Page 1 of Playing Dirty
1
Margot
"You'vegotto be kidding me," I say, the words escaping before I can stop them. "That arrogant hockey brute is going to beourbrand ambassador?"
I stare across the crowded terrace at the man himself. Cillian O'Rourke.
He's the Renegades' golden boy, the only Irishman in the NHL, and looks like he wandered out of a cologne ad. Tall, with dark hair and olive coloring you don't expect on an Irishman. Maybe some long-lost Spanish lineage, who knows. It's all unfair enough as it is, so the piercing blue eyes and dimpled smile are just piling on.
Currently he’s surrounded by admirers near the bar, all of them hanging on his every word like he's delivering the Sermon on the Mount instead of recounting whatever athletic triumph happened last week.
My boss, Carol, arches an eyebrow over the rim of her Pinot, her silver bob immaculate as ever.
"He's here for a team introduction before the launch goeslive," she says, sounding entirely too calm. "I figured you'd be thrilled. The visibility he brings to the label is massive." She tilts her head. "You're normally so tactful."
NormallyI'm not two glasses of wine into what is technically a work event, but I digress.
The cocktail party is in full swing, a steady hum of conversation drifting across the stone terrace at the back of the Solstice Estates manor. A jazz trio plays from the corner, string lights crisscross overhead, and the vineyards stretch out toward the hills on all sides, the bare vines only just beginning to bud in the March cool, the whole of Napa Valley going pink in the dying light. On any other night, I'd be the first to call it magical.
Instead, I feel positively murderous. Because I have a very long-standing grudge against Cillian O'Rourke.
Not that Carol knows that.
“He just isn't who I pictured.” I take a long sip of my wine. "Didn't we have another week before the final decision on the face of the brand?"
“Cillian had an opening in his schedule and we had to pounce.” Carol smiles, clearly amused by my barely concealed horror. "And I didn't want to bother you on vacation."
"Right." I make a noncommittal sound and drain half my glass.
Vacation.What a generous word for it. Vacation was supposed to be me, a stack of paperbacks, my phone off, and a little rental on the California coast. Instead, I spent it helping my parents clear out the house because they're finally downsizing.
Nine days of bubble wrap, deciding which of three identical spatulas held sentimental value, and carefully boxing up decades of oldNational Geographicmagazines my parents couldn't quite bring themselves to part with. And while I was busy burying my own childhood in cardboard, the universe hired a hockey player.
"Okay, but isn't he the face of Guinness?" I say, unable to let it go. "He doesn't exactly screamNapa wine launch, even if wearegoing for approachable."
"Margot," she says patiently. "The man has 18 million followers, and the goal is to reach people who don't already know they like wine. He's a bridge to a demographic we've never touched. Besides," she adds, gesturing toward the bar. "Justlookat him. Every guy wants to be him and every girl wants him."
I follow her gaze toward the bar, where a woman is currently clutching his forearm and fanning herself, as if the sheer force of his athletic charisma is about to cause her to lose consciousness.
"Someone should tell her he'sjusta man," I say.
"Maybe. But he’s marketing gold. Which you should appreciate," she says, tapping her glass against mine with a soft clink, "considering this entire new label wasyourbrainchild."
She has me there.
Solstice Estates is the crown jewel of Napa Valley. It's a working winery, a boutique hotel with a six-month waitlist, and the kind of wedding venue that books out two years in advance.
As head sommelier and client relations manager, my responsibilities have spread well beyond the cellar. I run the tastings and the partnerships, manage the collectors and the VIPs, and help oversee weddings and galas. I'm also the one who sells the reserve bottles that run three hundred dollars apiece, a price even I find ridiculous.
So two years ago, I pitched an offshoot. An accessible, affordable line made from the same estate grapes we already grow, and to my everlasting shock, Solstice said yes. I've spent the past two years pouring my heart into it, trying to take some of the intimidation out of good wine.
And now the man chosen as the face of my brainchild is a hockey brute who probably hates me just as much as I hate him.
"Alright." I sigh. "I'll manage. But I'm drawing a hard line at abeer pong game with wine or whatever otherapproachableconcepts marketing is currently dreaming up."
"I'll make sure that's noted." Carol chuckles and studies me over her glass. "You know, I forget you've got a bite to you after you've had a drink or two. I like it. You're pretty funny when the filter comes off."
"I'm hilarious around the clock."
