I spare them a look before turning back to Rupi. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re interrupting our brunch.”
“I wanted to put in a formal request,” she announces.
“A formal request for what?” Summer sputters.
“I want an introduction.”
My brow wrinkles. “To whom?”
“Mike Hollis.”
I set my fork down.
Summer puts down her tea.
Several seconds tick by.
“Mike Hollis?” Summer finally says.
“Yes. He’s your roommate,” Rupi replies helpfully.
I snicker.
“I’m aware that he’s my roommate.” Summer shakes her head. “But why on earth do you want an introduction? To him.”
Rupi releases a long, dreamy sigh. “Because he’s the most beautiful man in the world, and I think he’s my soul mate, and I’d like to be introduced to him.”
Another silence falls. I’m not one to declare anything a hundred percent, so I’ll say I’m ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent certain that this is the first time in the history of the planet that anyone, at any time, has referred to Hollis as the most beautiful man in the world and/or as someone’s soul mate.
Summer appears to be as stunned as I feel. But we both recover fast, sharing a telepathic moment that brings a grin the size of Boston to Summer’s lips. She pats Rupi’s arm and says, “I would be honored to make that introduction.”
“Actually, I’ll do you one better,” I chime in. “I’ll give you his phone number, and you can contact him directly.”
Summer is quick to second that. “Yes, even better! And when I get home I’ll be sure to tell him that the daughter of a Bollywood star is going to be calling him.” She winks at me when Rupi isn’t looking.
Rupi’s brown eyes light up. “Really?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Summer pulls up her contact list. “Do you have your phone on you?”
Rupi produces an iPhone in a bubble-gum pink case, and Summer quickly recites Hollis’s number. After Rupi finishes entering the digits, she gives us a solemn look. “I want you to know that you’re both gorgeous and wonderful and I’m going to be seeing a lot of you once Mike and I start dating.”
I won’t lie—her conviction is downright inspirational.
“Anyway, I won’t take up any more of your time. Just know that I think you’re beautiful creatures and I’m so grateful for your help!”
And then, as rapidly as she appeared, she bounces out of the booth like a tiny ball of energy.
* * *
Later that night, I arrive at Malone’s at the same time as Nate Rhodes. “Hey!” I exclaim, slinging my arm through his muscular one. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
I’m a big Nate fan. He’s not only a skilled center with a wicked slapshot, but he’s also a stand-up guy. A lot of jocks have a reputation for being cocky jackasses. They strut around campus with huge chips of entitlement on their athletic shoulders, “honoring” women with their time and their wangs. Not Nate. Along with Fitzy, he’s the most humble, down-to-earth guy I’ve ever met.
“Yeah, my plans got canceled. I was supposed to meet up with a chick and she bailed.”
I give a mock gasp. “What! Doesn’t she know you’re the captain of the hockey team?!”
“I know, right?” He shrugs. “Probably a good thing she bailed, though. I’m still rocking a hangover from last night.”
“That was some game-winning miracle you pulled off in OT,” I tell him. “I wish I got to see it in person.”
“Most stressful overtime period of my life,” he admits as we enter the bar. “For a moment I thought we might actually lose the damn thing.” His light-blue eyes scan the main room, which is crammed with sports memorabilia, TV screens, and college students.
“There they are,” I say, spotting our friends in a far booth. “Ugh. Hollis is here? Now I’m even more glad you showed up. You’ll be my buffer.”
“He still trying to get in your pants?”
“Every time I see him.”
“Do you really blame him?” Nate gives an exaggerated leer.
“Knock it off. You’ve never once expressed any interest in my pants.”
“Yeah, because Coach would castrate me! Doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it.”
“Perv.”
He grins.
We reach the oversized booth, a semicircular one with enough space to accommodate four hockey players and me and Summer. She’s snuggled up beside Fitz, while Hollis sits alone on the other side, his gaze glued to the Bruins game that’s already underway.
Hollis shifts his head at our arrival. “Brenna! Come sit.” He pats his thigh. “There’s room for you right here.”
“Thanks, big boy. But I’m good.” I slide in next to Summer.
Rather than sit with Hollis, Nate flops down beside me, which forces Fitz and Summer to shift closer to Hollis.
“I don’t have Ebola, you guys,” he grumbles.
I glance up at one of the television screens. Boston is on the attack. “Where’s Hunter?” I ask.
Almost immediately the mood shifts. Fitz looks unhappy. Summer’s face holds a touch of guilt, although I don’t think she needs to feel guilty. Sure, she and Hunter had a bit of a flirtation, but the moment she realized she had feelings for Fitz, she was honest with Hunter about it. He needs to get over it already.
“I dunno. He’s out and about, probably with some chick,” Hollis answers. “He’s a pussy posse of one lately.”
I purse my lips. I hope Hunter’s extracurricular activities aren’t affecting his performance on the ice. Then again, he scored both goals in the regulation periods last night, and got an assist on Nate’s OT goal, so it doesn’t seem to be a problem.
“Why don’t you two just kiss and make up?” I ask Fitz.
“I’m trying,” he protests. “Hunter’s not interested.”
“He’s being a douchebag,” Nate admits, which is alarming coming from the captain. It tells me that Hunter’s behavior is affecting the team. “Short of an intervention, there’s not much we can do. He’s playing well, and all the partying and hookups aren’t slowing him down during games.”
“Yes, but two teammates having beef is not good for morale,” Fitz counters.
“So squash the beef,” Nate says, rolling his eyes. “It’s your beef.”
“I’m trying,” Fitz repeats.
Summer squeezes his arm. “It’s okay. He’ll calm down eventually. I still think maybe I should move out…?”
“No,” Fitz and Hollis say immediately, and that’s that. She doesn’t bring it up again.
We watch the game for a while. I drink a beer, joke around with Nate, and ignore Hollis’s advances. During the first intermission, we discuss the semifinals results.
“Corsen and I watched a live stream of the Harvard-Princeton game,” Nate says darkly. “It was such fucking bullshit.”
I frown. “How so?”
“Goddamn Brooks Weston. He dished out two of the dirtiest hits I’ve ever seen. First one was leaping into a Princeton defender from the blindside, drove him headfirst into the boards. It completely flew off the ref’s radar, which is unfathomable—like how did he miss that? Second hit was a slash to a guy’s knee. Weston took a penalty for that one.”
Fitz shakes his head at Summer. “I hate that you partied with him in high school.”
“He’s a cool guy,” she protests.
“He’s a goon,” Nate says tightly. “A goon who doesn’t play fair.”
“Then the refs should call him out on it,” Summer points out.
“He does it in a way that escapes their notice,” Fitz says. “It’s a tactic for some teams—purposely fouling other players so that they retaliate and take a penalty. Harvard is really good at it.”
“That’s why my dad hates Daryl Pedersen so much,” I tell Summer. “Coach Pedersen fosters that kind of gameplay.”
“Didn’t
your dad and Pedersen play together back in the day?” Nate asks.
“They were teammates at Yale,” I confirm. “They can’t stand each other.”
Summer looks intrigued. “Why?”
“I don’t know the exact details. Dad’s not much of a talker.”
His players snort in unison. “No shit,” Hollis cracks.
I shrug. “I think Pedersen played dirty back then, too, and Dad just didn’t like him.”
“I don’t blame Coach for hating him,” Nate mutters. “Pedersen’s a total fuckhead. He encourages his guys to be as brutal as possible.”
“Shit, people can get hurt,” Mike says, and there’s such sincerity in his tone that I can’t help but laugh. Something about Hollis is very endearing. He’s like a big kid.
“Not sure if you know this,” I solemnly tell Hollis, “but…hockey’s a violent sport.”
Fitz chuckles.
Before Hollis can issue a comeback, noise blasts out of his phone. He’s got the most annoying ringtone, a hip-hop track with a bunch of guys shouting nonsense. Suits him to a T, though.
“Yo,” he answers.
My attention returns to the Bruins game. Briefly. It’s quickly diverted back to Hollis as he provides the most bizarre half of a conversation.
“Slow down…what?” He listens. “Do I have a car? No.” Another long pause. “I mean… I guess I could borrow one? Wait, who is this?”
Nate barks out a laugh.
“What’s happening right now?” Hollis sounds bewildered. “Who is this? Ruby? What pee? Did we meet at Jesse Wilkes’s party?”
Summer makes a strangled sound and covers her mouth.
I look over and we exchange a huge grin. Not Ruby. Rupi. The energy tornado from the diner made her move. She hadn’t wasted any time, either.
“I don’t understand this… Um okay…listen. Ruby. I don’t know who you are. Are you hot?”
Fitz snorts loudly. I just roll my eyes.
“Yeah, okay… I don’t think so.” Hollis is still wholly baffled. “Later,” he says, and then hangs up.
Summer’s lips are trembling like crazy as she asks, “Who was that?”
“I dunno!” He picks up his beer and chugs nearly half of it. “Some crazy chick just called and said to pick her up for dinner on Thursday night.”
Summer buries her face against Fitz’s shoulder, giggling uncontrollably. I don’t have a boyfriend to shield my laughter, so I bite my lip and hope Hollis doesn’t notice.
“This is weird, right?” he says in confusion. “Strange chicks don’t call you out of the blue and ask you on dates, right? I must’ve met her before.” He glances at Nate. “Do you know a Ruby?”
“Nope.”
“Fitz?”
“Also nope.”
Summer laughs harder.
“Do you?” Hollis accuses her.
“No,” she lies, and I can tell she’s making a conscious effort not to look my way. “I just find this incredibly hilarious.”
I unhook my teeth from my bottom lip. “So are you going out with her?” I ask as casually as I can muster.
He gapes at me. “Of course not! She wouldn’t tell me if she’s hot, told me I’d find out Thursday night. So I said I don’t think so and hung up. I’m not in the mood to get murdered, please and thank you.”
Why do I have a feeling Rupi Miller isn’t going to be satisfied with that outcome?
My grin nearly cracks my face in half. Summer was right. The weekend from hell did finish off right.
11
Brenna
“I’m sure he won’t be much longer.” The employee who’s been tasked with babysitting me keeps repeating the assurance.
Frankly, I don’t care how long Ed Mulder takes. In fact, I’ve been fighting the urge to leave out of spite. If I hadn’t endured nearly two hours of rush-hour traffic this morning to reach Boston, I totally would’ve said screw it and stomped out of the HockeyNet building, never to return. But I’ll be damned if that bumper-to-bumper traffic was for naught.
He’s just one little obstacle, says the reassuring voice in my head.
Right. If I can conquer Jerk Mountain, the internship promised land awaits me on the other side. I won’t have to report to Mulder. I probably won’t even see him again. All I need to do is prove to him that I’m qualified for this position, and then I can forget he exists. Which won’t be too difficult to do.
I can’t believe I’ve already been waiting an hour for him. When I walked in at nine o’clock sharp, Rochelle apologetically informed me that Mr. Mulder was currently on an unscheduled conference call. Super important, apparently.
Uh-huh. I’m sure that was why I kept hearing bursts of laughter and nasally guffaws from behind his closed door.
After about forty-five minutes, Rochelle went into the office to speak to him. The next thing I knew, an employee named Mischa popped up and announced he was taking me on a tour of the station while we wait for Mulder to finish up.
I follow his tall, lanky frame down the brightly lit corridor. “So what exactly do you do here, Mischa?”
“I’m the stage manager. Which is a lot less glamorous than the title implies. Basically I coordinate the talent, see to the needs of the director, clean up the set, keep the caffeine flowing.” He offers a dry look. “Sometimes I get to make small adjustments to the lighting equipment.”
“Oooh, you’ve hit the big-time!”
He grins. “Eventually I hope to become a director, or maybe run master control. That would be the big-time.”
We pass a bulky man in a gray pinstriped suit. He’s on his cell phone but spares us a brief look as we walk by him. Recognition instantly hits me.
“Holy shit,” I hiss to Mischa. “Was that Kyler Winters?”
“Yup. We just landed him as a special commentator. He’ll be reporting on the NHL playoffs.”
“Do a lot of other former NHLers working here?”
“Definitely. Most of them are analysts or game commentators. We’ve got some former coaches, too. And then there’s the fantasy guys, stats guys, injury experts. And the loud-mouthed opinion dudes, like Kip and Trevor,” he says, naming the popular talking-heads duo whose show is probably the most controversial. Both men have strong opinions and aren’t afraid to voice them.
“That’s a lot of testosterone in one building,” I tease. “What’s the estrogen situation like?”
He laughs. “Well, if we’re talking on-camera, we’ve got Erin Foster. She usually reports from the locker room. And Georgia—”
“Barnes,” I finish.
Georgia Barnes is kind of my idol. She’s the one who asks the hard-hitting questions after the games, pulling no punches. She’s also smart as a whip and hosts a weekly opinion segment, and while her views aren’t as contentious as Kip and Trevor’s, I find them a lot more intelligent, if I’m being honest.
“Georgia’s awesome,” Mischa tells me. “Sharpest wit you’ve ever experienced. I’ve seen her verbally cut down men three times her size.”
“I love her,” I confess.
“We’ve also got a female director for some of the evening segments, a few analysts, a couple women who work on the crew. Oh, and exhausted assistants like Maggie over here,” he finishes, gesturing to the figure barreling toward us. “Hey, Mags.”
Maggie is a harried-looking girl with bangs that keep falling in her eyes. She’s carrying a cardboard tray of coffee cups, and rather than stop to greet us, she mumbles, “Don’t talk to me. I’m late and Kip’s gonna kill me.” She rushes past without a backward glance.
“Still want to work here?” Mischa teases me.
“I’m a pro at getting coffee,” I say confidently. “And I’m never late.”
“That’s good to hear. Because some of the dudes who work here have hair-trigger tempers. One producer, Pete, fires his assistants every other month. He’s already been through three of them this year.”
We continue the tour, winding up in the main studio, w
hich is so cool to see. I gaze longingly at the news desk where the analysts sit, but even cooler is the set of Kip and Trevor’s show, Hockey Corner. The familiar brown leather couch and backdrop covered with pennants and trophies trigger a wave of excitement. How amazing would it be to have my own show one day? My own set?
I force away the grandiose delusions. It’s a nice fantasy, but I imagine it’d take years, decades even, before somebody gave me my own show.
The radio clipped to Mischa’s belt crackles with static. “Mr. Mulder is ready for her,” comes Rochelle’s voice.
“See? That wasn’t too long of a wait,” Mischa tells me. “Right?”
Uh-huh. Right. Mulder was an hour and fifteen minutes late to an interview that wasn’t even supposed to be today. Consummate professional.
Mischa walks me back to the production offices, where Rochelle hurriedly ushers me to her boss.
“Mr. Mulder,” I say. “It’s good to see you again.”
As always, his attention is elsewhere. There are several overhead screens mounted on the wall, and one is showing a newscast from a rival network. It’s on mute, but the coverage is on Saturday night’s Oilers game.
He tears his gaze away from the screen. “Thanks for coming back. Friday was a total shit show.”
“Yeah, it seemed crazy.” He doesn’t ask me to sit, but I do it anyway and wait for him to continue the interview.
“So, your school will be facing Harvard in the conference finals,” he says. “What are your thoughts on that?”
“I’m excited to kick their butts.”
Mulder’s smile is mocking. “With Connelly at the helm? I’m afraid you’re destined to lose. You’ve heard of Jake Connelly, right?”
Unfortunately. “Of course.”
Mulder leans back in his chair. “All right, then here’s a nice test for you—our interns are expected to be statistics savvy. Tell me, what are Connelly’s stats for the season?”
I hide a frown. That’s the most generalized question I’ve ever heard. His stats? What stats?
“You’ll have to be a bit more specific,” I reply. “What statistics are you looking for? Goals? Assists? Power play goals? Shots on goal?”
The Risk: Briar U Page 10