Chapter 1 Joey
"Elf you," I mutter under my breath, scrolling through Lennox Murphy's latest social media disaster.
My new office at the Boston Arena feels too small for the magnitude of this PR nightmare.
On my screen, the NHL's most infuriating goalie is ice fishing.
Shirtless. In December. His tattooed torso is drawing more attention than a Zamboni on fire.
Comments are flooding in:
Daddy Murphy can catch more than pucks ??
Is that a Stanley Cup tattoo near his V-line?
Merry Christmas to me!
Someone check the ice temp because it's melting ????
I close my eyes and count to ten. When I took this job as Social Media Manager for the Titans, they said I'd have challenges. They didn't mention I'd be babysitting a six-foot-three manchild with an apparent aversion to shirts and common sense.
"Like what you see, Winters?"
The voice makes me jump. Speak of the devil, and he appears, wearing the smuggest smile.
Lennox Murphy lounges against my doorframe like he's posing for next year's "Hockey Hunks" calendar.
His tattooed chest alone was enough to sell out of the calendars again this year.
He is always Mr December. Those red pants and suspenders over his tattooed chest does make me want to unwrap him. Damn it.
Even now. his dark hair is artfully tousled, and his practice jersey clings to shoulders that have no business being that broad.
"I see a PR nightmare and an ego that barely fits through doorways," I reply, keeping my voice professional. "Care to explain why you thought strip ice hockey was appropriate content for your verified Instagram?"
He pushes off the doorframe and saunters into my office. "Educational content. Teaching the fans about winter sports safety."
"Safety?" I arch an eyebrow. "You're literally naked on a frozen lake."
"Exactly." He perches on the edge of my desk, way too close. "Showing them what not to do. It's called reverse psychology."
The scent of his cologne, something woodsy and expensive, mingles with fresh ice and leather. It's distracting. I force myself to focus on my computer screen.
"Mr. Murphy."
"Nox," he interrupts. "Everyone calls me Nox."
"Mr. Murphy," I continue firmly, "Management hired me to clean up the team's social media presence. Your, for want of a better word, content, makes that job significantly harder."
He leans closer, reading over my shoulder. His breath tickles my ear. "My content gets engagement. Isn't that what social media is all about?"
"Not when it undermines the team's professional image." I resist the urge to lean away. I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing he's affecting me.
"Professional is boring." His fingers brush my shoulder as he points at the screen. "Look at those numbers. Half a million likes in two hours."
A shiver runs down my spine. I swat his hand away. "Don't touch me."
His grin widens. "Worried you might like it?"
"Elf you," I whisper, earning a raised eyebrow.
"Do you always use holiday-themed non-curses when you're flustered?" He looks delighted by this discovery.
"I'm not flustered. I'm professional." I stand up, needing some distance. "And you need media training before the Winter Classic."
He follows me, invading my space again. "I don't do training."
"You do now." I poke his chest with my finger. Mistake. His pecs are like granite under his jersey. "Tomorrow morning. Eight AM sharp."
"Can't. Morning skate."
"Seven AM then."
"You're not a morning person, are you, Winters?
" He catches my wrist before I can poke him again.
His thumb brushes over my pulse point. "You've got that sexy librarian vibe going.
Let me guess. You come alive at night?" He looks down at my feet. “Or maybe Santa vibes. Maybe that’s what turns you on.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I try to cover my red and green striped socks.
I thought they would be cute and funny this morning, getting gin the mood for Christmas, but now he has made me feel dirty about them.
I yank my hand back. "This isn't a negotiation.
Seven AM, or I'll have management bench you for the Classic. "
His eyes darken. "You don't have that kind of power."
"Try me." I meet his gaze. "Your contract has a morality clause. That naked hockey picture alone gives them grounds to suspend you."
For a moment, something like real anger flashes across his face. Then it's gone, replaced by that practiced smirk. "Fine. Seven AM." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Wear something pretty."
"Professional attire only," I call after him.
"Everything looks professional on my floor, Winters. Even your Santa socks would."
The comment hits me low in my stomach. "Out!"
His laughter echoes down the hallway. I sink back into my chair, heart racing. This job just got exponentially more complicated.
My phone buzzes. It's a notification. Lennox Murphy has posted again.
It's a picture of my office door, slightly ajar. The caption reads:
Ready for my close-up. Media training with @JWinters starts tomorrow. Don't worry – I'll behave. ??
The comments are already rolling in:
OMG that new social media manager is so lucky
Please record it for the fans
Behave? Since when?
"Elf you, Lennox Murphy," I breathe, but this time it sounds less like irritation and more like something else.
I'm so screwed.
My phone buzzes again. A DM from @NoxyBoy himself:
Better get some sleep, Winters. I like my media people bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Sweet dreams. ??
I block him immediately.
Two seconds later, my work email pings.
From: LMurphy@
Subject: Blocking your favorite student?
Message: Now that's not very professional, is it? See you at 7. Wear the glasses. And the elf socks. They do things to me.
I delete the email. Then I save it to a folder labeled "Harassment Evidence." Then I read it again.
Tomorrow is going to be a long day.
But as I pack up my things, I catch myself checking my reflection in the window. I'm still wearing my glasses.
Elf you, Lennox Murphy. Elf. You.
Maybe I'll wear them tomorrow after all. Strictly professionally, of course.
Right?
Right.