Page 13 of Broken As Puck

I was beginning to think the only problem I’d have working with this team was keeping my heart safe.

There was a window beside my desk and I looked through it and down onto the ice, where the team was practicing. As I watched, Matt flew across the rink, intercepting a forward, and they slammed into the barrier. He looked up, and even though I knew it was ridiculous with dozens of yards and a layer of glass separating us, I could have sworn he met my eyes.

I shivered.

Fuck, I was in trouble.

Chapter Five

MATT

As I pulled into the stadium’s parking lot, I spotted a curvy figure with beachy blonde waves striding across the asphalt toward the front entrance. I swerved into the nearest park, shut off the car, and leapt out the door.

A warm breeze stirred the air as I bolted around to the trunk, popped it open, and grabbed my duffel bag, then I hefted it over my shoulder and hurried toward her, pressing a button on the key fob to lock the car as I did so.

“Chelsey,” I called.

She glanced over her shoulder. When she realized it was me, she looked poised to continue inside anyway.

“Wait up!” I picked up the pace, my long legs eating up the distance between us in only a few seconds.

She turned from me to the stadium, clearly wondering if she could get away with ignoring me, but to her credit, she stopped. I didn’t slow down until I was directly in front of her, and then I finally halted and dropped my duffel bag on the ground.

“I have something for you,” I said, lowering myself to my knees to search through the bag.

One side of her mouth turned down. “I don’t want anything from you.”

Wow, she really had mastered the art of being icy during our time apart. She made it look good.

“Just hold on a moment.”

I sifted around, cursing myself for not having put the gift for her right on top. I hadn’t realized I’d have the chance to see her so early in the morning. I’d expected to have to hunt her down in the office after training.

“I don’t have time for this.” She pointedly looked down at her bare wrist. “I should be inside already.”

“Tell them I held you up.” I was sure no one would mind one of the players taking an interest in the team’s publicist. Not when they were actively encouraging us to pursue good publicity.

My fingertips found the hard edges of the plastic box and I pried it free of whatever was holding it in place, then straightened and offered it to Chelsey.

“Here. It was signed by Pete and Wayne Wright. I know you’re a fan of them, so I thought it might make a nice welcome-to-the-team gift.”

She took the plastic box on autopilot and stared blankly at the white puck inside. She stayed silent for so long I worried I’d broken her. Eventually, she shook her head as if to jar herself out of her introspection.

“I can’t take this,” she said, eyeing it longingly. Perhaps she was thinking about how nice it would look on her collector shelf alongside her signed Sidney Crosby jersey and the puck she’d managed to scavenge from one of the PWHL games we’d attended during our time at college.

“Yes, you can.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Plenty of people receive welcome gifts when they start at a new workplace. Also, there’s no rule against it in the corporate handbook. I checked.”

I knew she would protest and also wanted to make sure I didn’t put her in an untenable professional position by pushing her to do something that would go against team policies. There was nothing to prevent her from accepting this as the gesture it was, besides her own pride.

“I thought it might look good on your desk,” I added, unable to tell from her expression if I was getting anywhere. “I promise, Chelsey, you don’t owe me anything if you take it and there is nothing in the rule book that says you can’t, although I’ll understand if you want to check that for yourself first.”

A long silence followed and then she palmed the plastic container and nodded. “Thank you, then.”

“You’re welcome.” I smiled warmly. “I’m really impressed with how the player profiles came out.”

She had started posting the profiles on social media, one per day. In addition to the photographs she’d taken of us and the questionnaire we’d each filled out, she’d also filmed footage of our training sessions and cut out small clips of each player. I didn’t know much about social media metrics, but I’d been keeping an eye on them, and from what I could tell, they seemed to be doing well.

“Thank you,” she said again, eyeing me suspiciously, as if she thought I was setting her up for some kind of zinger.