Thank God the food arrived when it did. The questions from the players and training staff sitting around me were about to become a little too personal for my taste. It was my idea to invite them to dinner in the first place, but as much as I’d like to get to know them, I’d like to maintain a professional distance for now too.
To my surprise, all the players I met earlier are here, except for Nessy, who had to stay at home taking care of a sick kid.
My first day in Boston has been a success. When my grandfather informed me this morning that I couldn’t expect any help from Italy with the Ice Tigers’ management, I wanted to jump around like a child. Overnight, this has become my project and my project alone. While I should be scared to death, I want to sing out loud. Having the watchful eyes of the Italian management turned away from me is the best thing that has ever happened to me. It won’t be easy to make this team a success, but everyone I’ve met so far seems to be capable and motivated. And unlike the wasp nest in Italy, the Ice Tigers’ headquarters don’t seem full of people waiting to see me fail just to run to my grandfather and inform him about my incompetence.
On a whim, I called Mary this morning and asked her to organize dinner for the team, preferably at an Italian restaurant. I knew it was short notice, but she worked her magic, and here we are. The light in the private room is dim, while candles on the table and on the walls provide enough illumination to see people’s faces. Décor wise, the restaurant is styled like a Roman villa, with fake pillars and stone walls held in terracotta, providing a warm and welcoming atmosphere.
Tomorrow, I’ll have dinner again at Il Sole. This time with management. And the day after tomorrow, we’ll have pizza delivered during the lunch break at the Ice Tigers’ headquarters where I’ll meet the remaining employees. Food is an ice breaker, isn’t it? And it’s of no harm that the food is Italian.
“Is everything to your liking?” the restaurant’s owner asks from my side.
“Everything’s perfect. Thank you. Whenever I get homesick, I’ll know where to find the right food. What’s your name?” I shook his hand earlier but haven’t spoken to him yet.
“I’m Giovanni. You’re welcome any time, Signorina Ravelli! We’re honored to serve your family.” He bows and heads outside again.
“Are you some kind of royalty in Italy?” Tyler asks from across the table.
I laugh. “No, not royalty. Ravelli is a well-known brand in Italy. We’re one of Italy’s biggest companies and employ nearly two thousand people. It’s considered to be an honor to work for us.”
“So, you’re fashion royalty?” Tyler winks.
I shake my head. “Just a successful family-owned brand. Every child in Italy knows what a Ravelli suit is. Like working for us, it’s considered an honor to own one. Clothing and style are important to Italians. Everyone wants to present a bella figura—a polished image. A businessman’s image is up to 70 percent determined by how he dresses, and owning a custom-made suit serves that purpose well. For example, the uniforms of the Italian police are designed by high-fashion houses, and receiving the commission is considered a major honor. Italians like to uphold that perfect image in every aspect of their lives. Even though rents are steep in the cities, some families have one room in their home, usually a second living room, that they hardly ever use but always keep nice and neat, just in case they need to make a good impression on family, friends, or any kind of important visitors.”
“They don’t use this room at all?” Michael’s mouth falls open.
“Only for special occasions, like any kind of festivities. The rest of the time, the furniture in the room is covered, so everything appears to be brand new and picture-perfect when the room is needed.”
“That’s nuts,” Matt says. It’s the first time he’s spoken tonight. When we shook hands earlier, he didn’t say a word and just nodded at me. If ignoring me is his new thing, so be it. I’m not playing his childish games.
“Do you have a room like this in your house?” Smithy asks.
“No, I only have a small apartment in Rome, and I don’t entertain much. But my grandfather has two rooms that are only used for special occasions. It’s part of our culture.” Most of the players shake their heads. I get that it’s a foreign concept, and as far as I know, it’s a unique Italian custom.
“Well, we don’t have to understand everything Italian, right? But the food is fantastic. Thank you for the invite, Emilia.” Coach Benning raises his glass, and the others follow suit.
I raise my glass as well, but my thoughts wander to what he just said. Americans don’t understand everything Italian, and vice versa. It might be one of the reasons why the Ravelli brand never has been established on this continent. Our suits and evening wear are expensive; they aren’t for everyone. I’m not sure how a sports clothing brand in the higher-price segment is going to help us establish luxury business and evening wear when young people can choose hipper and cheaper options over here. Maybe if we’d introduce a younger, more affordable line. But even if my grandfather was up to that idea, we might be too late to the game. Other brands dominate these segments, and it won’t be easy to outshine them.
Especially when my grandfather insists on his old-fashioned marketing strategies, which will have a hard time competing against influencers on social media—a concept he doesn’t understand. Gianluca should know better. But he won’t go against my grandfather’s wishes. He never did, and he won’t start now—not when it could damage my grandfather’s stellar opinion of him and his goal to become the next CEO.
Marrying me would have made things super easy for him, but I saw right through his plans before more than a date happened between us. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that a relationship with me would benefit his career. I’ve already sacrificed enough for the company’s sake by pretending to be someone I’m not. But I refuse to sacrifice my happiness. Someday, I’ll find that special someone, and I’ll marry that man, regardless of what my grandfather thinks of him. Since I’m about to become a single mom, he might disinherit me soon anyway.
I close my eyes and push back the unwelcome thoughts. I’d better concentrate on how to convince Gianluca and my grandfather that we need different marketing strategies overseas. Even if we don’t work with influencers in Italy and have been successful without them, we won’t be successful without them in this market. I took classes in online marketing but never got the chance to put my theoretical knowledge to the test, something that is bound to change now.
It’s like how it has always been. I’m given an assignment, and I’m expected to succeed, but when I make suggestions or God forbid have new ideas, I’m ignored. When I talked to my grandfather at 4:00 a.m., he informed me that Gianluca would be responsible for the RAVELLIS launch and that I should coordinate the first photo shoot with the Ice Tigers with him but that the success of the team was my responsibility, since Gianluca already has enough on his plate. When was the last time he asked me whether I’m drowning in work?
I’d rather eat mud than work with that slimeball, but what options do I have? For the sake of the company, I wrote him an email with the clothes needed for the first shoot, to which he hasn’t responded yet. I’d hoped to communicate with him solely via email, using the time difference and upcoming meetings as an excuse why I can’t talk to him in person, but if he continues to ignore my emails, then that won’t be an option. Story of my life. Nothing ever functions like I need it to.
I concentrate on my food again, listening with one ear to the conversation surrounding me. They’re talking about the latest Ferrari model and if it’s better than the latest one Porsche released. Typical men. Not that there’s anything wrong with wanting to own a sports car, but it fits the stereotype I have about athletes.
“What car do you drive, Emilia?” Smithy asks.
“I don’t own a car.”
“Not even in Italy?” He looks at me like I’m an alien.
“Did you use public transportation in Rome?” Peter joi
ns the conversation.
“No. Public transport in Italy is a nightmare most of the time. It’s better in Rome than anywhere else, but it’s not very reliable.”
“So how did you get from A to B?” Peter isn’t giving up.
“I had a driver, Paolo, taking me where I needed to go.”
Matt whistles. “Do we have to call you milady?”
My cheeks warm, but I hold his gaze. I can’t influence his opinion about me anyway. If all he wants to see in me is a spoiled princess, that’s his problem.
“My mamma, papà, and nonna died in a car accident. I don’t like to drive.” For a moment, the only sound audible in the room is the soft piano music.
Tyler clears his throat. “We’re very sorry for your loss.” Sounds of consent follow his statement, but the easy-going atmosphere from earlier is gone.
I nod in his direction as tears fill my eyes. Crap, I can’t cry in front of the players. They’ll never take me seriously again. I bend down and grab my bag, pushing back the chair at the same time, and speak without looking at anyone. “It was a nice evening. I’m afraid I still struggle with the time difference. I’ll see you tomorrow, everyone.” I flee the room, not bothering to shake anyone’s hand.
Thank God the restaurant is located within walking distance of my hotel and I don’t have to wait for a car to pick me up. I take a quick look around to make sure no paparazzi have followed me here. The last thing I need is photos of me looking like I’m about to cry on the internet after being named the Ice Tigers’ GM. A walk in the fresh night air will hopefully do the trick and clear my head enough to talk to Matt again. I promised him I’d call him later to talk about the baby, and I’m not going back on that. I don’t care what he thinks about me as long as he keeps his opinion to himself and doesn’t disregard my standing with the team.
Back in my hotel room, I try to call him, but he doesn’t answer. Unlike me, he might be enjoying an Italian dessert right now.
When I’m about to press the Call button again, my phone signals an incoming call—from Gianluca. Great. It must be something around half past four in the morning in Italy. Why is he calling me in the middle of the night?
“Emilia Ravelli.”
“Good evening or, better, good morning, Emilia. Gianluca here. Have you organized the first RAVELLIS shoot with your hockey boys?”
My hockey boys? Seriously? He sounds jealous, but that can’t be right. Gianluca isn’t the jealous type. “Hi, Gianluca. It’s the middle of the night in Italy. Haven’t you read my email? It’s late here. If you—”
“I always rise early to get my training in.” How could I have forgotten about that? Overachiever! “Emails are an inefficient way of communication. Please call me if you need anything.” I hate him. I won’t be degraded to be a petitioner whenever I need something.
“I listed the clothes needed for the first shoot and for opening night in my email. I doubt you could remember everything if I read it to you right now. Get me the clothes, please.”
“What will the theme of the shoot be?”
“It’s my responsibility.” I tap my fingers on the chair in front of me.
“You’re only in charge of the hockey team. I’m responsible for the launch, and you haven’t been very reliable….”
One, two, three… breathe in and out. In and out.
“We’ll use the Ice Tigers’ workout area for the shoot and take pictures of the players working out—”
“Boring.”
“Do you have a better idea?” I’m ready to explode, but years and years of training to keep my emotions under control kick in. I guess I should thank my countless nannies for teaching me to act like a lady at all times—rule number one. A lady never loses countenance and certainly doesn’t throw the kind of temper tantrums I used to as a child.
“You’re the one responsible.”
I should be used to this kind of conversation, but it never gets old. Breathe in and out. And in and out. “We could shoot them in workout clothes on the ice. Maybe use something like, ‘Keeps you cool at any time’ as a slogan.” I’m surprising myself here—the idea came out of nowhere. I might have some fashion and marketing blood running through my veins after all.
“Yeah… sounds better. What about the women’s line?”
“I only have male hockey players.” At least as far as I know. Is there a women’s team?
Damn, one day isn’t enough time to find out this kind of thing.
“Book some models.”
“We should keep the focus on the team for now. But I’d like to work with female influencers once the team’s campaign is out. You know they could post photos of themselves in our workout gear.”
“Social media isn’t—”
“I’m aware that we haven’t worked with influencers, and we aren’t exactly pioneers when it comes to social media marketing. But customers are used to online marketing strategies over here. Some fitness influencers have millions of followers. They would recommend the workout gear to their followers and wear the clothes for their workouts. Also, some of our hockey players have more than half a million followers; we can use that to our advantage. People will see them in our clothes and will want the same for their workouts.”
“Half a million people?”
“Yes. We can’t ignore online marketing any longer. We’ll also use traditional ad campaigns, but I’d like to incorporate the team’s social media channels for the shooting. You know, post some sneak peeks of the shoot and how players get ready. One of the players could take over the account. I want to talk to potential candidates tomorrow. Tyler Wolfe, he’s the highest scorer on the team and has movie-star looks, has already agreed to model not only activewear but also suits for us. His followers are mostly female, so maybe we could do a giveaway of women’s clothes via his social media channels.”
This suggestion is followed by another pause from my opponent on the other side of the globe. “You might have a point. I’ll think about it.”
He knows I’m right. He has to. Now I just have to wait for his go.
“You do that. There’s one more thing. I think we could reach a new market segment over here. I know our clothes are in the luxury segment, but not all hockey fans have a lot of money. If we were to introduce a younger, more affordable line in the business department, we’d have a higher chance to establish the Ravelli brand in the North American market.”
“I need numbers. Send me a presentation.”
It’s not a no. That alone is a success in itself.
“I’ll do that.” And I’ll send my grandfather an email informing him not only about the potential new market segment but also about my online marketing ideas. I want him to know where they came from. Gianluca never misses an opportunity to shine in his eyes.
“Good. Keep in mind, for a successful launch, we need a successful team. Your main concern is to make this team a success. Good night.” He hangs up.
I plop down on my bed, ready to pass out. Just when I close my eyes, my phone chimes. It’s Matt.
“Hey, Matt.”
“When can we meet?” And here we go again. Hello to you too.
“I’m having dinner with management tomorrow, but I should be free at around half past ten. Is that too late?”
He sighs. “Where can we meet?”
“Not at my hotel, and I’m not sure about yours either. Somewhere private would be better.”
“I’ll get the keys to my new apartment the day after tomorrow. Let’s meet there, first thing that morning. And… I’m sorry about your family.” He hangs up.
I shake my head. I must have missed the memo that “Hello” and “Goodbye” are overrated courtesies. That wasn’t exactly a satisfying conversation, but it was better than him ignoring or insulting me.
I’m ready to collapse. So I sink down in the feathery lightness and close my eyes.
Chapter 6
Matt
Standing in front of my window, I watch the waves rolling in. E
milia texted me half an hour ago, informing me she was on her way. I’m not sure how I feel about her being here, intruding on my sanctuary, but we didn’t have other options. Paparazzi have been following her nonstop since the press conference. Italy’s favorite heiress being a hockey team’s GM is quite the sensation. I cross my arms over my chest.
A fucking spoiled socialite, that’s what she is—with men lying at her feet, all documented in the Italian yellow press. Not that I know any Italian, but US gossip sites are exploding with articles about her, and with the help of Google Translate, I was able to read about her and the various men she’s been linked with—including actors, athletes, and models—on Italian sites as well. She’ll have plenty of opportunity to continue her conquests here. With Boston full of A-list celebrities, she can go out with a different one each and every night. With my baby in her belly. If it is mine.
The moment she arrives, I’m going to ask her is if she even knows who fathered the child. She may not be able to answer that question. Just a week before we met, she was photographed with an Italian actor at some kind of fashion event. If she jumped into bed with him as fast as she did with me, he’s as much a candidate for baby daddy as I am. At least I know not to fall for her innocent act anymore. She’s exactly the kind of woman I’ve learned the hard way to stay away from. What is it with women and me that I always seem to pick the wrong ones?
The unfamiliar doorbell rings, and I exhale deeply before I open the door.
Emilia steps inside, and after a quick look outside, I close the door behind her. No one has followed her. Technically, no one can; the doorman takes care of that. She was only allowed up, because I told him she’d arrive later and to let her inside, but you never know. The last thing I need is to end up in the yellow press.
“Hey.” She turns to me and shrugs out of her coat.
“Hang it here.” I point at the wooden coat rack. I should take the coat out of her hand and hang it up, but I’d rather keep my distance when it comes to her.
Center of Gravity: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (An Ice Tigers Hockey Romance Book 2) Page 6