Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Jules
This was a bad idea. Silas Alexander isn’t giving me anything to work with, and I’m relying on the video I’m taking of him for my early afternoon post on the team’s social media accounts.
“Okay, that was good,” I lie, lowering the camera. “Now let’s try something different. Be more ... energetic. And don’t shrug when I ask you a question. I’m going to edit out the parts where I’m talking and it’ll just be you talking.”
He nods, sighing softly. “More energetic. Okay.”
We’re standing in the concrete-floored tunnel outside the locker room, and it’s almost time for practice to start. I need to move quickly. I start recording again, giving him an encouraging look.
“Which teammate would you call to bail you out of jail?”
“Uh...” He blows out a breath, not even cracking a smile. “I don’t know, Carter Stanton I guess?”
Fail. I try again.
“If you were back in high school and you needed help studying for a math test, which teammate would you ask?”
“I was good at math. I wouldn’t need help.”
The locker room door swings open and players start flowing out. I stop recording and give Silas a grateful look.
“Thanks for your time. Have a good practice.”
He practically races away, and I mentally check him off my list of players who can give me fun, engaging content viewers will like. Not everyone is comfortable on camera.
I pack up my tripod and camera, about to turn and head back to my office, when someone calls my name.
“Hey, Jules.” It’s Isaac, the goaltender, padded up in his practice gear. “Did that stuff I sent work out?”
“It was perfect. Thanks again for doing that.”
“No problem. Anytime.”
He smiles and returns to the group heading onto the ice. I get a brainstorm. I can film them practicing. That’ll be my early afternoon post.
I’m only a week into my job as social media coordinator for the Cleveland Crush, and I love it.
I worked at a graphic design firm right out of college and ended up staying there for seven years.
I liked the work but didn’t love it. When I saw the opening posted to work in the Crush’s public relations department, I jumped at the chance and applied.
The director of the department, Deb, was impressed by my own social media pages, where lots of people follow me for style tips. She created a new job for someone to focus entirely on growing the team’s social media presence and there were hundreds of applicants, so I was excited to be chosen.
“Excuse me, are you the new PR girl?”
A deep voice makes me look up, and I’m momentarily speechless.
The man standing in front of me is tall and well built, dressed in track pants and a Crush hoodie.
His salt-and-pepper hair is cut neatly, with stubble to match.
It’s the good stubble. Not patchy, and just long enough for a toe-curling inner thigh graze.
It’s his eyes that mesmerize me, though. Their faded-denim color doesn’t match his stern expression. Those are eyes I could get lost in.
Get it together, Jules.
I clear my throat and hold out my hand, suppressing my urge to tell him I’m a twenty-nine-year-old woman, far from a girl. “I’m Jules Barlow, the new social media coordinator. And I recognize you from team photos. Great to meet you, Coach Turner.”
As he shakes my hand, I force myself to hold his gaze. Coworkers have told me the team’s head coach intimidates some people, so I was prepared for the pounding heart I have right now.
What I wasn’t prepared for is how hot he is. Team photos, where he’s always standing in the back, don’t do him justice. His stare is like fingertips lightly trailing over my skin, sparking hyperawareness and a hope for more.
“You, too.” He crosses his arms, a clipboard in one hand. “Can I come by your office later?”
His gravelly voice saying can I come is on repeat in my head. I stare stupidly at him for a few seconds before I mentally slap myself across the face.
“Yes, um ... of course.”
He nods, about to walk away, when nervous chatter pours out of me unbidden. I’ve been talking to a guy named Mark for two weeks, but I can’t think about anyone but the sexy-as-hell coach who seems to dislike me.
Being disliked is hard for me. I grew up in Ohio, and the midwestern propensity for niceness and likability runs deep in me.
“I’m going to film practice,” I say, tucking my hair behind one ear.
Coach Turner has a first name—Noel—but I get the feeling no one in this arena calls him that. I’ve been told to call him “Coach” or “Coach Turner”.
He turns back to face me. “No filming during drills,” he says briskly, his brows pinched together. “This is why we should’ve talked before you started filming my players. You can film during warm-ups, but that’s it.”
Ah. That’s why he doesn’t like me. I didn’t ask his permission to do my job.
My boss told me to run the social media accounts my way, which means a more intimate look at the players’ personalities and lives.
Deb told me she likes that I’m a self-starter who doesn’t need direction, because she has a full workload of her own.
“No problem. Warm-ups only.”
He starts his walk to the arched rink entrance and I admire the view from the back. Great ass, wide shoulders, and a neck that’s just begging me to put my palm on it and run my fingers through his silver-kissed hair.
It’s fortunate that I’m good at ogling men without them realizing it. Also, Mark. Mark and I have a great connection and I like him a lot. This must be a habitual ogle, not a legit one.
I clear my throat. “So how long are warm-ups? I don’t want to film too long or anything.”
He turns and looks at me like I’m a toddler hyped up on sugar, pressing on his last nerve.
“You’ll know. When the guys stop stretching and skating laps, that’s your cue.”
My cheeks burn. “Okay. Thanks, Coach.”
He hates me. And I love this job, so I can’t have the team’s head coach hating me. I’ll play his game and be remorseful when he comes by my office later. If he wants to okay it every time I want to film something, that’s what we’ll do.
And of course, I’ll bring him some of my banana chocolate chip muffins. They’re my secret weapon for winning people over. More than two thousand people have downloaded the recipe after seeing my social media posts about it.
I’m not even trying to film from the team bench, though I’d love to be that close. Coach Turner is irritated enough with me already. Instead, I take the elevator up, moving as quickly as I can in heels, and find an entrance to the lowest level of seats.
Already winded, I blow out a frustrated breath when I realize the glass is in my way. I don’t want to film through it unless I have to, so I hustle over to the concrete stairs and start climbing them.
It’s not fun in these shoes. And now I’m conscious of the team seeing my less-than-fit ass hoofing it up these stairs.
I have to go back out into the concourse to reach the highest level, and it’s there that I take off my shoes and carry them so I can go faster. A custodian gives me an amused look as I pass him, sweating in my formfitting wool pencil skirt and black top.
Finally, I get to a high enough level that I have a bird’s-eye view of the ice. I don’t bother getting a tripod out because I may not have long. I drop my shoes and equipment bag and film the players stretching.
Isaac’s stretches make him look like he’s humping the ice. When I was researching the socials of other pro hockey teams, I noticed that female viewers are feral for those stretches.
Mute buttons are a good thing. Otherwise, this video would include the sounds of me fighting for my life after the trip up here. You’d think I just finished a long uphill sprint.
The guys are skating now. I make sure to capture the last names on as many jerseys as I can. Our fans love seeing Carter Stanton on the ice. He’s letting me film him with his pet pig, and I’m ridiculously excited about it.
It’s not the players who are close to my age that my eyes keep wandering to, though. It’s the cranky coach with jacked arms. The way he chastised me was honestly hot, and I’m not sure what that says about me.
Once I finish filming, I sit down in a nearby seat to check the team’s social media pages and comment back to people. It allows me to cool off, since the rink area is colder than my office and I’m no longer running like a fucking jaguar chasing prey on the Savannah.
No one will ever mistake me for a fitness fanatic.
I hate getting sweaty unless it’s between the sheets.
I like my size-fourteen body. Since I love fashion, finding clothes that flatter my figure is one of my favorite things to do.
I also love doing my hair and makeup. The comments I get on my social media pages from women who feel beautiful and empowered by my advice and the photos of myself used to make me cry, but I’ve gotten used to it now, and it’s one of the reasons I keep working to grow my reach.
If I can make women feel better about themselves and their bodies, that’s a gift to both me and them.
When I get to the end of the new comments on the team’s IG, I put my work phone in my equipment bag and take out my personal one, hoping I have a new message from Mark.
I do. My heart pounds when I see it in my inbox.
We’ve been communicating on a dating app called Charm.
For the first two weeks, you only exchange messages with people you’ve matched with.
Any identifying information or attempts to speed up the process are blocked by the app’s software.
After two weeks, if both people want to, you can exchange photos.
Mark and I hit two weeks today. When I open the message in my inbox, I find a photo of a good-looking guy with his head shaved bald. He has a nice smile— it fits him. He’s an engineer who loves the mountains and live jazz.
I don’t usually send personal messages during work time, but I don’t want him to think I saw his photo and didn’t like it, so I quickly type one back to him.
Jules: Love it! Great smile. Hope that afternoon meeting doesn’t last all afternoon again. My pic is incoming.
I choose a photo I took before my first day of work here. I’m wearing a one-piece charcoal jumpsuit with wide legs and a V-neck. My long hair was on point that day, freshly blown out.
After I hit send, I put my phone away and head down the stairs, my shoes still in hand to avoid tripping and falling to my death.
I can’t wait to get back to my desk and edit the video. Once again, I don’t even want to leave the building for lunch like my coworkers do. Instead, I’m going to order delivery to the office so I can keep working on new content.
Metrics are everything in social media, and Deb and I created some growth numbers that will earn me a very nice bonus if I can hit them. I’ve already picked out the Max Mara coat I’m going to spend part of it on.
CLOSER