Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
“We’re going to do a mini docu series on you, Frosky, for the fans to follow on social media from now until right before playoffs,” our boss announces.
“No one’s going to watch that,” Hoss bluntly interjects.
“Everyone’s going to watch it,” the woman in charge bites back, eyes twitching a glare, “and everyone’s going to fucking love it, because if this project fails, and we go back to looking like a fucking embarrassment to the league, proving we are incapable of producing good press versus only fucking scandals, you,” she kicks her chin to Hoss, “won’t be able to coordinate anything bigger than local car dealership commercials, and you,” the action is presented in my direction, “will become the bargaining chip I dangle in front of other GMs as I search for a younger, hotter, much easier to train pigeon that promises to give me more snipes and less gripes.” Her eyes sharply swing back and forth. “Clearskies?”
“Like a game day, powerplay,” leaves me in a nervous chuckle.
So hot, yet so horrifying.
That is her reputation around the league.
“To flick the odds of success in our favor,” Hennington precedes, voice resuming a less menacing tone, “we’ll be giving away smaller prizes throughout the season – to encourage continuous engagement – along with a VIP package prize – all paid for by our sponsor – to one lucky fan at the end of the series run. Each posted episode will include a link for fans to click on to get themselves entered to win these things, which should give us the expected apple we need in this endeavor.” She flicks a strand away from her face before asking, “Questions?”
“Should I quit now or later?” Hoss inquires in such a way it’s hard to know if she’s kidding.
But she has to be kidding.
She bloody loves her job.
Loathes me…but loves what she does.
“Creative control will still solely rest with you, Hoss,” informs our boss. “Fans love your style. They love how you showcase the boys. They love how you humanize them. Remind the world that they’re just like your brother or cousin or best friend or neighbor or dude you’re still in touch with him from high school or college. It’s the main reason I have faith that this decision isn’t gonna end with us having a goose egg on the board and more bad press to answer to.”
Hoss is very good at what she does.
She asks the best questions.
Snaps the best stills.
Smashes together the best clips.
Somehow manages to capture us as people as much as players.
It’s her ability to do that, to see us, to want to show the world the real us, that’s managed to make me this level of comfortable in more than just my skates.
She’s certifiskies incredible.
And I’d tell her that right now if I didn’t think it would end with her drawing a dick on my very white, very expensive suit jacket.
“You’ll still be using Khurana to film our main media content; however, for the more intimate moments with Snowman-”
“I like us intimate,” I playfully insert on a waggling of my eyebrows.
“I’d rather be intimate with a fucking pylon.”
“For the more intimate moments,” Hennington states louder like a ref’s whistle being blown to stop a brawl, “you’ll be using an office device to provide a deeper, more personal, rawer connection for the fans.”
“Henningtonnnnnnn,” summons Margot Adelstein, her second in command, somewhere in the distance. “Press corner. Now!”
“I swear to The Great One if that Julia Childish cunt asks me one,” she lifts her pointed index finger in tandem with the declaration, “fucking backhanded insult question, I’m gonna get fined fifteen k for spearing.”
My brows twitch together in confusion. “Five is the maximum amount for spearing.”
“That’s under the assumption you stop after that first stab.” Hennington sassily cocks her hip to the side. “I will not.”
“Hennington!”
“Fuck, I’m coming!” huffs the hottest GM in the league as she storms off.
We’re fortunate.
Not simply because the woman in charge of our paychecks is a fucking snipe but because she too gets us.
Thinks like we think.
Speaks like we speak.
And prior to letting a much younger broskie put a mood ring on her finger, she wheeled like we did.
Just not any of us.
That’s against league rules along with the franchise ones.
There’s no fraternization allowed.
Period.
Whistle.
End of regulation stop.
Cases for exceptions can be made for those that work in the same setting like the front office; however, players aren’t allowed to date anyone from other departments, including PR.
It would likely get the non-sweater wearing person immediately fired and the one with the crest on their vest on the auction block.
Fraternization is taken a bit too seriously, if you ask me.
What’s the harm in a little naked faceoff between a star player and the social media vixen he’d chop off his left testy to take on a date?
Seriously.
What’s the worst that could happen?