Steele

by Bennett, Sawyer

  While I might not know where Jim and I will end up, one thing has become clear to me tonight. I have to let David go because it’s not fair to him. He’s at a disadvantage because I still love my husband, and we have more than sixteen years of history together.

  More than that, I want to give Jim a real shot. I don’t need him competing for me. I don’t need him going overboard to catch my attention.

  I just want him to be himself, so I can clearly see if he’ll change to give me what I need.

  CHAPTER 8

  Steele

  My fingers drum on the desktop as I watch more teammates file into our large, arena-style meeting room. The rows of seats climb upward, filled with plush leather club chairs that have fold-over wooden tops for us to take notes on. It’s where we watch game films and have meetings before games to discuss strategies.

  The players tend to sit with their linemates. It’s not required, but it’s kind of a bonding thing. We don’t have to be best friends or confidants outside of this arena, but when we’re on the ice, in the locker room, and in the meeting room, we sit as a mini team within the team. We’re a synchronized unit that often has to read subtle body language out on the ice. Any time we can spend together to help encourage that synchronicity is a good thing.

  We have a game tonight and in moments, Coach Perron will be coming in for a last-minute strategy and pep talk. The game doesn’t start for another four hours, but there’s a lot to do before we step out on the ice. We’ll be listening to the coach, carb-loading in the team room with a buffet set out for us, warming up on bikes or light runs on the treadmill. We’ll work with trainers to get stretched and sprained joints taped. We have sticks to wrap and mindsets to settle into. So you see, a game is much more than the few hours it takes to play three periods plus intermissions. It’s almost a full-day event.

  “You ready for tonight?” Kane asks from my left.

  “More than ready,” I reply. It’s always weird playing your former team, but tonight we face off against the Quebec Royals. I left behind friends—many whom I still consider close friends—so it’s just odd to be battling them on the ice.

  Over the summer, I’ve taken plenty of ribbing from those guys, teasing me that I somehow bought my way onto a Cup championship team. It’s all in good fun, and I love the hell out of them.

  Miss them, too.

  But those friendships get put aside for the time being because they are my enemies tonight. The friendship bonds can resume when the buzzer sounds at the end of the last period.

  “I heard Gannon is out,” Jett says from my right.

  He’s talking about the Royals’ star player and team captain. He’s been battling recurring knee problems, and I’m going to guess this might be his last season. Like me, he’s up there in age to be playing such a fast-paced, hard-hitting sport. Unlike me, he never took great care of his body, doing the bare minimum in conditioning and relying instead on his amazing natural talent. It’s one of the reasons I work out almost every day and eat healthy unless I’m hanging out with Lucy, and she wants something junky. Luckily, she likes the good stuff—like lean protein and leafy veggies.

  Unbidden, a smile comes to my face. Lucy will be here tonight. Her two friends and their parents will be, too. I’d provided the tickets, and Lucy is looking forward to it.

  My smile gets bigger. Ella is also coming to the game, and it’s making me antsy to get out on the ice to show off for her. I haven’t seen her since last Friday—five days ago when I presented her with the promise ring—as I’ve been on an extended road trip on the East Coast.

  Doesn’t mean we haven’t been involved. We’d texted back and forth while I was gone, both keeping it light, except for the fact I immediately asked her out the morning after I gave her the ring since I didn’t want to have David steal her time out from under me. She said yes, agreeing to come to tonight’s game. Afterward, we’re going to go out for drinks while Lucy has a sleepover at her friend’s house.

  We’ve also talked on the phone twice, again keeping things light. We’ve talked about Lucy and about picking up the puppy, which will be ready tomorrow, but Lucy doesn’t know that, and it’ll be a total surprise. We talked about hockey, and I helped her brainstorm an ad campaign she’s working on. Although, admittedly, all my ideas were shit. She’s the creative one.

  We did not talk about that kiss we shared, the ring I gave her, or the promise I attached to it. We certainly didn’t talk about the way I fingered her to an orgasm, nor did I bother to ask if she was still seeing David. I had Ella’s attention this week, and I wasn’t going to give it up.

  The last of the players straggle in and Coach enters, followed by the assistant coaches and trainers. They all line up against the wall while Perron moves to the podium.

  I listen as he runs through the strengths and weaknesses of each of the Royals’ lines. He points out specific matchups between our players and theirs, and where we need to concentrate our best efforts. He makes individualized suggestions to a few players and accepts some back-and-forth discourse to iron out details. It’s a standard team meeting before a game, but there’s never anything standard about what happens when we put skates to ice. Every time, it’s not just giving a hundred and ten percent effort, but about putting our bodies and souls on the line to fight for every single win.

  I glance left, then right to see my linemates. Jett notices me looking, then blows me a kiss and I snicker. I’ve more than gelled with them this past year and even the addition of the standoffish, sometimes prickish, Riggs Nadeau hasn’t weakened the glue holding us together. That says more to the fact that whatever goes on with Riggs outside of hockey, it doesn’t affect his performance on the ice. He’s been a great acquisition for the team, and he makes our second line stronger.

  Coach is starting to wind down and I know this as he focuses his advice on our goalie, Legend Bay, as well as our backup goalie, Noah Martin, since Baden got injured. After Coach finishes, the team will disburse to start their pre-game rituals.

  Some will head off to the team family room, which will be devoid of family members but full of comfy couches and chairs where they can sit around and relax a bit. Others will hit the buffet and load up on some carbs. Still, others will choose to get in a light workout that won’t strain stamina but will limber up muscles and joints. Some will find a quiet place and meditate.

  For me personally, I always get in a light workout, including some time on the bike and stretching. I’ll also sit in the sauna for a bit and if I have any nagging injuries, I’ll let a trainer work on me. After, I’ll hit the food, then I’ll sit in the family room with my earbuds in and lose myself in music that will get me pumped up.

  The coach finishes his remarks and people start shifting in their seats, assuming it’s about time to disperse. Instead, he holds his hand up, which garners immediate quiet and stillness, and offers an apologetic smile. “I know you are all anxious to start prepping for the game, but I have two more things to discuss briefly.”

  Everyone straightens a bit.

  “As you all know,” Coach says in a serious voice, leaning forward to rest his arms on the podium. “Baden had his surgery three days ago. I know you are getting email updates from management and that you all have been updated that the surgery went very well. I just wanted to pass on to you some great news I received about fifteen minutes before walking in here.”

  There’s a tiny buzz of what feels like electricity in the air. Everyone in this room is fully invested in Baden’s recovery.

  “It appears that Baden is showing promising signs of feeling and movement in both legs.”

  Loud choruses of excitement echo out and Kane and I automatically turn to each other and high five. I pass fist bumps to Jett and Bain, and when I catch Riggs eye, I throw one his way. For a moment, he does nothing, but then, miracle of miracles, he smiles and taps his fist to mine. This news moves even someone like Riggs.

  “All right, settle down,” Coach commands. It takes
a few moments, but we do as requested. “This last announcement is also non-game related, but Mr. Carlson wanted it announced as soon as possible. Since I have you all in one place, this was the easiest way.”

  Dominik Carlson, our enigmatic team owner, commands so much respect on this team that if he wanted an announcement made about the type of cologne he chose to wear on a specific day, we’d all sit still and listen. He took an expansion team—many players who were considered expendable by their former teams for one reason or another—and made us National Champions in just one year. It was unheard of, but more than his faith in us as professional athletes, he has repetitively stepped in to help his players on a personal level time and time again. Dominik Carlson is the type of man who we wouldn’t even need to question how high if he told us to jump. We’d immediately jump while giving it every bit of effort we had within us.

  So we all sit up straight again, giving Coach our attention. “Mr. Carlson has decided to focus our digital marketing efforts on our social media platforms, and he’s hired an expert to guide us. Now, I’m so old school I don’t even know what that means, but you are young enough to. Without further ado, I’m going to introduce the new Vice President of Digital Marketing and Analytics to you.”

  He motions for one of the trainers to open the door, then waves someone in.

  And if a wave of electricity went through the room over the announcement of Baden, a tsunami of pure male pheromones swarms through at the sight of the woman who enters.

  She’s tall and lithe, wearing a form-fitting purple dress with no sleeves and a wide black belt. The hem comes down to just below her knees, and her black stilettos add a good four inches onto her height while showcasing the slight definition of her calf muscles. Her hair is midnight black, pulled into a severe bun at the nape of her neck, but that only highlights her flawless face, which is reminiscent of Angelina Jolie. I’m sure it’s the full, puffy lips that have me thinking that. Honestly, though, it’s her light blue eyes surrounded by black-framed glasses that make her beauty unique.

  She struts like a woman on a mission, carrying an iPad with her to the podium.

  Jett groans, and I cut my eyes his way. His tongue is practically hanging out of his head. “Is she a teacher? Because I’m totally hot for teacher.”

  I snort, glancing at the woman. Those glasses with her hair pulled back, which makes her appear a bit like a disciplinarian, definitely give off a teacher vibe. But the coach said she’s a vice president in the front office, so she holds a high position, even though she can’t be more than mid-twenties.

  Jett’s not the only one affected by her beauty as many of the players are murmuring God knows what to their fellow teammates.

  Coach Perron smiles at her as she reaches the podium, then he steps away. The woman takes his place and scans the arena before her, six rows filled with big, burly hockey players, a good number who are not-so-secretly lusting after her. Her blue eyes don’t even blink, not intimidated in the slightest.

  “Hello,” she says into the microphone. “My name is Emory Holland and as Coach Perron said, I’m the team’s new VP of Digital Marketing and Analytics.”

  “Fuck me all to hell,” Jett mutters as he slumps in his seat. “She has a British accent. Why does that make her hotter?”

  I snort, but I don’t look his way. If she’s being introduced on a game day there must be some measure of urgency, so I pay attention.

  “For those who don’t understand my title,” she continues in that crisp, dry accent that has just a bit of a Mary Poppins lilt at the end, “Basically, I control every aspect of the Vengeance social media as well as the website marketing. Mr. Carlson feels we must continue to build on the momentum of our Cup win and resulting popularity to increase our fan base.”

  Someone behind me challenges that—politely, at least. “I’m pretty sure our fan base is already set and fairly expansive.”

  Miss Holland smiles, nodding in affirmation. “True, but it can be bigger. This team went from underdogs to champions in a year. However, our research shows the majority of Vengeance fans are still congregated here within your home state with little reach outward.”

  “Holy shit,” Jett murmurs. “Kill me now… I’m in love.”

  I finally turn his way—I swear his eyes are bugging out with little hearts in the center where his pupils should be. Frowning, I shake my head and return my attention back to Ms. Holland.

  “The Vengeance now has national appeal, and we don’t want to let that die. We want to build on the fans we acquired during the Cup run who aren’t local. Fans in states without professional hockey who have adopted the Vengeance as their own team. But those fans don’t have the personal connection to Phoenix or the state of Arizona, so we need to offer them a different type of personal connection to get them to stay loyal.”

  This all makes sense. I’ve never really thought about the business end of things, knowing Dominik Carlson turns anything he touches into gold. I guess I just assumed it was magic, but there’s apparently a strategy.

  “Merchandising is our primary target. It’s a huge chunk of revenue for this organization, and Mr. Carlson wants each of you to be ambassadors for these new fans. Connect in a way that makes them want to run out and buy your jersey.”

  “What exactly does that mean?” someone in front of me, down to the left, asks. It’s one of our solid veteran players, Tacker Hall.

  Ms. Holland smiles. “It means that over the next few weeks, I’m going to be personally meeting with each of you to discuss your personal social media strategy. I know many of you have IG accounts, but if you don’t, you’ll be required to start one. Mr. Carlson wants you all to make personal connections with fans through digital platforms—to share yourself with your fans. My job is to help you navigate and project the right image. I know your schedules are hectic, but I’ll work at your convenience.”

  Now the grumbling starts because while some of the guys are hooked to their IG accounts, many don’t have them and probably consider it a waste of time. I have one, mainly to follow Lucy’s posts, but I rarely put anything out there.

  Ms. Holland cocks her head. “No time for questions. You have a game to win, so I’ll leave you to it.”

  Almost every male eye is on her ass as she saunters out of the room because that dress is insanely form-fitting. Doesn’t interest me, though. Got my own hot woman, and I’ll be seeing her tonight after the game.

  The coaching staff follows her out, indicating the meeting is officially over. Players stand up, some congregating right in their seats to either discuss how hot Emory Holland is or how much they’re dreading this new social media policy.

  As for me, I don’t care one way or the other. I’ll gladly do what Dominik wants to help the team.

  I notice Jett—who is pinned in on our aisle on both sides—hop the chair in front of him, then the one in front of that, before hurrying down that aisle and out the door as if he had a hungry lion on his ass.

  Slowly, I file out with Kane, Riggs, and Bain. My mind is already going to my workout, although I think I’ll start in the sauna first to loosen my muscles.

  When we exit the meeting room, my gaze immediately lands on Jett, who has cornered Emory Holland. As we walk toward them, Jett starts talking to her in his light Swedish accent. “I’m ready to sign up for a meeting. I love social media. Maybe we can go out to a late dinner after the game tonight to discuss it.”

  Ms. Holland gives him a smile that implies while she finds him charmingly adorable, she’s having none of it. “We’ll stick to an arranged meeting in my office, Mister…”

  “Jett Olsson,” he replies, offering his hand for her to shake.

  She hesitates, putting her palm in his. As she tries to give a professional pump, he pulls her hand to his mouth and brushes a kiss over her knuckles.

  “I look forward to our meeting then,” he murmurs, then smiles mischievously as she yanks her hand back. Red stains her cheeks, and I can tell the professional faca
de she just put on is cracking.

  While Jett can be fun and playful, he also has a way with women that makes them a bit hot under the collar. He can see he’s affected her, but he backs off, knowing that too much pressure isn’t the way to go.

  As we turn to leave, Jett now back with our line, it’s obvious he’s not giving up on this woman. I almost look forward to seeing how this will play out.

  Jett and Bain peel off at the family room, heading for the food. They’ll both eat now and again about an hour and a half before the game.

  Riggs, Kane, and I continue to the locker room.

  “Do you have an IG account?” Kane asks me.

  “Yeah… just one to follow Lucy. Guess I’ll have to figure out how to use it a little better. Lucy can show me the ins and outs.”

  “Fuck if I’m getting one,” Riggs mutters as we reach our cubbies.

  Kane and I shift toward him. Not in surprise, because that’s just his demeanor, but merely to see if he’ll clarify that statement.

  “I don’t want anyone poking around in my personal life,” he scoffs, reaching for his duffel hanging on a hook inside his locker.

  “Got dirty secrets to hide?” Kane teases while grinning.

  “Got a little sister I’m raising, and I don’t want her in the limelight,” he replies.

  We’d heard through the gossip he was raising a sister, but it’s the first time he’s mentioned her. Kane is too nosy to do anything but ask a direct question. “Why are you raising your sister?”

  “None of your fucking business,” Riggs growls. It tells me there is something nefarious behind his situation. He’s overly protective of her, much more so than a dad or older brother would be.

  I try another tact. “My daughter Lucy is thirteen. Not sure how old your sister is, but maybe we can introduce them. Lucy can help introduce her around to the other team kids.”