crossing his face. Sammie spun around and curled her legs under her, then leaned forward, pointing to something on the ice. Murph frowned and leaned closer, then reached out with one hand and traced whatever it was Sammie was showing him.

  "She's showing him one of the gouges we have to deal with. Telling him how dangerous it is and how the players have to be so careful and everything because they're so hazardous."

  "Damn. You guys staged that?"

  "Yup." Taylor's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Sammie's the best at embellishment. Told you this was brilliant."

  "I'm impressed, Tay-Tay. This might actually work."

  "Yeah? How impressed?"

  He didn't miss the flash of heated excitement in her eyes, or the way her gaze dropped to his mouth for a fleeting second. An answering heat shot through him, his reaction going from zero to a hundred in a millisecond. And shit, now was not the time. Or the place.

  That didn't stop him from leaning forward, his voice low as he spoke. "Impressed enough to do whatever you want."

  "Yeah?" Taylor leaned closer too, her own voice heated and husky. "Whatever I want? I'm sure I can come up with something. Tonight."

  Charles started to answer but Taylor jerked back, her eyes narrowing as she looked at something behind him. He frowned and followed her gaze, surprised to see Rachel Woodhouse and Amanda Beall watching them from their spot near the net. Neither woman looked happy, but there was something especially chilling about the expression on Rachel's face.