by Vi Keeland, Penelope Ward, LJ Shen, RS Grey, Willow Winters, Sarina Bowen, Helena Hunting
Hmm. Now I’m picturing a young man who’s far from home. Maybe he’s just like me, struggling to adjust to the big city. Maybe he already made the mistake of getting on the downtown-bound subway when he needed to go uptown, and having to get off again to switch tracks.
We’re both rookies, I guess. This idea calms me down a fraction. Eventually I’ll figure the city out, right? And I’ll learn enough to be useful at my new job. Everything is so overwhelming right now. I feel lucky, but I’m just so intimidated. Every day is a struggle.
There’s a headshot in the Tankiewicz folder, too. I pull it out of its envelope, because a girl has to be able to match a name to a face, right?
And…jeez. This man is something else. He’s got a strong jaw and a serious, green-eyed stare. Thick hair. Long eyelashes. Wowzers. Wednesday’s dinner just became a whole lot more scenic. Happy Birthday to me.
By Wednesday afternoon, I’m really looking forward to the occasion. I’m finally twenty-one years old, so I can have a glass of wine, and it won’t even be against the law.
Mr. Kassman asked me to meet him at Sparks at seven o’clock. I’m on schedule to finish all my work by five, though. What to do with those extra two hours?
These are my thoughts as I carefully punch a fax number into the machine. Then I hit the SEND button and listen to the phone dial the number. The machine at the other end picks up, and the first page of the document begins to draw through the scanner.
That’s when I happen to glance down at the other contract I’m holding. And I notice that the phone number on that contract matches the number I just dialed.
It takes a moment for all my synapses to catch up. Two professional athletes can’t have the same number. So that means the contract on the scanner is about to be sent to the wrong guy.
Holy shit!
I grab the remaining pages off the tray and then slap the CANCEL button. But the paper is still slowly moving through the machine. When I grab it, the machine holds on tightly. It stops the paper’s progress, but it doesn’t let go, either.
So, dropping all the papers in my hands, I reach over, pinch the connector of the data cable, and yank it out of the wall. The machine makes an unhappy sound and the word ERROR flashes on the display.
“Good lord. That was almost a total disaster,” I gasp.
“What was?” asks a clipped voice.
I whirl around and find Jane Pines—the only female agent at Kassman’s small company, and the agent who asked me to fax these contracts. She leans on the doorframe, staring at me.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “No problem. I’ve got it handled.”
Her eyes narrow. “Did you really almost fax a contract to the wrong player?”
“I caught it just in time.” I’m dying inside, but I still stand up for myself. I need this job.
“But that would be a huge—”
“—Breach of confidentiality,” I snap. “Believe me, I understand the problem.” It comes out too forcefully. I’m in so much trouble now.
But Pines doesn’t start to yell. In fact, my outburst has exactly the opposite effect. She looks me right in the eye for the first time ever. “Well. I’m glad you caught the error.”
“Just so you know?” I pluck the sticky note off the machine—the one that had been affixed to the cover page. “This phone number was stuck to the wrong contract.” That means the mistake is the fault of Pines herself or her personal assistant.
“I expected you to verify the number against the cover sheet.” She shrugs. “And I guess you did, at the last possible second. Carry on. And then please make a coffee run.”
She doesn’t wait for my response. She just walks away, and I’m left standing by the fax machine, my heart trying its best to pound its way out of my chest. I just stood up to the boss, and didn’t get fired. And she liked it, I think.
God, this business is weird. I think I can make it here, as long as I wake up every day feeling like a hungry tiger.
Carefully, I reboot the fax machine to erase its memory. And then I start all over again.
My adrenaline rush still isn’t over when I leave the office to walk across town. Killing time, I push through the revolving doors at Bloomingdale’s. I’ve never been here before, so it takes me a moment to look around. I see handbags in a million colors, and miles of cosmetics.
The whole store is out of my league. But I get on the escalator anyway. It glides past the makeup products that I can’t afford, and don’t know how to use, anyway.
As I float higher and higher through the perfume-scented fashion mothership, I realize that there isn’t one specific women’s department. There are several. I don’t know the difference between sportswear and casual wear. But I spot a sign reading SALE, so I get off the escalator to flip through the offerings.
What would Jane Pines wear to a business dinner? I ask myself.
But this question leads me nowhere, because I truly have no idea. I’m just a poor kid from the wrong part of Michigan.
I’d better pay closer attention from now on. Tomorrow, I’ll make sure to notice the details of Jane’s outfit. And her accessories. She probably wears makeup, too, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.
I flip through filmy little tops until I find a sleeveless silk blouse in turquoise blue. The fabric is so soft that it’s almost otherworldly. I’ve never owned anything that was actually silk. But this is marked down to $27.99.
In the dressing room, I study myself in the three-way mirror. It’s only a blouse, but I still look impossibly sophisticated.
“That’s beautiful with your coloring,” the saleslady says.
“I’m thinking of wearing it to a business dinner,” I tell her. “What do you think?”
“Perfect. If you want to wear it out, I’ll cut the tags for you.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m approaching Sparks Steakhouse on East Forty-Sixth. I arrive exactly two minutes past seven. My new blouse feels like armor. I’m ready to play the role of the Girl Who Knows What She’s Doing.
“Reservation for Henry Kassman,” I say to the man in the bow tie at the entrance.
“Of course,” he says. “Henry has already arrived. Right this way.”
As we move through the dark interior, I’m glad I dressed up a little. This place is fancy, with white tablecloths and giant wine goblets under a rich red ceiling.
“Bess! Here she is, gentlemen.”
Three men stand up—my boss, as well as three young athletes. I shake hands with Ushakov and Bilka first. I’m saving Tankiewicz for last, I guess. But when I finally offer my hand, and look him in the eye, I feel a little stunned.
“Nice to meet you,” he says in a deep, rich voice, while he looks me over with an assessing green gaze. “My friends call me Tank.”
I smile suddenly, because I totally called that nickname. “I’m Bess.” I try not to sound breathy and weird. But, lord, the man is all that and a bag of chips. His broad shoulders are practically straining the seams of his crisp white shirt, which is open at the throat to reveal a strong neck and sun-kissed skin.
And those eyes. They smolder.
I suddenly realize the waiter is still standing beside me, with a chair pulled out. So I sit down quickly, and the man puts the napkin right in my lap for me.
Okay, that’s a little formal. He hands me a hand-printed menu and then darts off again.
“Bess is my newest hire.” Henry Kassman sips from his water glass. “She recently played left wing for the Michigan State women’s D1 team. They were the runners-up at the national championship tournament in March.”
There’s a murmur of approval all around the table, and three sets of eyes turn to me once again. And I swear these young men are looking at me with more interest than they did just a moment ago.
That’s interesting. And pretty amazing. Women’s hockey doesn’t get a lot of attention from anyone except the women who play it. I relax a little in my chair, because these are my people.
“Who beat
ya?” Tankiewicz sits back in his chair and gives me a lazy grin.
“Lindenwood,” I grumble. “But they’re done winning.”
His grin widens. He picks up his menu. “What’s good here?”
“Everything,” Kassman says. “The steak au poivre is my personal favorite.”
What the heck is au poivre? I wonder silently.
“Care to translate that?” Tankiewicz asks. “I don’t speak snooty menu.”
“With pepper,” he says. “It’s a creamy peppercorn sauce. I’m sure my cardiologist would prefer me to avoid it, but it’s terrific. The creamed spinach is also amazing.”
Tankiewicz’s expression has some doubts about the spinach.
But it would match your eyes, I catch myself thinking. Luckily, I don’t say that out loud. I’m not that far gone.
Although it’s close.
When the waiter comes back to take our order, he starts with me, unfortunately. Because I’m self-conscious, I turn the question back around. “What would you recommend?”
“The filet mignon is our tenderest steak, but it’s on the smaller side,” he begins.
“That sounds lovely.” I hand him my menu, happy to have that decision made. And now I know how to pronounce filet mignon.
“Medium rare okay?” he asks.
“Perfect.”
This proves to be an excellent decision. The food is every bit as good as Henry promised. It’s an effort to eat the steak slowly. It’s so tender it practically melts against my tongue. This is easily the best meal I’ve ever had.
And Mr. Kassman ordered a selection of side dishes for the table, so there’s plenty of things to taste. He also ordered a red wine that had its twenty-first birthday a year before I did.
“I would have ordered your exact vintage,” Kassman crows. “Except that wasn’t a good year for Burgundies.”
“It wasn’t a good year for baby girls, either,” I say darkly, and every man at the table cracks up.
I was only half joking, though. My mother never meant to have a second child. And after I was born, she fell apart. She became addicted to drugs, and died of an overdose before my second birthday.
But none of that matters tonight, does it? I could have skipped reading those files over the weekend. Nothing more is expected of me than sipping red wine and appreciating the surprisingly good creamed spinach. Hockey players are always full of stories, and I’m the lucky girl who gets to sit here and listen.
Ushakov’s father drives a taxi in Moscow, so I hear all about the time the two of them stopped a kidnapping at the airport. And then Tankiewicz tells a story about pulling a prank on a teammate. The guy ended up running around their apartment building naked, begging to be let back in.
“But I held out until the poor SOB promised he wouldn’t put plastic in the bottom rack of the dishwasher anymore.”
We all laugh. The wine warms my bloodstream, turning my anxious mind into a softer, golden place. I forget that I’m not supposed to stare at Tankiewicz. And every time I look up, our gazes collide.
“My motto is simple.” Tank leans back in his chair like a king in his throne. The wine goblet nearly disappears in his big hand. “In any situation, I just ask myself—what can I get away with? And then I do that.”
We all laugh again. Except I also realize something important. I’ve never once looked at life that way. Instead of what can I get away with, my motto is I’ll just keep my head down and avoid trouble.
I’ve known trouble, so my outlook isn’t an accident. But maybe Tankiewicz has a better way of looking at the world. I’m on my own now. I don’t always have to color inside the lines.
“I’ll bet the dessert is really good here,” Tankiewicz says. And then he lifts his eyes and looks straight at me.
After dessert and coffee, we follow my boss outside. “I’ve got four cars waiting,” he says. “The fifth one is late, though. Should take a few more minutes.”
“You go ahead, Mr. Kassman,” Tank says. “Age before beauty. I don’t need a car. Heck, I’ll share with Bess. She can drop me at the hotel on her way home.”
“Sounds like a plan, son, if Bess doesn’t object,” Henry says.
“No problem,” I agree, even though the sound of my name on Tank’s lips gives me butterflies.
“All right then. Good night, everyone. Go home—get some rest, boys. You’re going to need it for the rest of training camp.”
I slide onto the leather seat of a car beside Tank and give the driver the address of my tiny studio apartment in the West Fifties. “And first we’ll need to stop, at…” I turn to Tank for clarification. “You’re in a hotel, right?”
He doesn’t answer right away. The car slides away from the curb as Tank lifts my hand off the leather seat, kissing my palm right in the center.
Tingles ripple through my body as his lips skim my hand, stunning me.
“Let’s make it one stop instead,” he says slowly. “Your birthday isn’t quite over yet, right? And I’m really good at celebrating.”
It takes me several beats of my heart to understand what he’s proposing. This gorgeous creature wants to take me home with him?
He raises his eyebrows. Waits for my answer. And while he waits, he lowers his lips to my palm and kisses me again. Slowly.
Holy god. I didn’t know a palm kiss could be wet and dirty.
“O-okay,” I stammer, wide-eyed. It’s not as if I don’t like this idea. Actually, the saner parts of me are a little intimidated. But other parts are already on board with the plan. My pulse beats low and heavy in my body.
Especially when Tank puts a hand on my knee and gives it a dirty squeeze. “The Marriott Marquis, please,” he says silkily. “One stop only.”
The cabby grunts his reply and turns left onto Park, heading downtown.
Tank’s hand is a heady presence on my leg. “Where’re you from, Bess? Did you grow up in Michigan?”
“Y-yes,” I stammer. “I took a New York job to be close to my brother. You’ll have to play against him in the pre-season.”
“Dave Beringer is your brother? Good to know.” He chuckles. “Maybe we’d better keep this little adventure to ourselves, then.”
“Sounds like a great idea.”
He laughs, sounding thoroughly amused. And his words from the dinner table come back to me. Let’s just see what I can get away with.
His sense of daring is contagious. For once in my life, I want to feel that way, too—as if the night is an adventure of my own making. My spirit is willing, although my experience is weak. I feel a little tongue-tied. I haven’t had any practice chatting up a one-night stand.
To think that I studied the players’ stats, trying to prepare myself for tonight. I was obviously studying up on all the wrong things.
Luckily, it’s a really short ride across town. I don’t have much time to panic. We pull up at the busy hotel before I’m ready.
Tank tips the driver and then palms my back as we enter the lobby. “She ain’t pretty,” Tank eyes the curved bank of elevators that comprises the lobby space, “but at least this hotel is close to the rink.”
“Mmm,” I say stupidly.
We get onto a crowded elevator, and off again on the tenth floor. Tank whistles as he leads me down a nondescript hallway to his room.
He slides the keycard through the slot, and the door clicks open. But I stay rooted to the hallway carpeting, my courage flickering like a bulb that might go out at just the wrong moment.
I want to pretend that I’m as fun as all this. But I’m not sure I know how to fake it.
Tank pauses in the doorway, appraising me. Those green eyes ask whether I’m still on board with this. Slowly, he offers one of his hands to me, palm up.
After a moment’s hesitation, I put my own hand in his. But it’s shaky. “I don’t do this,” I blurt, and the confession feels good.
“Uh, never?” His eyes flash with disbelief, followed quickly by concern.
“Well, not never.
Just not lately. And never on a whim.” The words just tumble out of me.
“Ah,” he says, his eyes warming. “But there’s nothing to it. That’s the point of a whim. Do you need me to demonstrate? To show you the ropes?”
“I think I do.” I smile.
“All right, come in.”
With my hand still clasped in his, I follow him into the hotel room, where a giant bed looms large, its pillowy white surface practically glowing in the lamplight. I eye it, my heart galloping with expectation. I still don’t see a path through my awkwardness to ending up on there. With him.
Calmly, Tank removes his suit jacket and tosses it onto a chair. “Okay, so the first thing you need to know about whims is that you can’t do it wrong.” He removes my bag from my shoulder and sets it down on the floor.
“No?”
“There aren’t any rules, so they can’t be broken.” His expression is remarkably serious, given the topic. “As long as everyone is having a good time, that is.”
“Okay. I understand.”
“Good.” He steps closer, invading my personal space with his big body and his ridiculously sexy face. He reaches up and moves my hair off my neck with such tenderness that goose bumps rise up my arms. Then he leans in and kisses just the corner of my mouth.
“Oh,” I say softly, apropos of nothing.
His lips wander across my cheek and down my jaw, as my goose bumps redouble. And then it’s onward to my neck, with soft kisses.
It feels so exquisite that I break out in a fine sweat. We’re so close together that I can smell his spicy aftershave, and the starch of his shirt collar.
I’m enjoying myself. But I still feel as though I’m outside of the moment, looking in.
But that’s fixed when Tank lifts his face to mine and kisses me thoroughly. At the first insistent press of his mouth on mine, I feel my heart lift. As he deepens the kiss, the awkwardness begins to fall away. I part my lips hungrily. His tongue is right there, taking charge, invading my senses. He tastes like port wine and sex.