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Cecelia sighs. “Nepotism’s overrated.”
“What, specifically, do you want me to do?” I am almost afraid to ask.
“Basically, at this point, Mason needs a minder. He needs someone overseeing him and his behavior. He should check in with you before he goes out, and you need to not only come up with a campaign to restore his image, you need to be there by his side while he carries it out. Otherwise, he’s likely to get impatient and stomp off in the middle of it. And, needless to say, you need to encourage him to stay off the booze.”
Ideas flash through my head. I could do such a good job planning this campaign—and then assigning someone else to do the dirty work of hanging out with Mason. “I know just the thing to help rehab his image. But do I really need to be there with him? He’s a big boy. Can’t he just show up and ...”
Cecelia shakes her head. “No way. This is too important, and frankly, Mason hasn’t shown the best judgment in the past.”
I take a deep breath and frantically try to think of a way to get out of this.
Yes, Mason is unnervingly sexy. He is also arrogant. And superficial. And rude. Being forced into close proximity with him will be like listening to a dentist drill played on repeat.
“If you can pull this off, it will show me that you can handle the position. I’m sorry. I know he’s a pain, but frankly, that’s our job.” Cecelia narrows her eyes at me.
“What about, say, Knox Harper? Or Paxton Saul?” I say, naming the right wing and the center. “I could make them look sooo good.”
Cecelia frowns reprovingly. “Making a sexy hockey hero look good when everything’s going smoothly is child’s play, Rowan. I could get one of our most junior associates to do that. A publicist’s job isn’t all sunshine and roses.”
I feel a sting of guilt. I’ve never been afraid of hard work, and yes, what she was asking me to do was hard work, but it was part of a publicist’s job. “You’re right. Of course. But do you think Mason will even cooperate?” I ask doubtfully.
Cecelia nods. “Mr. Talman called him in. He had a come-to-Jesus meeting with him. He told him that this is his last shot at staying on the team. I mean, yes, Mason is the star now, but he is, as you point out, closer to the end of his career than the beginning, and everyone’s replaceable. Even me.”
“Never you,” I say fervently. Wow. It’s just starting to sink in.
Cecelia is leaving.
She’s been my mentor, my friend, my confidante.
“If you end up getting the position, I’ll still be there for you to consult with if you need me,” Cecelia says kindly. “I’m going on vacation, not moving into a retirement home. I will still be here to nag, chastise, and shame you as needed.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” I say dryly.
“It’s what I live for.” She opens up the bag from the salad bar and pulls out the salad, fork, and napkins.
“Again. Right here,” her daughter shouts from across the room.
“Don’t you have some email to go through, light of my life?” Cecelia calls out. “Fruit of my loins? Reason for my very existence?”
“Finally, some acknowledgment,” her daughter grumbles.
Hope and fear swirl inside me. This is an absolute honor and a huge, huge responsibility. I’m very young for such a position. The fact that she is even considering me for it is incredibly flattering. “If I get the job, I will stalk you relentlessly so I can siphon off your wisdom,” I tell Cecelia.
She takes a bite of salad and smiles at me. “I’m sure you will. Now, go ahead and lay your brilliant plans on me.”
“Fine. First I need more chocolate.” I reach into my chocolate box, pull out Mason Raker, and savagely bite his head off. Mason, apparently, is cherry-filled. The joke isn’t lost on me as the red syrup drips onto my chin.
2
MASON
The Rovers conferenceroom is empty except for two unhappy people—me and Ralph Talman, the owner of our team. A week ago he sat me down and demanded I attend this shit show of a meeting.
I lean back in my chair, keeping my expression carefully blank, my arms folded across my chest.
I’m a hockey player. And a damned good one. What business is it of anyone what I do when I’m not on the ice?
I don’t drive drunk, shoot up drugs, or rob banks ... so what’s the problem?
