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I clear my throat and nod, not sure what else to say. The front door clicks shut a few seconds later, leaving silence behind. Annoyingly, I’m no longer looking forward to solitude and sweatpants the way I was before Crew showed up unexpectedly.
I look at the browning banana peel on the counter, then at the tufts of golden fur on the kitchen floor. Instead of peaceful, the penthouse feels empty.
It’s easier to be alone when it feels like a choice, instead of an inevitability.
CHAPTERTWO
HANNAH
Hockey rinks have a distinct smell. Different from the fresh air and earth scent of soccer fields or baseball diamonds.
My eyes close for a minute as I inhale deeply. The cool bite to the air burns my lungs, accompanied by the lingering odors of cooled sweat, chemical cleaner, rubber, and buttered popcorn. With my sight restricted, all the smells seem to sharpen. Something about the mix of them swirling in the chilled air is more relaxing than appalling. For a few seconds, I can pretend I’m somewhere else.
“Miss Garner.”
I open my eyes, turning away from the bird’s-eye view of the arena to watch Robert Damon approach. Balding, portly, and pushing sixty, the general manager of the Las Vegas Coyotes makes the predictable choice to check out my cleavage before his eyes migrate up to my face. I resist the urge to double check I didn’t miss a button. I only had ten minutes to change between checking in to the hotel and heading here, so it’s a definite possibility.
“Mr. Damon.” I hold out a hand to shake and fix a polite smile on my face.
He chuckles as our palms connect, his hand warm and slightly damp. I suppress a grimace as the handshake lasts a few seconds longer than necessary, his beady gaze making another trip down to my chest in the extended length of time.
“Call me Robert, please.” His voice is as repellant as the rest of him, high and reedy.
Robertwaits, presumably for me to reciprocate the offer and tell him to call me Hannah. I don’t. I’m happy to remain on professional terms with him.
“The facility is impressive,” I say, pulling my palm free and gesturing toward the flawless ice I was just admiring. I focus on taking in the impressive view for a second time, instead of wiping my palm on my pants the way I want to. “This is only the team’s second season, correct?”
I’m not actually asking; Iknowit is.
But allowing Robert to think he knows more about his team than I do serves a purpose, just like not commenting on his wandering gaze does. Pissing him off won’t make this visit any more pleasant. I’m here to play a role, and I’ll do a damned good job of it.
“That’s correct.” Robert smiles. “I appreciate when a woman does her homework.”
My smile stays fixed. It tightens, freezing like poured concrete as he cements my initial assumption that he’s a misogynistic asshole. Jerk or not, he’s a bridge I can’t burn.
Robert sighs, happily looking out at the ice rink. The frozen water reflects the bright lights of the arena, glimmering off the smooth surface.
It’s an overwhelming sight, like standing in the center of an empty cathedral. Huge and majestic, to the point it shrinks everything else into perspective. Makes you feel tiny and inconsequential and awed.
“This was a bitch of a project to push through,” Robert tells me, residual annoyance lingering in the words as he studies the finished product. “But worth it, in the end.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek so nothing snarky about the questionable genius of building a massive hockey stadium in the middle of the desert can slip out. While dubious from an environmental and logical perspective, it’s an architectural marvel. In keeping with the city’s flashy reputation, the domed ceiling is designed to look like a mirrorball with thousands of reflective facets displaying a distorted image of the empty arena.
“Would you like a tour of behind the scenes?”
“That sounds great.”
Robert nods, anticipating my answer the same way I was expecting the offer. When he looks away, I take the opportunity to check my shirt, relieved to see all the buttons are done up.
Today’s visit to the Coyotes’ facility is part of a tired, predictable routine.
Well,I’mtired of it. Robert looks like this is the highlight of his week as he summons over a petite redhead from the corner of the suite. She’s dressed professionally, just like me, in a blazer, skirt, and heels. A lanyard emblazoned with the Coyotes’ logo hangs around her neck.
“Lauren can show you around,” Robert tells me. “She handles public relations for the team. Lauren, this is Hannah Garner. FromGarnerSports Agency.”
I don’t miss the impressed look that appears on Lauren’s face as Robert emphasizes my last name, immediately followed by understanding. Thethat’s why she’s hereconclusion. Thenepotism look.
I don’t hate it because I worked my ass off to get here and am craving acknowledgment of that fact. I hate it because Ididn’tearn my spot at the business making a few hundred million in commissions annually.
