Page 2 of He Has Pluck

I cough-laugh at her outrageous statement. But before I can get in another word, the door in front of me opens wide, and a formidable middle-aged woman stands there with hands on her hips and a scowl that makes Ice Chip’s expression look angelic.

“Don’t lollygag out in the hallway. Come in, for Christ’s sake.” I assume the woman with the commanding voice is the Public Relations lady I was told to see first thing.

I’m hoping Coach Larry Green is on board with this meeting because I know the team’s practicing today. I enter the office, figuring Ms. Ice Chip, who stands there fuming about her demotion and evil boob-grabbing hockey players and whatever else has her angry enough at the world to put that Alaskan-sized chip on her shoulder, will go on her way.

But she doesn’t. She follows the PR lady and me into the office. That makes my heart stutter, but I keep my cool.

She’s in my PR meeting? I’ll have to ignore the bristling flames of lust I felt touching her because attraction is the last thing I want to feel for the lady with the attitude.

There are too many willing women out there for me to spend a minute worrying about the one who made it clear she’d squash me like a roach before she’d let me touch her again—no matter how much my dick insists she’s the one.

The one? Hell, what does my dick know anyway?

“Welcome to the NHL, Tansem.” The woman who works in this fancy office in the Garden puts her hand out to shake, so I do. “I’m Mary Delaney, V.P. of Public Relations for the Brawlers organization.”

“I’m excited as hell to be here.” And scared to fucking death.

Ice Chip rolls her eyes and reaches a hand out to shake with Delaney.

“I’m Juliette Sullivan.”

“I know who you are. Take a seat. Both of you.”

“I’m not sure why we’re all meeting.” Juliette Sullivan gives me a side-eyed glance as if I’m the one out of place. Maybe I am. But Delaney directs us toward the conference table with a wave of her hand, and I take a seat anyway. If Sullivan doesn’t work in PR, I’m not sure what she’s doing here, either.

“Nice digs.” I look around the spacious room with plush carpeting, solid furniture that I’d probably have a hard time lifting and a sectional sofa that could sleep a small family.

“Let’s get right to it,” Delaney says, not bothering to sit.

Juliette frowns. “I thought Dan was supposed to be—”

“He’s running late, so we’re starting without him.” Delaney looks at me. “Dan Ruminski is producing our documentary.”

“Documentary?” I don’t mean to sound ignorant, but clearly, I am because this is the first I hear of a documentary, and my presence at this meeting suddenly feels all wrong. I start to rise from my comfy executive chair. “I think I must be here by mistake—”

“Sit. You’re supposed to be here.” She heaves a deep sigh and paces a circle as she talks. “It appears that whoever in Human Resources communicated with you did a poor job.” She stops.

I wait for the explanation.

“Great,” Juliette mutters.

Delaney doesn’t seem to notice as she stops and throws her hands on her hips. “The Brawlers organization has contracted with Ruminski Productions—that’s Dan Ruminski’s production company—to make a documentary of the Brawlers run for the Stanley Cup to air on our local channel and the NHL network. We have a rabid fan base in the Boston market and want to make the most of it.”

“I see,” I say, only half lying. “But where do I come in?”

“Good question,” Juliette says, one brow arched and daring Delaney to come up with a plausible explanation.

I squelch the automatic smile at her sass. I don’t need a sassy woman who doesn’t like me. No matter how in love with her my dick is right now. Damn dick. It’s usually—no, make that always—under control, paying attention to my higher authority. At least it has been since eighth grade. So what the fuck is my problem now?

I glance across the conference table at Sullivan. There’s my problem.

She says to me, “Documentaries are best told over the shoulder of the subjects to make the story more identifiable and to increase the stakes.” Her tone isn’t condescending, so that’s a plus. It’s more instructional and professional, and I can deal with that, so I give her a grin. She turns away with a look that may as well be a fuck you finger. Whoa, baby. Something is seriously wrong here, and it’s not me.

Delaney continues, “Ms. Sullivan should know. She’s a CBN award-winning film and photojournalist with an unprecedented list of credentials after only a handful of years as a pro.” The PR lady looks like she has a crush on the award-winning ice chip.

I want to mock-clap my hands. Two can play the snarky game. But I don’t.

Instead, I say, “Impressive. What the hell are you doing here?” Delaney doesn’t hear the playfulness in my comment and nearly snarls at me, so I follow up with a genuine question.