Page 5 of He Has Game (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Chapter 2
Vivian
Oh. My God.
That I’m not on the floor in a puddle of sweat and other X-rated bodily liquids, drowning or dying of a heart attack—because I swear I’m having palpitations—is a flat-out, gosh-darn, certifiable, reportable-to-the-Archbishop miracle. Even with my heart pounding and lodged somewhere near my vocal cords, I’d actually managed to speak up. If I could reach my back, I’d give myself a pat, but as it is, I’m forced to run after my boss down the dungeonlike corridor, which in itself excites me because I love this place, love being here in the bowels of the Garden, Boston’s grand dame of sporting venues.
“Keep up, Viv. We have our work cut out for us. You’ll need to come up with a full bio for yourself—for your fake-ass fiancée self—sorry for my language. But no, I’m not really sorry.”
Mary stops on the threshold of the tiny office where I’ve been assigned to do whatever. Come up with online content for the team, I suppose. Not that I’ve been here long enough to even know what I’m supposed to be doing. But now—
“I’m going to tell you right now, I swear. The players swear. The coaches swear, hell, everyone here swears. We’re a fucking hockey team. We clean it up for the media and meetings with the outside, but inside these halls, the rink, the offices, our language is foul. And you’re going to have to get used to it. That a problem?”
I shake my head. I don’t mention that I grew up with three hockey-playing brothers, that even if I don’t swear, I’ve built up an impenetrable immunity to the effects of cussing. Finnegan Reed notwithstanding. Because I’m hypersensitive to anything he says, swear or not. But I’m not sharing that with my boss either. Saying nothing when given a choice is my policy.
Except today. I spoke up. Boy oh boy, did I ever speak up. A trill of giddy excitement runs along my nerves and goose bumps pop up on my skin.
Mary looks me over and I can tell she’s thinking up some mischief. I don’t know if I should be afraid or excited. But excitement wins out because I just got myself engaged—albeit pretend engaged—toFinnegan Reed.Squee.
“You’ll need to make some adjustments before attending the benefit gala with him,” Mary says. I nod.
Finn is hot, and he plays hockey and I love nothing more than hot hockey players, except maybe reading a good tearjerker romance while eating chocolates and cuddling my kitty. Oh, and margaritas. I love margaritas. Too much, though. That’s an indulgence I allow myself only rarely. A smile breaks out on my face, surprising Mary, as I realize tonight might be a rare margarita celebration night.
“You’ll need a new wardrobe and, most of all, an attitude of caution,” Mary goes on. “I’m warning you, Viv. Finn is a degenerate womanizer and you need to watch out for him. Don’t believe a word of flattery no matter how much you want to.” She heaves a breath and I hear her, but I’m not so sure I believe her. “And you need to report if he does anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. Also you need to report if he sees any other women because, let me repeat, he’s a womanizer.”
My boss’s accusations against Finn sink in and I frown because whatever else he is—likely a guy with an overabundance of hormones like my brothers—he seems honest and open to me.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Delaney—”
“I told you, don’t call me that. I’m Mary to everyone else in the world. ‘Mrs. Delaney’ makes me sound old and out of touch.” She motions for me to go on.
“What did Finn do that led to the need for a reputation makeover? What did he do that would make the team want to trade him?”
“Your Finn damaged the team’s relationship with a major cha partner—not to mention that Boylston is pals with the team CEO--when heallegedlymade a drunken move on the foundation CEO’swife.”
I don’t believe it. Not for a second and not because I’m naïve.
“Why would he go after a married woman?” It doesn’t seem like a thing a decent guy would do, and I know he’s decent, in spite of his rough edges. He apologized to me for swearing, for Betsy’s sake.Who does that? Not my brothers, for darn sure.
Mary smiles. “See, this is what I’m talking about. You’re naive and you’re going to have to change your way of thinking. Pretend he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing—although I don’t see the sheep’s clothing, but apparently you do. But it’s not who he is. He’s a wolf, Viv. And don’t you forget it.”
A beautiful wolf. I can’t help myself and the blush creeps up. I know she’s not a mind reader, but Mary squints with that look of suspicion I’m becoming familiar with.
“Create your fictitious background file with the works, about who you are and how and when you met Finn, and get it to me by the end of the day.” She looks at her watch as if making sure I’ll have enough time to accomplish the task. But I’m already on it in my head. Piece of cake.
“I’ll send you Finn’s personnel file for info on him—but it’s a private file, so don’t share anything you find out in it. Take care of that file. Delete it as soon as you’re done and do not print it out.”
I nod. I’ve already done my homework on Finn and all the players, so I know a lot. What the heck could possibly be in his personnel file that’s so compromising? Or maybe it’s just the usual paranoia about personal privacy. There’s no chance to ask, because Mary is already walking away, her sensible heels clicking on the cement floor. But before she disappears around the corner as I watch from my door, she turns and tosses one more order over her shoulder.
“I want the file at five p.m. sharp. Be in my office. Then we’re going on a shopping excursion. You and me.” She smiles, or it should be a smile, but it’s more like an evil smirk. Yikes. Looking down, I give myself a once-over. There’s nothing wrong with my outfit, a nice comfortable gray sweater, black-and-white checked skirt, and black tights.
Okay, so the sweater is baggy and dated and the skirt is long and pleated and I might have worn it in junior high, but what college coed has money for work clothes? Business casual, I was told, and this is it, isn’t it?
My computer beeps, signaling an incoming email, so I forget about the wardrobe and dash the three feet to my desk to check it. A message from Mary, short and not so sweet, with the encrypted personnel file containing Finnegan Reed’s secrets attached. She’s fast.
Her note says, “Stop standing there and get started!” My eyes automatically dart to the four corners of the room looking for a camera, but if there is one, it’s hidden. Pink heat suffuses my face as I take a seat at my desk—a metal antique the likes of which I’ve only seen in old movies. But the drawers pull in and out and it has an expansive surface to keep my computer—and whatever else I want to bring in to give the dingy little space some life.
Opening a new document file, I start typing, letting my imagination go.
