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Chapter One
Hattie
Christmas is the worst.
Don’t come at me, I have my reasons. But I stand by my statement: Christmas. Is. The. Worst.
Ok, so to be fair, it isn’t exactly Christmas itself that I hate. Or, well, it didn’t start out that way at least, but what is the happiest time of year for most people, is the worst time of year for me. It’s been that way for practically my entire life. Almost every single year without fail, crappy things always happen to me,allwithin a week or so of C-Day. So, after a while, everything about Christmas just turned sour and it became one giant bad omen for me. Guilty by association, I guess.Sorry, Santa.
I am neither holly nor jolly. I deck no halls and trim no trees. I mean I don’t yell “bah humbug!” at people or spit on bell-ringing Santas in the street or anything. I’m fully aware that my issues with Christmas are my own and don’t begrudge anyone else who enjoys the season, but I still avoid most things if I can help it. I’ve been called Scrooge and Grinch and Oscar the Grouch and every other name you can think of around the holidays, but I’ve learned to deal with it.
Even so, the fact that Christmas seems to have crept further and further back in the year, encroaching on all of the other months, drives me freaking crazy and doesn't help my lack of love for the entire thing. I narrow my eyes at the dancing Santa figurine on the counter of the coffee shop. It'sSeptemberfor fuck's sake, but half of the places I’ve gone today are already full of Christmas decorations, some of them even playing Christmas music! Right beside the pumpkins and skeletons are elves and reindeer. What in the hell isthatabout? It seems illegal to me.
I grab my peppermint mocha—one of the things I admittedly love about this time of year, even if it comes early: pepperminteverything—and head out into the cold. I’ve only been in Seattle for a few weeks, and I’m already missing my southern beaches like a severed limb. But this job offer was huge for my career, sounded like something I would absolutely love, and it had the added bonus of getting me as far away from my ex, Josh, as possible.
We’d broken up almost a year ago—or, well, more accurately I had left him when I’d finally gotten tired of being in a relationship with a narcissistic, alcoholic asshole who was prone to fits of rage at the drop of a hat—but he was having trouble understanding what the wordsit’s overandrestraining ordermeant.
At first it had been relatively harmless: angry, drunk texts and voicemails, apology flowers at work the next day, the same kind of stuff he’d done throughout our two-year relationship and what I kind of chocked up to normal break up behavior (at least for him). But over the past few months it had gotten steadily worse. He would show up at my house with no warning or invitation, be waiting for me outside my office when I got off work, started calling and texting me nonstop to the point where I had to get a new number—twice.
When I’d gotten the restraining order, he’d gotten less obvious about it, but he was still there. I can’t explain how, but I could justfeelhim. I would come out of a coffee shop and swear I saw his car pulling away from the curb, or be shopping and see a familiar Longhorns hat in the crowd, though of course I could never prove it was him. We lived in Texas for cryin' out loud—you couldn’t spit without hitting ten people wearing Longhorns gear.
It started to get scarier when I came home from drinks with a few coworkers one night and Iknewhe’d been in my house. I could smell his cologne, could tell that he’d rummaged in my drawers. He’d even turned on the shower to leave a note in the fog on the mirror that I found later: a heart. Simple. Non-threatening. At least on the surface, but combined with everything else, it was scary as hell.
I went to the police, but of course, there was no actual proof—the lock hadn’t been jimmied, no broken windows, nothing amiss or out of place really. Even the heart on the mirror could just be waived away as something that had been there forever, something from back when we were dating since I admittedly rarely clean that mirror. He was escalating, but he was also slicker than pig snot on a radiator and knewexactlyhow to toe the line—and talk his way out of it if he did ever happen to cross it. He’d been that way his entire life from what I’d pieced together hearing drunken stories from his friends. He was that guy that everyone loved, that just made you want to trust him with a few words and an easy smile, and could get away with murder while standing over the body with a bloody knife in his hand.
Even if he did slip up and I managed to find some real proof, I was pretty sure Josh’s father’s lawyers would get it thrown out and he’d be back on the street stalking me within a few hours—and I was honestly a little afraid of what he might do if I put him through all of that hassle. I'd heard from a friend that he'd lost his ever lovin' mind when he'd gotten notice of the restraining order, punched a hole in the wall of the apartment and everything. Josh might be charismatic and just has a way of making everyone love him, but he has one hell of a temper that he hides beneath the pretty face and designer clothes.
I was starting to get really,reallyfreaked out, and that’s when the call came in from the Seattle Vipers. I’d accepted immediately. I loved it in Galveston and had been really happy there for the most part, but I needed to get away. I honestly didn’t think that Josh would keep things up if I wasn’t in the same city anymore. If I wasn’t there, within easy reach, he’d finally move on and I could just put the whole thing behind me, start over clean.
So, I gave my notice at work, packed up what would fit in a trailer (which was mostly just my clothes, books, and bed), sold the rest, and moved my happy little beach bum ass clear across the country into the land of cold and wet and gloom. They had “beaches” here, everyone was quick to point out, but it wasn’t even close to the same. Even still, I’d found a cute place right on the Sound, and being so close to the water did make me happy. I’ve always had a thing for water: beaches, lakes, bayous—it all called to me. So, with Seattle being surrounded by water, I guess it wasn’ttooterrible of a place to end up, all things considered.
I sigh when I pull into the parking garage attached to the arena: the maintenance crews are already hard at work turning every light pole into a candy cane and hanging wreaths above the concrete entrances and exits.
“Et tu, Brute?” I groan as I park my SUV—which I’d had to put snow tires on for the first time in my life. What isthatabout?—and grab my stuff. I head through theEmployee’s Onlyentrance and up the elevators to the third floor where the majority of the offices are. Marketing and Media Relations share a wing with Finance, Human Resources, and a handful of other departments; the big wigs—CEO, CFO, owner, head coach—they all have their own wing on the other side of the arena, the full expanse of the rink and stadium seats separating us. The locker rooms, training facilities, and security offices are on the bottom floor, beneath the ice. I’ve been given the grand tour, but haven’t officially met any of the players yet, though I’ve seen them from afar during practices and I've read their bios.
I honestly don’t really know much about hockey. I’ve watchedMighty DucksandMiraclemakes me tear up, but that’s about the extent of my knowledge on the subject. But what Idoknow a shit ton about is marketing and PR and that’s why I’m here. Attendance has been on a steady decline for the Vipers for the last couple of years despite the team itself doing fairly well in the standings, so they decided it was time to bring in some new blood. It had been the owner’s daughter who had suggested bringing in someone a little…younger to help out. Someone who understood how social media worked and what a hashtag was.
Emily, Vipers owner Vern Greenwood’s daughter, and I had met by chance at a wedding of a mutual friend a few years back. We’d been seated at the same table and ended up chatting most of the evening and exchanging contact info. I post a lot about work on my social media accounts—or I used to. I’ve been fairly quiet on them lately because of Josh—and I guess that’s how my name ended up in the running for the position of Assistant Director of Marketing and Media. I owe her more than she could possibly realize. Despite the timing being uncomfortably close to my Dreaded December, I figure the job offer is the universe’s way of making up for all of the terrible things it’s given me over my lifetime. It still owes me big time, but I'm trying to take this as a good start. Hell, maybe this December won’t actually suck.
Fat chance.
“Morning, Hattie.”
“Mornin', Bobby. How are ya?” I ask as I sit my coffee down on my desk and take off my coat. I’d had to get arealcoat this year, one that would actually keep you from freezing when the temps dipped below zero. The fact that I actually live in a place where negative temperatures are a real possibility is just batshit crazy to me, but I’m trying my best to keep an open mind. I mean, snow is pretty in all those Hallmark channel movies, so maybe it won’t be so bad.
Bobby leans a shoulder against the doorway, pushing his thick glasses up his nose. He’s in Marketing and Media with me, but on the data analysis side of things. He runs all the numbers, sees where things are working and where they aren’t, gives us statistical predictions for the future based on the current trends. Basically, he’s a genius and makes my brain hurt.
“Not too bad. Are you ready for the player shoots today?”
I’m excited but nervous. This is my first project in my new role and I think it’s a pretty good one. One thing that the Vipers sorely lack is a real social media presence—hardly anyone actually knows any of the players, couldn’t pick them out of a lineup if you asked them to. Literally. We had a lineup and asked people around Seattle if they could point out any of the Vipers. The results were less than ideal. Die hard fans of the sport of course know them and they're all mini-celebrities in the hockey community, but I wanteveryoneto know their names, to want to come out and watch the games and feel that home-town team pride whether they grew up on hockey or don’t know diddly squat about it.
So, they lack the social media imprint that we need in this day and age, but what they don’t lack? Good looking men. Like,obscenelygood looking. To the point where I was concerned I’d walked into one of those spoof teams, the ones that act a fool and entertain the crowd and are usually stacked with hot dudes.
And, as shallow as it sounds, good looking athletes are total money on social media these days, so I’ve been brainstorming ideas to capitalize on that piece of it, but also ways to bring in the real fans of the sport and the team. I want to cater to all demographics, do anything and everything possible to help get the team where it needs to be. We have a few weeks before the season officially begins, and I think I can really get things started off on the right foot before game one. Well, that’s the goal anyway.
So, notonlyfor the eye candy aspect, but also to let fans get to know each player and feel like they can connect with them, I’d pitched a "Meet the Vipers" series. Everyone had loved the idea, and my boss had given me complete freedom to run with it. Rumor has it that Al is ready to retire and the goal is to have me primed to take over by the time he’s ready to call it quits. Of course, it all depends on how well I manage to turn things around, so these first few months are crucial for me, because I desperately want that job. Despite it being cold and rainy and completely different than anywhere I’ve ever lived, I already like it here, and I already love the Vipers organization.
The people all seem great. Hardworking, but laid-back, which suits me perfectly. I’m motivated as all hell and I work my ass off at everything I do, but I can’t function in a place that’s too stuffy and rigid. I’d had a job at an uppity law firm once where the women were required to wear hose.Hosefor fuck’s sake. I lasted about three weeks before I had to say goodbye to that highfalutin' crowd. Thanks, but no thanks.
