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“Sex sells.” Once again I’m met with horrified looks from a group of middle-aged men who apparently never considered that hockey players could sell sex better than a playboy bunny. Albeit to a different crowd.
“No,” Bob shakes his head. “We’re a family-friendly team, this issue not-withstanding, and we want our fans to remember that long after they discover the truth about Haine.”
The meeting turns to other things they need to cover—the new hole in the first-string defense, whether they should call up the young hotshot from the minors, if debuting the throwback jerseys now would be a good idea—and I tune them out to start game-planning.
I’ll have the best luck putting together an actual campaign as opposed to random posts. Something that can debut on the Arctic channels but also cross over onto player profiles, too. Maybe some player spotlights? A content liaison? I’ll need someone family-friendly. Someone with high moral fiber. Someone who is easy-on-the-eyes—an unfortunate truth about content and marketing—decently well-known around town, and willing to work with me. The last one is the kicker.
Ólaffson would work with me, but he’s too shy to be compelling or comfortable on camera. As our starting goaltender, he could offer a unique perspective on the team, so maybe I can use him for a post or two. I file his name away for later. Jack Spaeglin is young and handsome, but he has an unfortunate tendency to need reminders about what parts of his body the public does not need to see. I could ask Oakes. He’s a veteran player. Dark hair and blue eyes make him fun to look at, but I doubt he’d say yes. The man never smiles.
I’m still making mental lists of whom to tap for this new project as the meeting lets out and I follow the suits into the hallway. We can do some insider interviews to entice young players, shout-outs for local businesses to draw in the community, maybe highlight some volunteer projects. A few of the guys work with the pediatrics department of the local hospital. A few others volunteer at the local animal shelter.
This could be a hit. If I can maintain creative control, then maybe I can blow Chris out of the water and leverage this gig into a more permanent marketing position. Something beyond babysitting social media pages and creating content that will get views. Something I’m passionate about. I’m already thinking about ways we can bring different segments into home game intermissions when I plow into a hard surface.
My face lands between two sculpted pectoral muscles clad in a tight athletic shirt. There’s no reason I should know who I’ve run into. No reason I can picture his sandy hair and hazel eyes and perpetual grin. Players rarely come to the office buildings and the meeting is over. There is no reason for him to be here or for me to be crashing into him. I’m so disgusted with my own hyper awareness that I take a step back without checking my surroundings and slam into my boss, Chris. Great.
Way to look professional, Tristan.
“Careful kitty cat,” Number Twenty-Five says, as Chris’s hands steady my upper arms. “There’s someone behind you.”
Kitty cat. He always calls me that. And every single time I hear that name in his honey voice, I have the urge to claw him to ribbons, which bothers me because this pretty boy hockey player does not have any effect on any part of me other than my gag reflex. And not in a fun way.
“I noticed, thank you.” I keep my voice steady through sheer willpower, and I hope he can hear the sarcasm coating every word. I do not tilt my chin up to see his face. I keep my gaze trained on his chest. My contract requires a certain level of professionalism, but it does not necessitate eye contact.
“You made it,” Chris says from behind me, and my muscles tense to the point of pain. Because that almost sounded like he’ssupposedto be here… like my boss invited him… which can only mean one thing.
I would have gotten there, eventually. From the minute they asked me to create smoke and mirrors, I knew it would be this player who ended up in the spotlight. He’s scandal-free. Some would consider him handsome, if they like height and muscles and straight Roman noses and angular jaws and hazel eyes that swirl with blues and browns and greens. If they find competence on the ice attractive and know he’s one of our top goal-scorers.
We all knew it would be him because he does everything that’s asked of him, by everyone, including me, but I had wanted to at least pretend to run through other options. And when I did choose him, I wanted it to bemydecision. Not my boss’s.My project. Mine,my brain snarls with the feral protectiveness that I lock away when I’m at work.
And yes, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter if I landed on the captain myself, or if Chris hand-picked him for me. But why put me in charge of a project just to tell me how to do it? Because Victor Varg might be the best choice from among the players, but I don’t know if I can handle being in close proximity with him for however long we need to keep this going.
I just might go insane.
I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to meet Chris at the head office. Well, maybe not exactly what I’d need to do, but I had a good idea that it would involve tiny, blonde Tristan Grant, and offering myself up to the marketing team as some sort of sacrificial lamb. Along with knowing this favor would include her, I also knew she wouldn’t be happy about me crashing the party. Unfortunately, no matter how I prepare myself for it, the look of abject horror she wears as she bounces off my chest is still a jab to the solar plexus.
It shouldn’t be.
I don’t think Tristan likes anyone. It shouldn’t bother me in the slightest that her nose crinkles up when we cross paths, as though she’s smelling something awful. Rotten eggs, turpentine, the inside of my practice bag—it doesn’t matter how often everything gets washed, it will reek until the day it gets incinerated—every time she sees me her glacial eyes narrow and if looks could kill, I’d be nothing more than a grease spot on the floor, smoking just a little as she burns me into nothing.
It shouldn’t matter.
Except for Ms. Grant, I’m well-liked. I know it sounds egotistical to admit something like that, but arrogance has nothing to do with it. I pride myself on being the guy who gets along. I work hard to not make waves. There are two things I do well. The first is slapping a tiny disc of vulcanized rubber down a sheet of ice. The second is putting people at ease. I’ve had a lot of practice with both.
I’m not sure anything would help Tristan. Her blood pressure must be astronomical. She’s always so tense that I’m convinced she’s vibrating. Not so anyone would notice, but like her muscles are shaking from being poised to strike at any minute. Does she ever get any down time? Take a minute to breathe?
Chris Markham, the head of the Arctic marketing department, gestures to the open conference room that all the suits just left, and we follow him in like dutiful puppies. Well, maybe not quite. The minute her boss’s back is turned, Tristan scowls and I swear I hear her snarl like the little cat she reminds me of.
The first time I ever saw her, she was doing something similar. Making that same dangerous sound as she poked long, sharp nails into the chest of one of the rookies. Her words were low as she informed him that if he sent photos of his trouser snake—her words—to anyone unsolicited again, she’d rip it off with her bare hands and have it taxidermized and installed as the new team mascot. I watched the kid flinch. A whole foot taller than her without his skates and she had him cowering with one expertly placed poke and a hissed threat. All without breaking a sweat.
“I already had a game plan,” she’s saying as I step in behind her and let the door close. “I had a list.”
I’ll bet she did. It wouldn’t surprise me if Tristan Grant has lists to keep track of lists. Color-coordinated and written in pen. No room for errors. She shoots me a look over her shoulder, one that says she thinks I’d draw doodles on her precious lists. Or crinkle them into balls and practice three-pointers into the trash.
“And I’m sure, given enough time, you’d have talked to Varg anyway, but time is something we don’t have, Tristan. The sooner we can kick this campaign off, the better for everyone.”
I can’t help but grin at her and there go her eyes, narrowing into slits of palest blue as her nostrils flare.
“And maybe by the time I tapped him, I’d already have some content plans to pitch,” Tristan says.
