Page 49 of Oh, Puck!
"We had one meeting! About the ticket promotion for this weekend's game," I say, sitting up straighter. "The one that could actually put butts in seats for the first time all year. Remember?!"
"And I'm saying we can figure it out Monday. It's just one weekend, we'll catch the next home game."
"Colin! We don't have time for'the next game'." I do air-quotes and forget I'm supposed to be gripping the sheets so I don't nip-slip my boss. "I need approval on a buy-one-get-one-free ticket promotion that I cannot execute without your signature!"
He winces. "Okay, when you put it like that—"
I groan loudly. "Where are you?"
"Sunset Golf Course. Hole seven. The view's really nice, actually—"
"I'll email you the approval. I need it by midday to get everything sorted for the media buzz."
I hang up before he can argue, throwing the phone onto the bed, resisting the urge to scream into my pillow.
Not only did Colin just cockblock my orgasm, he also just tanked my entire morning. And now I have to figure out how to save this ticket promo without him.Again.
I drag myself out of bed, thighs still aching, frustration coiling hot and tight in my gut.
"New town. New me," I mutter, heading for the shower. "More like new disasters. Same me."
I grab the first thing I find. A pair of leggings and a Bears polo that says'I'm on board with this team and I'm going to murder my boss'.
This isnothow today was supposed to go.
But at least now I know I will have absolutely no time to think about the way Declan's lips felt against mine last night. Or how badly I want to show him myconfidenceall over again.
My office overlooks the practice rink below, where I can see the guys running drills. Declan's down there somewhere, probably being annoyingly competent while I'm up here losing my mind over an email signature.
"Come on, Colin," I mutter, refreshing my inbox for the hundredth time. "One email. That's all I'm asking. One goddamn email."
I'm pacing.
Actually pacing. Like some kind of deranged executive trapped in a glass cage.
I've made six calls in the last twenty minutes.Six.
Colin Holden has ignored every single one.
I spin on my heel, glaring at my laptop. The promotion materials are ready. The social media graphics are queued. The local news outlet is standing by for the announcement.
All I need is one digital signature from a man who's probably on his twelfth hole by now.
My body tightens as I stare at the silent phone.
Oh God.
This feels exactly like my first internship at ESPN. I was twenty-two years old, and desperate to prove myself. The guys inthe office gave me this 'huge assignment'—an exclusive interview with a college quarterback everyone said was destined for greatness.
I spent three weeks preparing. Research, questions, follow-ups. I even bought a new blazer for the interview.
Turns out, the player didn't exist.
The hierarchy had made him up. Fake stats, fake photos, fake everything. It was all this stupid plan they created just to watch me scramble, to see how long I'd chase a ghost before I figured it out.
The laughter when I finally realized… Yep. Those assholes slapped each other on the back like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Fuck.
