Jett Page 2

  I press the button to post it, and I know it’s going to hit our followers in the feels too.

  All three hundred and forty-three thousand of them.

  Grimacing, I roll that number over in my head. It’s too small. The Carolina Cold Fury has over a million followers.

  Granted… our team is only a year old, but we’re defending Cup champions. I’ve got to get that number up.

  I switch my attention over to my second screen and type a note into my social media organizer to schedule a few signed jersey giveaways next week. It’s been slow growing since I started a few weeks ago, but I’m relentless. I’m pretty sure that’s why Dominik hired me.

  My phone rings and I lean to the side to open the deep desk drawer where my purse is stashed. I know the lure of my own personal social media and chatting up my family members via text so I keep my phone tucked away during my workday.

  Out of sight, out of mind type of thing.

  But that’s Jenna’s ring tone and I always have time to answer her call.

  “What’s up, buttercup?” I answer cheerfully. While my mind was just spinning with analytics and progress still to be made, I release it easily for my sister.

  “Not much,” she says, then gives out a slight groan. I can envision what she’s doing… in her desk chair, reaching her hands up overhead and arching backward to ease the tension in her back. She can sit there working for hours without a break, but it takes a toll on her physically sometimes.

  I’ve been trying to get her to join me at the gym for some yoga or pilates, but she’s become too much of a homebody. And since she’s self-employed as a freelance editor, she’s tied to the house we share more than ever before.

  “I was thinking of making some braised short ribs for dinner,” she says after letting out a breath of release against her stretch. “Some garlic rosemary potatoes.”

  “Delish,” I reply. The one thing I can’t help but appreciate is that as Jenna has become more tied to the house, our meals have gotten infinitely better.

  “Can you stop at the wine store and grab a good red?” she asks.

  That gives me pause.

  Jenna and I both enjoy a good wine with dinner, or without for that matter. But it’s usually on a weekend or a special occasion.

  It’s a Tuesday in mid-November. Nothing special at all today.

  Unless.

  “Did you get it?” I ask hesitantly, my body starting to bristle with excitement.

  There’s a long pause, and then she shrieks. “I got it!”

  I shriek too, and then remember that my office is in the executive suite for the Arizona Vengeance and I’m far too professional for that, so I rein it in.

  My voice goes down to a frenzied whisper. “Oh my God. I’m utterly thrilled for you, Jenna.”

  Because my sister just got hired by the Phoenix Tribune as a copy editor, ending her up and down existence of trying to find work as a freelancer. She’s been needing stability, and this will give it to her.

  “Best of all,” she chirps into the phone. “I get to work remotely.”

  My heart sinks. I had hoped this was going to be a way for her to be forced out of the house more, but apparently not.

  I don’t mention that though. Instead, I keep my enthusiasm high. “I’ll stop and get us the very best bottle of red to go with the braised short ribs.”

  “You’re the best, sis,” she replies.

  “No, you are,” I reply back.

  And we’re both right. The two of us have leaned on each other tremendously the last few years.

  We are one another’s rock.

  We chat for a few more minutes and I get details on her new job, but the front desk receptionist sends an IM through our organization’s personal messaging system letting me know my two o’clock appointment has arrived.

  I grimace internally.

  Jett Olsson, the relentless, although admittedly gorgeous hockey player, who has gone to ridiculous measures to get me to go out with him. Many women would be charmed, but I don’t have time for it, so it’s more of an irritation than anything.

  “Gotta go, Jenna,” I say to my sister as I respond to the message, asking the receptionist to send him back. I promise Jenna I’ll be home promptly at 6:30 PM and we disconnect.

  Standing from my desk, I take in a deep, fortifying breath and let it out slowly. Smoothing down my skirt, I tug at the silky bow tied at my throat. My outfit is on point today, like it is most days. I’m driven by fashion trends, even breaking them on occasion, and today I’m wearing a black, high-waisted skirt that hugs my body and comes down just below my knees. And when I say high-waisted, I mean it comes up high enough to almost cover my rib cage. I paired it with an emerald green, long-sleeved silk blouse with a bow at the throat, and black boots. It’s an interesting look with the form-fitting skirt starting just below my breasts and the billowy blouse above it that sort of froths out a bit.

  I wore my hair down today, the raven locks parted down the middle and hanging in long, spiky layers I’d straightened to perfection. My hairstyles are as diverse as my clothing choices. Just yesterday I went with old-fashioned pin curls.

  The one thing that always stays consistent are my black-framed glasses, which I wear routinely at work. I have contacts which I don’t mind wearing, but I’ve found that people tend to take my work in analytics a bit more seriously if I look studious.

  There’s a short knock on my door and Jett Olsson is walking in. I push back the initial shock that has come the other two times we’ve met, mainly the healthy appreciation over how gorgeous he is.

  Unlike many hockey players, he wears his dark blond hair cropped close to his scalp and has perpetual, but a perfect amount of, facial hair on his face. His eyes are dark blue—the color of pure denim—and his Swedish accent is faint, but not unsexy.

  Yup… I push that all aside and move around my desk, professionally holding out my hand for him to shake. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Olsson.”

  Rather than align his palm to mine for a business-like shake, he scoops mine up, turning my knuckles upward. I know his intent before he can attempt to lift my hand to his mouth to graze his lips over. It’s how he greeted me the first time we met and it caught me off guard, embarrassing me.

  Jerking my hand from his, I chastise, “You know… men stopped kissing women’s knuckles in the late eighteen-hundreds.”

  I have no clue if that’s true as history was not my major in college.

  Sweeping my hand toward one of the guest chairs opposite my desk—indicating he should sit for our meeting to start—I move back around to my chair.

  “Not true,” he says, and it stops me in my tracks. I look over my shoulder at him. “I often greet a woman that way and last I heard, it’s the twenty-first century.”

  I roll my eyes, turning toward my chair. “Kiss a lot of women, do you, Mr. Olsson?”

  “It’s Jett,” he corrects me and adds, “Why? Are you jealous?”

  “Hardly.” I hope my droll tone clearly implies that I don’t find him amusing.

  I settle into my chair, my spine straight, and clasp my hands on the desk as I stare at Jett. His blue eyes stare right back at me, a slight smirk on his face.

  I decide to wipe it off quickly. “I appreciate you coming in to discuss your IG account, Mr. Olsson. So far, it’s the worst one I’ve seen out of all your teammates.”

  It’s frustrating that his smirk doesn’t slide a millimeter, but his eyes flash with surprise. “I thought you’d be impressed with what I did.”

  “Impressed?” I ask incredulously. “You didn’t do a single thing I asked you to do.”

  I think back to the meeting we had to discuss the team’s new policy on player interaction on social media. I went over the rules and guidelines with him the same as I did for every other player.

  “I did exactly what you said,” he repeats, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He flips through a few screens and then turns it for me to see. It’s a post
I recognize. “You said to take bright pictures, close up if possible, to catch the browser’s eye.”

  I grit my teeth, because yes, I said that.

  And yes, the picture of a bouquet of pink tulips is perfectly eye-catching. I can’t see what he wrote from this distance, but I’ve already read it. It said something like, These are my favorite flowers to give.

  “That’s not real,” I scold him. “It’s totally staged and made up.”

  “Not true. I’d very much like to give tulips to someone.”

  I grit my teeth again, and close my eyes for a moment, calling on myself to remain calm. He is absolutely infuriating.

  When I open my eyes, I notch up my British accent, which has become Americanized over the almost fifteen years I’ve lived in the States. “Mr. Olsson… during our last meeting, you relentlessly asked me personal questions, attempting to get me to agree to a date with you. As you’ll remember, I firmly shot you down. And one of those questions you managed to get me to answer was that tulips are my favorite flower.”

  He was so sly about it too. Posing the question as if he was merely asking for clarification on how to take good photos.

  “So, for example,” he’d queried. “If you were to take a photo of your favorite flowers to post, how and where would you position them?”

  I fell for it hook, line and sinker. “I’d tie up a bouquet of tulips with a ribbon that matched their petals and lay them on some worn wooden boards rather than a vase.”

  And just like that, he learned my favorite flower.

  His very first IG post was a picture of tulips with a message meant for me, not his fans.

  It didn’t stop there. He continued to finagle personal information out of me under the guise of wanting to learn the mechanics of engaging social media, and I fed him a ton of information.

  His account turned into a not-so-subtle attempt to charm me into a date.

  I take in another breath as Jett lowers his phone, resting it against his thigh.

  Encased in a pair of amazingly well-fit jeans.

  Shaking my head, I clear my throat and lift my chin to show my authority over him. “Mr. Olsson—”

  “Jett—”

  “Mr. Olsson,” I repeat. “Your IG account should reflect who you are as a person. It has to be genuine and it has to be true to yourself.”

  “I am being true to myself,” he says, and I understand his message. He’s being relentless in his pursuit and that is who he is. He doesn’t take “no” for an answer very easily.

  “I am never going to go on a date with you,” I say firmly, deciding to just cut to the chase. “So if you will just accept that and start tailoring your account to reflect—”

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” he interrupts me with a roguish grin, and I’m so caught off guard by the dimple I can see poking out through the scruff on his face, I don’t shut him down.

  He takes my momentary silence as permission to proceed. “Let me take you out to dinner. You spend some more time helping me understand how to be genuine in my posts, where I promise to follow your instructions, and I will never ask you out on a date again.”

  My eyes narrow. “You’re saying if we go out for a meal—really a business dinner—you’ll legitimately let me teach you how to use your social media and you’ll follow my instructions, then you won’t ever ask me out again?”

  Jett nods with a resounding expression of determination. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “You promise you’ll leave me alone,” I press.

  “On a personal basis, yes. On a professional basis, I imagine we still have to work together.”

  I settle back in my chair a minute, letting my brain search for some sort of loophole.

  Some means by which he’s tricking me.

  I also remind myself I won’t let myself get charmed by him at this dinner, and that I am going to stick to my absolute policy of not only not dating co-workers, but not dating anyone for that matter.

  I’m not interested at this point in my life.

  It’s still a little too personal, so I make a counteroffer. “I’ll agree to dinner with you, solely in a business capacity to help you learn more about how to do your social media in an authentic way. But I’m paying for dinner.”

  “Deal,” he says quickly.

  Too quickly.

  Did I miss a loophole?

  “Tonight?” he queries hopefully. The Vengeance doesn’t have a game.

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I already have plans.”

  Jett isn’t dissuaded. “Saturday night.”

  I don’t have any reason to say no. My Saturday nights are relatively boring, and I’d just as soon get this over with.

  “Fine,” I clip out. “But business only.”

  “Business only,” he agrees.

  CHAPTER 3

  Jett

  Coach Perron doesn’t believe in whistles while coaching. He has a booming voice he prefers to use if necessary, but mostly he just observes us while we do practice drills. The assistant coaches are more involved during practices and they carry out Perron’s coaching philosophies to perfection. If a comment is needed, Coach won’t hesitate to make it, but his most important words are usually reserved for strategy discussions while watching game film and pre-game pep talks.

  But when he deems practice over—meaning we have sufficiently met his expectations for the day, he’ll call out, “That’s enough for today.”

  As he did just now. We file off the ice, a few hanging back to get some extra practice in or just goof off with some extra drills.

  I’m gassed, however, as I got in a workout before practice, and I want to get home to relax a bit before my “date” tonight with Emory.

  In the locker room, I shower and change into fresh clothes at my cubby, while intermittently chatting with various teammates. The locker room is a place where many of us take the time to get caught up on the day-to-day lives of our teammates, and it’s been affectionately dubbed The Euchre Club by our captain, Bishop Scott. He told us his parents belonged to a neighborhood social club where their purpose was to play the card game of euchre, but really it was a way to get together with friends to have some drinks, chat, and sometimes even gossip.

  Outside of the drinks, our locker room often resembles just such a social event.

  “Mollie is being such a hippie,” Kane says as he stretches out on one of the benches, hands clasped behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.

  I cut a glance to Bain, who smirks back at me. We both recognize Kane’s tone. He’s getting ready to wax poetic about his fiancée and wedding planning.

  While deep down, I’d never begrudge my friend if planning a wedding was bringing him joy, as a man, I simply can’t do so without giving him a little bit of shit in return.

  Kane’s eyes move from the ceiling to me. “Do you know what she wants now?”

  I withhold a laugh, because although Kane’s words alone sound as if he might be complaining, his tone says that he finds whatever Mollie is doing utterly fucking adorable.

  I take the bait. “What’s that?”

  Kane curls up from his supine position, planting his feet on either side of the bench, and crosses his arms. He shakes his head, all bemused like. “Here I am… incredibly wealthy and can pretty much afford anything she wants as she marries the love of her life—that being me, of course—and she wants roadside wildflowers.”

  I glance at Bain, who shrugs, and then back to Kane. “What does that even mean… roadside wildflowers?”

  Kane gives an airy wave of his hand. “You know… like daisies and shit.”

  “She wants to cut wildflowers,” Bain drawls slowly for affirmation. “Like daisies and shit… for the wedding?”

  “For her bouquet,” he clarifies. “I mean… I thought roses or something more expensive—not that I know what that would be, as I don’t know flowers—but I sure as hell know I can afford more than wildflowers off the side of the road.”

&nb
sp; Once again, Bain and I exchange bewildered looks.

  “Or,” a deep voice drawls from behind us and we turn to see Aaron standing there. Our first-line defenseman only just recently found himself falling hard for a woman, so maybe he’s got a more qualified opinion. “I expect daisies and other such wildflowers are hard to come by in the desert of Arizona. Flowers such as that might have to be imported, which means, they’ll probably cost you an arm and a leg. I’m expecting Mollie’s not quite the free-spirited hippie you think she is, and merely a woman of particular taste who will end up spending a pretty penny on your wedding.”

  Everyone can see this reasoning makes sense and moreover, that Kane really likes the thought of importing expensive roadside wildflowers for his bride-to-be.

  But before he can prattle on about it—because a man can only take so much wedding talk, especially when he’s firmly opposed to settling down—I bring The Euchre Club to the next level.

  “I’ve got a date with Emory Holland tonight,” I say smugly.

  “You’re full of shit” another voice pipes in and a head pops around the corner of the row of cubbies, followed by his body. It belongs to Dax Monahan, first-line left-winger, and he’s wearing nothing but a shower towel around his waist.

  His eyes are wide with surprise and he is one of the handful of teammates who have been giving me hell for pursuing Emory. They all saw me crash and burn the day she was introduced to the team. They also know she rebuffed my attempts to wrangle a date during our social media meeting.

  “I’m picking her up for dinner at seven tonight,” I reply casually.

  The men are silent for a moment, exchanging glances.

  Finally, Kane says, “That sounds like a date.”

  “Admittedly, it does,” Dax grumbles.

  “Sounds like dinner to me,” Bain points out. “There could be any number of reasons for having dinner. It could be business related.”

  I try to wipe the smirk off my face as I work on stowing the sweaty workout clothes I’d worn to the arena this morning in my duffel.