Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Great. We were just checking in with the press box before the game,” I say, stopping when we reach her.
Zaire turns to Jenna. “And you’re learning the ropes?”
She nods eagerly. “Everly is teaching me how to handle questions from the press.”
“Excellent,” Zaire says with a wry grin, then turns to me. “That’s what we like here at the Sea Dogs. We pride ourselves on a mentorship-style workplace. And the biggest tip is working with reporters isn't that different from working with hockey players. It’s all about managing the big egos.”
“It sure is,” I say.
“Speaking of,” Zaire says, returning her focus to me. “Great work so far on the social media foundation. I reviewed the updates you sent over earlier. Step one looks great. Now that you’re ready for step two, let’s all have dinner with Max’s agent and myself. We can make sure we’re all set for step two.”
“I’m there,” I say without a second thought.
“Monday night?”
She names the time and I’ll still be able to fit in drinks with Lucas beforehand. At least I know Zaire isn’t trying to, well, cock-block me.
When she leaves, Jenna takes off for her cubicle, and I return to my office. Along the way, I spot the manager of promotions walking toward me. A clean-cut blond guy, Elias played hockey at his Massachusetts boarding school and for one year in college too—something he loves to remind me of. He’s the poster boy for East Coast prep school guys who have uncles who are general counsels for the team. He wears an Oxford cloth shirt and khakis, and looks like he’s off to play golf every time I see him.
“Hey, Ev. How’s everything going in com?” he asks.
“Great,” I say. “How’s promo treating you?”
“Fan-freaking-tastic. It’s the best. Soooo many fun things going on. I’ll tell you all about them soon,” he says. “Did you see that slapshot the captain made in Vegas? Not an easy one to make, and don’t I know it.”
“I’m sure you do,” I say with a smile.
He gives me finger guns for some reason, then aims them toward the rink. “We’re doing the T-shirt cannon tonight. Bam, bam!”
He works with Donna, the emcee who hosts the fan promo events during each intermission for our home games. “Fans love the cannon,” I say.
“More than anything,” he says.
Well, not more than hockey, but I don’t correct him. He turns to leave, then spins back around. “Hey, did you hear about the new director opening?”
I square my shoulders. I have more experience. I have a great track record. He’s only got a few years under his belt. Is he gunning for the post with those ridiculous pistol fingers? “Yes,” I say, keeping my answer simple since I don’t know why he’s bringing it up.
“I bet you’d be great at it,” he says, then leaves, and I’m left wondering if he means that or if he’s angling for it too.
But I have to put him out of my mind, since there are a million other things I need to think about. Like the Max makeover, which is the key to me nabbing the job.
With less than three minutes to go in the game that night, Max lunges across the net to stop a ruthless shot from Montreal. He stretches so far I don’t know how he’s not pulling a muscle and winding up on the injury report for the next game. But he pops back up no problem and fresh excitement zips through my body, then an unexpected rush of tingles skate down my spine. I want to cheer. To thrust my arms in the air. That was a key play. But I’m working the press box tonight, and cheering is frowned on in here. I’m frowning on myself, too, because why the hell am I wanting to root for one guy when I work for the team?
Best not to think too hard on that as I leave with two minutes on the clock, making my way to the ice level. When the game ends shortly with the Sea Dogs sealing the victory, I’m already waiting outside the tunnel, rounding up the crew for the post-game interviews. Max walks toward me, ripping off his helmet and shaking out his hair. It’s sweaty at his temples.
“Nice save,” I say, still a little tingly from the last play I saw, which turned out to be the final save of the game. “That last one.”
“Thanks,” he says, then shoots me a suspicious look. “Is that all?”
He’s expecting me to bicker with him. To cajole him into talking to the press. But I like to keep him on his toes, so I don’t do that tonight.
“That’s all. I need to catch up with Asher,” I answer, then pick up the pace till I reach the left winger a few feet ahead. “I hear you and Quinn have become sparring partners.” Quinn’s the equipment manager and a huge baseball fan.