Page 14 of He Has Pluck

My heart thuds, and I swipe a hand through my unruly hair as if I can unscramble my mixed-up brain as easily as I can straighten out my hair.

“That was the first statement from a real place you’ve made all day. And it’s been one helluva long day.” She stands as if she’s dismissing me, as if her acknowledgment that I’ve bared my soul is all she needs to do in return, as if she doesn’t owe me a piece of her soul.

“Not so fast, Ice Chip. You owe me an explanation about where that chip on your shoulder came from, about why you’re colder than an outdoor rink in mid-winter.”

“I told you,” she yanks her elbow from my hold, “I have better things to do than film a hockey team. This project is a waste of my time and energy.”

“I don’t buy it. Where did you get it in your head that you need to save the world? Who made you the Mother Teresa of camera ladies?”

She scoops up her bag in a deft motion, all grace and speed, and strides out of the kitchen and all the way to the exit before I catch up to her. But I can’t help laughing in triumph because I finally hit a nerve, and it feels like I just scored a goal. A point for me.

Now, I only have about a dozen to go to catch up with the sassy and fearless Ice Chip who tries to stay above it all as if she’s drowning in…something.

* * *

I return to my hotel room and take an unnecessary shower to unwind my tension. While I’m at it, I think about her—Juliette-fucking-Sullivan. Before I realize I need to stop, I do something I haven’t done in a very long while. I give myself a hand job. And it ends the same way it always has—with me feeling a vague sense of dissatisfaction. Like I’ve wasted my energy, wasted myself with a very poor substitute for what I really want, what really matters.

Stepping out of the shower, I grab a towel. This is so wrong. Wasting myself thinking about a woman I don’t even want. Not really. And even if I did, I can’t have her. Juliette Sullivan is off limits because she’s working for the Brawlers, and even I know not to mix it up inside the arena.

Maybe I ought to call Brenna. However, there’s a reason I left her behind in Portsmouth. We met early in the season while I was playing with the Whalers, the Brawler’s farm team, when I was starting to get discouraged and needed support in the form of a warm willing body. We weren’t serious. She was nice but mostly just convenient, and I didn’t want to lead her on to think there was ever going to be anything more. So I didn’t invite her to come with me. She was pissed, but she’ll get over it.

I told her I don’t need any distractions if I want to make it in the NHL, and it’s true.

I need to make the most of this chance because I wasn’t kidding when I confessed to Sullivan that I have no Plan B. Not really. Nothing that can take the place of my NHL dream, no matter how trite a dream it may be. Or trite according to one fucking cold camera lady.

Chapter Five

JULIETTE

I walk fast in the cold air, partly to get away from that ridiculous horrible hockey player—Jason—before he pries a confession of…something from me. So what if he shared some things? I don’t owe him. He’s the subject matter of a documentary, and I’m the objective camera, a lens on the emotions driving the subject, the circumstances and the reactions. I’m not supposed to feel anything, let alone share those feelings for Christ’s sake.

Extricating myself from his company before he did something crazy, like offer to walk me home like he’s some leftover from the last century with a misguided sense of chivalry, as if it matters, I manage to work through the city streets to the Airbnb rental Dan arranged for me. The townhouse is a pretentious waste of space with too many expectant rooms that will be disappointed by my lack of presence. Although Dan will be up from New York now and then, he’s left me to direct and take charge of the onsite production because he knows he can trust me.

Everything I need is on the first floor, including a study I’m using for film editing and storage, and the master bedroom where I head now without stopping in the ornate living room or too shiny kitchen. Getting to sleep tonight will be no problem.

Preventing the dreams is another matter. But mixed in with a bizarre version of the shooting in Columbia is an unwelcome surprise guest named Jason Tansem. And he looks and acts more like a superhero, which is disturbing on so many levels.

I take the next morning to go over the film I already have and edit, caption and file various usable clips. Dan may have given me full creative leeway, but I know that translates to enough rope to hang myself with if I don’t do this right. I did my homework and studied other sports documentaries, including from past Brawlers seasons, so I know the expectations.

Of course, that meant I got no sleep for two nights, which may have contributed to my surliness yesterday. And to my vulnerability.

If it’s one thing I hate, it’s feeling vulnerable. God, the idea that I might appear vulnerable to fucking Hockey Boy is enough to make me spit. But why else would he appear in my dream as the hero coming to my rescue? Hell, maybe he could be my rescuer in a metaphorical sense.

With a vicious stab of my finger, I delete the clip of him in the locker room where he’s looking at me like I’m a combination of his next meal and his worst enemy. A beat of satisfaction hits me, and I take a breath. I’m about to continue, but annoyance creeps back because I realize I may need to add that clip back in, and my phone rings sounding like the old phone from the Matrix.

A shiver of misplaced foreboding runs through me because I don’t recognize the number, but I know it’s from the Brawlers organization. It has a six-one-seven area code.

“Juliette Sullivan,” I say as I press my phone to my ear, straightening from my hunched position over the computer screen as if being closer will gain me some insight. I only wish.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Where the hell are you?” I answer back, perhaps unwisely, because I recognize Delaney’s voice, and she’s just as good as my boss. Even a higher authority—the client.

“I’m at the rink,” she says pointedly and without missing a beat. “You missed the team meeting and skate around this morning.”

“I know. It wasn’t on the schedule for a reason. I had to look at the film and make some edits. I just sent some preliminary clips to Ruminski for review.”

“Send me a copy, too.”