Her Man Advantage

by Joanne Rock

  “Which usually makes for the best unscripted television. You know that.” Her boss of three years, the man who’d given her a chance to make the kinds of films she wanted right after her apprenticeship as his assistant, glared at her. “Jen, I made it clear this project wasn’t going to be another social diatribe that raked in awards and made no money. This is prime time for a mainstream audience and we’re using the footage if you expect to remain on the team.”

  She felt her jaw drop. Her stomach knot. She couldn’t lose this job and Colin knew it. Her credentials were showy but not worth much in the filmmaking industry. Who would hire a director who made beautiful documentaries that only found a viewership through the nation’s libraries and a few specialty theaters?

  Worse, how would she ever make the film about the dangers of social media in youth culture if she didn’t pull off this project first?

  “If I sign the waiver—” she paused as Axel bolted out of his seat and resumed his restless prowl around the conference room “—what is my role on location? Am I still directing?”

  “Absolutely.” Perhaps sensing he had her in an impossible position, Colin turned gracious once again, smiling at her as if he hadn’t just threatened her job. “You make the decisions for all the other story lines and you can handle your personal life however you wish. But I reserve the right to keep your story as one of the threads in the final mix, which means you’re as apt to be filmed as anyone else.”

  No wonder Colin had handpicked the camera crew to accompany her to Philadelphia. He’d wanted to ensure the commercial angles were covered, giving the film guys carte blanche to record her as she tried to develop the series. But no matter what she thought of her boss’s ruthless tactics, she knew when she’d been beaten.

  “Fine,” she agreed. Or at least, she agreed until she saw Axel’s pacing come to an abrupt halt.

  Covering the laptop microphone with her hand, she turned the screen away from them both for marginal privacy.

  “What else can I do?” she asked the hulking hockey star whose magnetic appeal had gotten her into this mess. “I can’t afford to lose this job.”

  “Are you sure?” He pinned her with a cool blue gaze. “This guy seems like a prick to work for.”

  Jennifer pressed her hand tighter over the microphone.

  “He’s a big-time name in indie film and believe it or not, he usually gives me a wide berth creatively.”

  Axel lifted a brow. “Blackmailing you into a cameo appearance in your own documentary doesn’t sound like a wide berth to me.”

  “He’s letting me make a project that means a lot to me if I do this series first.”

  “More coercion,” he muttered.

  “No one else is going to let me develop the other project the way I want and it’s…important to me.”

  He looked as if he wanted to say more. Argue the point. But he straightened and rolled his shoulders.

  The massive shoulders of a toned athlete. Gulp.

  She shook herself free of his allure. Focus, damn it.

  “It’s your call, obviously.” His words were clipped but polite. “But I’ve got to warn you that I’ve shot my last scene in this thing. I’ll be on the phone the rest of the day doing damage control. From now on, I’m making sure the only images of me in the final cut feature on-ice action.”

  Under her hand, she could hear her boss calling to her through the teleconference screen. She ignored him, hopeful he wouldn’t fire her now that they’d cut a deal.

  “No more kissing. I get it,” she whispered in an aside to Axel as she muffled the microphone on her computer.

  She didn’t like it, but she agreed restraint was for the best.

  “I didn’t say anything about no more kissing,” Axel clarified. The stern look he gave her made her grin ridiculously. “From now on, I’m only touching you behind locked doors.”

  “Wicked man.” She really should draw better boundaries. But she was starting to see what he’d meant when he’d said the attraction was like a freight train headed their way.

  “I mean it.”

  Her temperature rose just thinking about clandestine embraces and stolen touches. How could she possibly continue working with him without acting on the draw between them?

  “I know.” Her voice hitched on a breathy note and she had to clear her throat before she turned the laptop back toward her again. “Let me just finish things up with Colin and then we’ll find somewhere to…talk.”

  Her cheeks heated just thinking about being alone with Axel. She knew it was only a matter of time before the spark between them flared out of control, and she was on a tight deadline for this piece. The documentary series was supposed to air in episodes that were as close to real time as possible, so she needed to edit the first installment as she went to be ready for the Friday air date.

  Maybe she could buy a little time before things with her and Axel came to a head. First she needed to edit some film. Downplay the role of the kiss in the first installment that would be aired by week’s end. Only then would she have to face the truth of her attraction to him. And only in private. They’d been interrupted before she’d gotten a good taste of him, but that was a problem she could rectify once she was certain they wouldn’t be caught on film…again. Whatever happened between them was private and it was bound to burn itself out by the time she wrapped up her documentary series.

  “You want to talk?” Axel nodded slowly, his arms folded over his broad chest. “Good. We’ve got a flight to Montreal to catch. We’ll have lots of time for you to tell me all about the film you want to make so badly you’re willing to cut a deal with the devil.”

  * * *

  IT WAS EASY TO PACK FOR a road trip when you lived out of your car.

  Chelsea Durant jogged through the back entrance of the Phantoms’ practice rink into the spring sunshine, ahead of schedule to meet her friends and the camera guy—Bryce someone or other—for the ride up to Montreal. Her beater SUV wasn’t technically her place of residence anymore since she currently rented an apartment downtown. But the SUV had been her first home after living on the streets for three years on her own. And even though she’d been in an apartment for two years since those days of living out of the vehicle’s cargo compartment, she still kept a bag packed in the back in case she needed to hit the road in a hurry.

  Old habits died hard.

  Spotting her Ford Escape in the parking lot, she stopped short. There was a man next to the SUV, his features shadowed by a hat and the bright noonday sun. But he was big and looming. Scary.

  Heartbeat firing into high gear, she turned on her heel.

  “Chelsea?”

  The deep male voice from behind didn’t slow her down as she headed back toward the building. Toward safety.

  “Chelsea?” The man called again, a hint of his Minnesota accent drifting through her consciousness. “It’s me. Vinny.”

  Vincent? The rookie right wing who’d gone out of his way to be kind to her since joining the team this fall?

  That made sense. No one wanted to attack her in the Phantoms’ parking lot. Wherever the team was, she’d always felt safe. Protected by her own crew of hulking bodyguards.

  Feeling a little foolish, she slowed. Turned.

  He grinned from his spot in the middle of the parking lot, as if he wasn’t sure he should follow her. She took a step toward him and that seemed to be the cue he’d been waiting for. He jogged over to her, a beat-up baseball cap jammed on hair still damp from his shower.

  A normal woman would have jumped through hoops to talk to him. Vincent Girard was not only a gifted young athlete on the road to a successful NHL career. He was also handsome in a boy-next-door kind of way. His dark blond hair was clean-cut and short, the bristles standing almost straight up on the top of his head like a 1950s crew cut. A crooked smile hinted at an old facial injury where a series of thin scars spread from a white line on his upper lip. His hazel eyes veered the gamut from gray to green with flecks of br
own. And yes, she’d watched him closely since she felt an absurd love for Phantoms players.

  How could she be a good groupie unless she knew the life story of every last man on the team?

  “Sorry,” she called as he jogged closer. “I like to practice parking-lot safety and I couldn’t see who was under the hat.”

  He pulled up the brim and twisted the cap around until he resettled it backward on his head. The hat’s team logo was one she didn’t recognize—green-and-red with a flaming hockey stick. Maybe it had been a school or college team.

  “Is that better?” he asked, his white T-shirt and blue nylon shorts the team uniform for lifting and weight-room workouts.

  This outfit was clean, though, the cotton still crisp where it clung to broad shoulders. She remembered he was a farm boy, his muscles earned early in life lifting hay bales. That must have been in his bio when he’d joined the team.

  “Yes. Thanks.” She folded her arms, unsure of herself suddenly.

  Her interactions with the team members had become fairly routine, restricted to high fives after good games or practices, although occasionally she went out to team dinners with the players when they were on the road. Her role then was usually to ward off women, a job she was good at since her time on the street had honed her ability to broadcast a serious “don’t mess with me” vibe.

  What could Vincent want with her now?

  “I heard you’re headed to Montreal for the game.” He waved her back toward her SUV. “I have something to give you for the trip.”

  Following, she tried not to watch his awesome body in motion. Being a Phantoms fan gave her a certain amount of freedom to dream about the guys on the team, all the while knowing she was safe from any romantic interest on their part. A couple of the guys had tried to hit on her early in her tenure with the Phantoms. But she’d made it clear she was a sports groupie, not a sex groupie. And they’d been fine with it, glad to have her cheer for them and make the occasional carload of homemade chocolate-chip cookies for them after a road trip. The team thought of her as a sister these days, a fixture in the stands. The one who cheered them on when they were down.

  And given her issues with men from her past, that was the nicest role she could imagine for herself.

  Relaxing her guard, she honed her fan-girl knowledge. “Am I remembering right that you’re from a small town in Minnesota?”

  “I grew up on a farm outside of Cloquet. It’s not all that far from Duluth in the northeast corner of the state.” His long strides required she pick up her pace. At six foot two, he wasn’t even the tallest guy on the team, either. He turned to look at her. “Do you all have your passports for the trip across the border tonight?”

  “Enhanced licenses.” She’d learned that lesson the first time she’d driven all the way to the Canadian border and hadn’t been able to get in. “They’re cheaper and they’re good enough if you’re driving over.”

  Reaching her vehicle in the small lot that was quickly emptying out, Chelsea saw a small box on the hood.

  “I remembered you got lost the last time we went to Boston.” He picked up the package and handed it to her. “I thought this might help.”

  A gift? She couldn’t believe he remembered she’d taken a wrong turn on the way to that Boston game. An odd little shiver went through her knowing he’d thought about her. Peering down at the box, she couldn’t help a startled gasp.

  “A GPS?” She read the brand name and saw the long list of fancy features. She’d salivated over these gadgets long enough in the store to recognize a high-end brand. “Wow. I have a navigation app on my phone, but I’ve been wanting—” Stopping herself, she recalled that she had no business taking gifts from a man. “But I can’t accept this.”

  “Don’t think twice about it. I got it for my sister last year and her husband bought her one, too. Then I forgot to take it back to the store for so long I’m stuck with it anyhow.” He took the box from her hands and opened it. “If you pop the locks I’ll have it hooked up for you by the time Misty gets here.”

  He nodded toward the back door where her closest friend emerged with the cameraman who would be accompanying their group to Montreal. Chelsea could hardly pretend Vincent posed any kind of threat in her car when her friend and the camera dude were both within shouting distance. Besides, she’d known Vinny since he’d joined the team. His number was even inked in a special place close to her heart since he’d been the first guy on the team to speak to her directly, the first team member to really draw her into the Phantoms’ inner circle and make her feel safe.

  The Phantoms were the closest thing she had to a family ever since the summer she was seventeen, when she’d walked out of her mother’s makeshift tent by the river. She found herself opening the driver’s side door for Vincent.

  “Well…thank you.” The words were scratchy in her throat and they felt weighty as she said them. Not that she wasn’t a grateful person. But as a rule, she did not accept gifts. No handouts. No favors.

  That way no one could expect anything of her in return. No one could demand something she “owed them,” a situation her mother had found herself in far too often. And the way she’d paid back generous men had turned Chelsea’s stomach.

  “Actually, Vinny—” she started, about to tell him she’d changed her mind. The memories in her head were too visceral. Too disturbing.

  “All done.” He slid out of the truck, box in hand and the GPS mounted to her windshield. “I’m so glad someone is going to get some use out of it. Drive safe, Chelsea.”

  He strolled across the parking lot, whistling, leaving her to wonder what had just happened. She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he walked away, even when Misty arrived with the camera guy in tow.

  “Seriously, Chelsea?” Misty clutched her chest as if she was about to have a heart attack, her gaze following Chelsea’s while the cameraman made a second trip back to the building for more video equipment. “Are you making time with one of the players behind my back?” she teased. “Were you talking to Vinny Girard alone out here just now?”

  They were the same age and they’d met in a women’s shelter downtown one winter after Misty’s father had kicked her out of the house at sixteen—his new wife hadn’t wanted her around. But she’d rebounded quickly, finding work at a makeup counter thanks to her natural gregariousness and good looks. With her dark blue-black hair and green eyes, she had a doll-like fragile beauty that belied the powerhouse personality beneath.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Chelsea chided, only able to tear her eyes away now that Vincent disappeared inside the building. “He just wanted to be sure we made it to Montreal safely.”

  It was incredibly thoughtful, really. Even if she was still a little uneasy at the idea of accepting his generous gift.

  “What do you mean?” The question barely left her lips when Misty peered inside the open door of the SUV. “Oh, my God. Did he give you that?”

  Her friend was already crawling into the driver’s seat for a closer look, her curls spiraling out of control in the spring warmth.

  “He had an extra one—”

  “And it has maps for Canada! Coolness.” Misty tapped in an address on the digital keyboard. “I told you he has the hots for you.”

  “Excuse me?” Chelsea felt something shift inside her. Her stomach dropped the same way it did when she took a high-speed elevator.

  Misty pressed another button on the GPS and remounted the screen to the windshield.

  “He likes you, Chels. I tried to tell you that earlier this season when he invited you to dinner with the team.”

  “He didn’t invite me.” She vividly recalled the first time Vincent had suggested they join the Phantoms for one of the team meals. “He invited all of us.”

  “Only because he knows you would have never said yes otherwise.” Misty waved to their other friends, Rosa and Keiko, as they stepped into the parking lot along with Bryce, who seemed to be on his second trip carrying equipment.
>
  Chelsea was so stunned by what Misty was suggesting she couldn’t seem to move past it, however.

  “Vincent Girard plays in the NHL. He’s handsome. He’s thoughtful. He’s rich. The guy could have any woman he wants.”

  “Really?” Misty gave her a curious look. “He wants you, Chels. I don’t care how much he has going for him, I’m betting he’ll have his hands full trying to make that work.”

  Misty knew about her hang-ups. Her reticence with guys no matter how hot they were. Misty started to move toward their friends, but Chelsea tugged her back, confused and wary.

  “What are you talking about?” She knew Vincent liked her, but the relationship was more friendly than anything. He looked at her like a sister, trying to make sure she didn’t get lost on the way to a strange city or giving her some company for dinner when the team was on the road.

  Misty pinched her cheek as if she was an ancient Italian grandmother doting on a child.

  “Wake up, Chelsea. You’re so gun-shy you can’t see when a guy likes you. Can I help it if I feel sorry for Vin when you won’t give him a chance to get close?”

  Something about Misty’s earnest expression made her realize her friend genuinely believed that Vincent liked her. Really liked her. In a way that was more than just friendly.

  Around her, Rosa and Keiko arrived with their overnight bags, excited and giggling over some shared joke. Bryce loaded up another camera and a battery pack into the trunk. But the whole scene unfolded through a dense fog for Chelsea.

  She felt light-headed. Dizzy. Sounds grew faint. But it wasn’t until she went to speak and couldn’t force out any words that she realized she was having a full-on panic attack.

  All because a guy might like her.

  No wonder Misty felt sorry for Vincent. He might have the world by the tail, but clearly the woman he was interested in was a complete basket case.

  * * *

  FIVE HOURS LATER, JENNIFER had finished her call to her boss and smoothed over the rough edges with him. She’d mapped out a few ideas for subplots in the hockey documentary series—subplots she hoped would be interesting enough to keep Colin from focusing too much on her relationship with Axel—which wasn’t a relationship at all, but simply an ill-timed kiss.