Page 5 of He Has Pluck

Don’t go feeling bad for Ice Chip. The last thing I should do is let my guard down where she’s concerned, or before I can blink she’ll slice my balls off, figuratively speaking. If I were a smart guy, which is questionable right now despite my grades in college, I’d steer clear of her.

I wouldn’t be the least concerned about what boom Ruminski is about to lower on her, or what she’s hiding under the chip on her shoulder.

And I wouldn’t be so curious about what a serious, award-winning camera lady is doing here working on a hockey documentary.

Chapter Two

JULIETTE

Looking away from Hockey Boy, I nod at my boss. Of course, we need to talk. Did I think I’d walk into this job, such as it is, without some sort of reprimand or word of caution? Not after the way things had ended in Columbia.

Walking with Dan down the corridor in silence, I feel Jason’s eyes burning a hole in my back with his misplaced concern. I saw it, unmistakable and disconcerting.

But what does he know? He’s a green young buck who’s clueless enough to be excited about playing hockey for the NHL. Like that’s something.

Sure, he’s a panty-melter, with that body, that square jaw and a freaking dimple in his chin. Too bad for my panties because I’m so not into professional athletes. It’s hard for me to imagine that playing hockey is some kind of accomplishment—though it certainly pays the bills, I’ll give him that. But all that energy and enthusiasm wasted on a game—

“Let’s talk over lunch at The Harp across Causeway Street,” Dan cuts into my useless obsessing over hockey boy. "They have fish and chips to rival those of The Alfred in London.”

“Do tell,” I say.

He chuckles at my sarcasm as he pushes open the door to the lobby, and we leave the building. The spring day isn’t warm, but it’s sunny and optimistic, and I try to soak some of that in. To no avail.

“You still have your edge,” he says. “At least that’s something.” We step inside the restaurant and get a table right away.

“Why? Did you think I had turned into a simpering needy puddle?” I try not to remember my near meltdown when I encountered hockey boy in the hall, the way I babbled on with self-pity. So not my style. He knocked into me at the exact worst moment. I’d cringe at what he must think of me, but I don’t really care. Really. I don’t.

“No,” Dan says. He still thinks of me as cool, so I sit straight. “You’re a chip off the old block. I think your father would be proud of you.”

His words slice into me before I freeze them out. “Let’s leave him out of this. What do you think Mom would say?”

He laughs. “About the Brawlers documentary? She’d be on a plane here in a second to cheer you on.”

I groan. “That’s what I was afraid of. Do me a favor—don’t tell her.”

“She won’t hear it from me.”

I know she has other sources, a network of spies that keep her filled in on my whereabouts and doings. I suppose I’m glad about that. Saves me the trouble of sending postcards.

“You realize that when you told me you had a plum assignment for me, the last thing I expected was a sports documentary—and hockey of all things.”

“What do you have against hockey? You don’t believe all those stereotypes do you?”

“Suppose I do. Then you get the picture.” I wave a hand, realizing I’m being ridiculous. “Okay, thank you for finding me work when suddenly, no one else seemed to have a goddamn thing. At least according to my agent.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, then pauses to let it sink in that I ought to be more grateful. “You left a mess in Columbia. Did you expect you’d be able to jump back into a Vice TV production after that—”

“Let’s not talk about it. It’s done, and I can’t undo it.”

“No, but you need to deal with the repercussions.”

“And here I am in Boston doing a hockey documentary—I’d say that’s dealing with the repercussions. Unless you have something else?”

“No. You have a lot to prove.”

“Does everyone know about Columbia?”

He nods. “But not everything.”