Deep in thoughts, I’m startled when Paolo opens the door for me for the last time. While I get out of the car, the flight attendant carries my suitcases to the company jet. I turn around and shake Paolo’s hand, wishing him all the best. He was an excellent driver, always on time and waiting patiently when some things took me longer to accomplish. We didn’t talk much, but I always felt safe with him. Who knows what life will be like in Boston? I kind of wish I’d spoken to Paolo more, asked him about his family. I know he’s married, but other than that, he’s a stranger to me.
It’s too late now, so I enter the plane and plop down on one of the plush leather seats, making myself comfortable. At least flying is safe at this stage of the pregnancy, according to my research. And being in Boston will make it easier to see a doctor without my grandfather finding out before I want him to know about the baby. I’m in the early stages, and I don’t want anyone to know until the critical phase is over—well, anyone but Matt. I’m thinking about hiring a trustworthy private investigator to find him, preferably one who can perform miracles. Other than his first name, his nationality, and how he made my body tingle, I know nothing about my baby’s daddy. He was in my family’s hotel in Positano, and his name must be registered in the computer system.
Unfortunately, I don’t have access to that data, and asking for a guest’s name might raise unwanted questions, but a private investigator might find a way. No matter the cost and time it takes, I must find Matt. I tried to google “Matt, American, blond,” and had to laugh about my own naivety. With that kind of information, an internet search is hopeless. Hopefully, a professional will know what to do.
“Buongiorno, Signorina Ravelli, my name is Marina, and I’ll be responsible for your comfort and safety during this flight. Would you like a snack or something to drink before we take off?” The flight attendant bends down and smiles at me.
“Thank you, Marina. Just water, please.” As I wait for her to place the glass in front of me, I look outside for the last time before I shut the shade. The sun is bright and beautiful on this early fall day, but I have work to do. This won’t be a look-out-the-window and enjoy-the-scenery flight. The folders in my carry-on are calling for me. I take out the first stack of papers and flip through them while the engine roars to life and we pull out of the parked position. The hockey crash course consists of a lot of complicated pictures with dots in different locations during plays. The rule section is long, featuring big chunks of text. This folder doesn’t look inviting at all. I need something like “Hockey for Dummies,” but I’m not sure such a book exists.
Whoever chose this crash course for me either didn’t look through it or is a hockey pro or picked it on purpose to make things harder for me. The latter is the most likely, since I’m not the most favored employee of the Ravelli Group.
Sighing, I place the folder on the table in front of me. Hopefully, the Wi-Fi on this plane works and I can watch a video tutorial later, if I can find one. I’m a visual person, and while reading about something new is difficult for me, video tutorials usually work well. They saved my butt when it came to statistics and math in business school. Let’s hope it’ll work with hockey too. I have to appear like a pro when I meet the team later today—the first impression counts.
I’m pressed into the seat when the plane takes off and we leave European ground. I’m tempted to open the shade again to have a last look at my beloved Rome, sensing I won’t be back for a long time, but I resist. I don’t want to lose it in front of Marina. As nice as she seems to be, I don’t want her to gossip about me to other employees. The pregnancy has made me weepy. I’ve never cried more in my life than in the past weeks, sometimes over the silliest things. Once it was a picture of a puppy looking up at his owner with big puppy eyes, willing him to give him another treat. Another time it was an elderly gentleman kissing his lady on the street. They looked so in love, and I realized how much I long for someone to look at me the same way—someone to hold hands with, to hold me in his arms, to support me, to love me, to tell me I’m special. And someone I could give the same things to in return.
The plane takes a sharp turn to the left, and I sigh again before grabbing the next folder. I open it and find someone has ripped the first page off, but the letters C and E are still visible in the left upper corner, leading me to the conclusion that they haven’t had time to replace the old CEO’s picture with my grandfather’s yet. On the second page, I find the team’s current GM looking straight at me. Rob Hayden looks to be around forty, with a forced smile on his face. I have no idea what to make of him. This man doesn’t know yet how much I’ll depend on him. I can only hope he knows what he’s doing and has enough experience to make things work, for my sake and for the sake of the team. I’m not sure how long my grandfather will keep the organization alive, and judging from this folder, many people depend on its success. I’ll need his help, but first I have to get to know him, find out if he’s trustworthy, and see what his goal is for the Ice Tigers organization.
The following pages are a list of names of people either working for the business operations department or the hockey operations department, indicating how large an operation a hockey team is and what kind of responsibility my grandfather has dumped on me. If I fail, these people might lose their jobs. I have no idea if the Ravelli Group must sell the team if my grandfather decides it isn’t worth the effort or if he can shut it down without finding someone who wants to run a hockey team. The risk of shutting the organization down is low, not because he doesn’t want people to lose their income, but he’d lose a lot of money in the process. A hockey franchise can’t be cheap. But even if he just sold the team, who knows if the new owner’s goals would be any better than the Ravelli Group’s intention to launch a new clothing line and use the organization for marketing.
I cross my arms over my stomach as a sense of determination flows through me. I can’t let these people down.
Exhaling, I turn the page and face the team’s coaching staff. All of them look strict and don’t smile for the camera. I’m not sure what to make of that either. I get why they would want to appear to be professional and strict, but a little smile has hurt no one yet. At least, this photo tells me there’s one head coach and three assistant coaches. Also, there’s a goaltending coach, an organizational coach (whatever that means), a skills coach, a skating coach, and a video coach who also has his own assistant coach. My stomach sinks. So many people I’m responsible for.
I skip through the names of the medical staff, smiling at the fact that the team uses not just one but two dentists and a plastic surgeon. Even with my limited knowledge, I’m aware that hockey players fight and lose teeth, but why they need a plastic surgeon, I’m not sure.
It’s time to find out who plays for this team. The goalies both look fierce and have Scandinavian names I don’t know how to pronounce. Both of them are blond, just to complete the Scandinavian stereotype.
On the top of the next page, a handsome center forward named Tyler Wolfe smiles at me. He’s swoon-worthy, and his warm smile reaches his beautiful brown eyes. Wow, if all the players look like him, it won’t be a problem to sell workout clothes with them. Not only does he have an athletic build, but his face is drop-dead gorgeous. Tyler has just made it on top of the list to model activewear for us. He is perfect for the first RAVELLIS campaign. I scribble down a reminder to talk to him as soon as possible.
My eyes wander down to the second guy on the page, and I let out a sharp gasp and drop the pen. Frozen in place, I stare at the picture in front of me before I shake myself back into reality. Retrieving the pen, I hit my head on the table, but I don’t feel the pain. When I look at the page again, Matt’s ruggedly handsome face is still there. Matt Walker, born January 18th, 1988, shoots left, height 6’4, weight 210.
I look at the picture again, but it is him. The same Matt from America who left me with a bun in the oven after the best night of my life without even saying goodbye.
On a positive no
te, I won’t have to hire a private investigator. The moss-green eyes of my baby’s dad are staring right into my face. This can’t be true. Matt is a hockey player, and he’s playing for the Ice Tigers? What a pathetic joke from the universe.
“Signorina Ravelli? Signorina Ravelli, è tutto a posto?” Marina has jumped up from her seat and bends down. I blink. No, nothing is fine! Karma is a bitch, and in my case, a bitch multiplied by one million. Matt is a freaking hockey player, and he’s playing for the same team I’m supposed to lead to glory.
What’s the likelihood of winning the lottery again? My one-night stand and father of my baby being on the same hockey team my grandfather bought out of nowhere has to compare somewhat. Though winning the lottery would have been preferable. But then I wouldn’t be pregnant, and the baby is the only good thing that’s happened to me in a long time.
Sorry, little one. I love you, and you’re much better than winning the lottery.
“We can talk in English. After all, that’s company language,” I say none too friendly. Marina’s just being helpful, but I don’t want her to jump to conclusions as she’s looking at the folder in my lap with interest. “Everything’s fine. I… never mind. Could you bring me a vegetarian panino please?” Her brows are drawn together as she looks up from the pictures of Tyler Wolfe and Matt, but she nods and walks to the fridge to bring me a panino I neither want nor like, but since I’m not allowed to eat the one with mozzarella and prosciutto while pregnant, vegetarian is the only option of the snacks always ready on our plane. At least her fetching the thing is giving me time to breathe.
I look at Matt’s picture again. The same eyes that bore through me when he pounded deep inside me, hitting spots I never knew existed, stare right into the camera. How am I supposed to concentrate on hockey and the team now? I thought I’d have more time before I’d have to face him again. Most likely, I’ll see him today. I’m not ready to talk to him. What am I going to say? “Hi, Matt, nice to see you again after you left me without a word. And hey, by the way, you’re going to be a dad.”
I want to pull a blanket over my head and hide—from the world, from this upcoming hockey disaster, from my grandfather, and from Matt. I’m many things, but not a coward, and I’ll face whatever challenge life throws my way. So, I take a big breath, pull out my laptop, log into the Wi-Fi, and search for hockey tutorials.
Boston, Massachusetts
“Miss Ravelli, we’re about to land.” Marina shakes my shoulder and opens the window shades on my left side.
I blink twice, shielding my eyes against the daylight. Curious where we are and how Boston looks, I open the shade on my window as well. The sunlight shimmers in the water as we fly over what looks like the harbor.
A busy day lies in front of me, and I’m not prepared for a single thing. I still have the folder with the hockey crash course in my lap, but I only made it to page ten and have over a hundred pages left. After watching some complicated video tutorials, I flipped through the folder a second time but must have fallen asleep hours ago. The last thing I remember were my eyelids drooping and that I wanted to ask for coffee, only to remember I should avoid caffeine.
As for telling Matt about my pregnancy, I don’t have a strategy for that either. I’ll have to improvise the living shit out of today.
The plane drops farther as we approach the runway, and I exhale when we’re back on the ground again. The flight attendant carries my bags to the waiting car and hands them to the driver, and before I can take in my surroundings, we’re on our way to the hockey facility. It’s like a movie is playing around me, but I’m not running at the same speed. I close my eyes. Everything is happening way too fast, and I want to shout “Stop, I’m not ready!” but no one is listening. My hands tremble in my lap, and my nausea is back with full force. I haven’t eaten enough today. In Rome, it’s evening and my lunch only consisted of one panino.
I could knock on the separation and tell the driver to stop at a deli or something, but I doubt I could keep anything down right now. I’ll have to make it through the meeting with the GM first. After that, I’ll treat myself and the little one to a big meal. As we make our way through Boston, I shift from left to right, trying to use a calming breathing technique I once learned in a yoga class, but since I haven’t been practicing much, it doesn’t help at all. Not knowing how much longer it’ll take us to arrive is driving me insane. If one was to ask me what Boston looks like or how to get to the Ice Tigers’ headquarters, I’d have no idea. My heart beats faster as the car stops in front of what looks like an arena with enclosed office buildings. The paw logo on the top of the building confirms what I already know—I’ve reached my final destination.
While waiting for the driver to open my door, I try to get my trembling hands under control. They will see right through me, right? They’ll know I don’t have a single clue about hockey. After today, no one in this organization will take me seriously—just like in Rome. It will be a nightmare. But running away from my problems has never been an option, and it won’t be now.
I’m half out of the car when a man runs down—or, rather, leaps down—the stairs leading to the entrance door of the office building on my left, his tie flying behind him.
“Ms. Ravelli, Ms. Ravelli, so good to see you! How was your flight? Do you need anything?”
Who is this guy? He doesn’t look like any of the pictures in the folder. I’m at a disadvantage here; he knows my name, but I’m clueless about his.
“I’m so sorry. Uh… who are you?” I stare at him, willing a name to pop into my head.
His smile drops and with it his whole face. Oh no, I don’t want him to feel bad. Think, Emilia, who in the folder does he resemble? Why can’t people use current photos for these kinds of documents? How am I supposed to learn all the names without updated photos?
He swallows twice and pulls out a handkerchief to wipe away the sweat on his forehead. Standing up straighter, he looks at his feet. “My name is Robert Hayden, but I’ve been called Rob all my life. So that’s what you can call me. I am… uh…. I mean, I was the Ice Tigers’ GM. That is, well, I… I don’t…. Are my services still wanted?”
Rob Hayden. Well, he isn’t in his forties anymore. More like his mid-fifties and about twenty kilograms heavier than in his picture. No wonder I didn’t recognize him. But I like him. Like a lot. He seems nice, and he isn’t perfect—not like the aloof senior managers at the headquarters in Rome who don’t want to have anything to do with me. Who all think I’m not good enough to work for the Ravelli Group, that I’m only allowed to work for their sacred company because of my last name. I can’t even blame them; they aren’t exactly wrong. But Rob doesn’t seem to have any prejudices toward me. Could it be that he hasn’t heard of my failures?
“We definitely need your services, Rob. I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you from your picture. You look different—not in a bad way… just different.” I force the corners of my mouth up. It’s not a smile, but maybe this task won’t be as bad as I expected it to be.
His smile returns, and he claps his hands together. “Great. Fantastic. So, do you need anything, Ms. Ravelli?”
Let me think. A super successful launch of RAVELLIS and a championship win this season. Other than that, you could tell a literal stranger that I’m expecting his child.
“Why don’t you show me my office? I came straight from the airport and need to store my suitcases.” As if summoned, the driver opens the trunk and lifts out my suitcases, dropping them in front of Rob. His smile falters again, but dutiful as he seems to be, he picks up the two heavy pieces of luggage. I’m grateful. I shouldn’t be lifting them, and so far, I haven’t had to. The driver could have carried them, but he’s already starting the car again, while poor Rob drags them up the stairs. Good thing he has a handkerchief. These suitcases are heavy. I wasn’t sure what to pack, so I packed for every eventuality—clothes-wise and shoe-wise, just in case. A lady is always prepared.
I follow Rob inside. Th
e lobby is small but practical with the team’s logo prominent on the white wall. We pass the doorman and turn to an elevator.
“The back office and management are located on the second floor. The coaches and their assistants have their offices on the first floor.” Rob pushes the button, and the elevator doors close behind us. On the second floor, he leads me to a corner office with a dark wooden door.
No spying on me through glass doors anymore.
“Here we are.” He motions around. “If you don’t like it, we can alter everything to your taste.”
I nod. The office isn’t too big; a big desk and two leather couches take up most of the space with the dominating colors being brown and gray. I’m not a fan of the dark colors, but the chair and the couches look comfortable. But the most eye-catching thing is the big window, offering a view at what appears to be a training arena that connects the two buildings. The ice inside looks smooth and immaculate, and it shimmers like a million diamonds from the sunlight coming in from the windows above.
A knock sounds on the door, and a woman enters the room, carrying a tray with something that resembles a hotdog, but not with sausages inside. Whatever it is, the smell is mouthwatering and my stomach rumbles. I place a hand over it to stifle the sound.
“Ms. Ravelli, please let me introduce you to Mary. She’s the soul of this organization.” Rob motions to the woman.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Ravelli. We’re so glad you’re here.” Mary smiles at me.
“Nice to meet you too, but please call me Emilia, both of you.” I smile genuinely for the first time today.
“But—” Rob draws his brows together.
Center of Gravity: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (An Ice Tigers Hockey Romance Book 2) Page 3