Chapter 12 #2
“Well, my marketing strategy kind of aligns with what he did back in 1979, when he created the Laker Girls. Hockey teams all over the world have cheerleaders, but we don’t.
The thing is, I don’t want to have just cheerleaders; I want to have performers.
I want more fan engagement. Yes, people come to see you guys play, but I think we should add to the experience like Jerry Buss did.
The problem is that hockey doesn’t have halftime like football and basketball, and the ice has to be resurfaced during the two fifteen-minute intermissions.
Sooo, what I’m doing now is trying to work out the logistics. ”
I take in this woman. I mean, I really take her in as I stare at her in complete awe.
“What?” she asks, twirling her hair and nervously chewing on her bottom lip. “Is it stupid? If it’s stupid, tell me, and I’ll think of something else.”
I shake my head. “No. It’s fucking brilliant. I’m just wondering how you’re gonna pull it off this season.”
“I’m not. I have other things in the works for this season. This is for next season.”
And that’s why she was promoted to marketing director within a year. Not because of who her sister is, but because she’s a fucking badass. This season hasn’t even started, and she’s already thinking ahead for next season.
River stretches her arms above her head, then picks up her iPad and notebook from her lap and sets them on the coffee table.
“I’m gonna make some sweet tea. Want anything?”
I do a double take. “Sweet tea? Who the hell drinks sweet tea?”
She stands, moving toward the kitchen. “Me. That’s who.” She giggles. “I grew up in the south . . . or Midwest . . . hell, I think it depends on who you ask. I’m good with marketing, not geography. Anyway, in Oklahoma, everybody drinks sweet tea.”
I chuckle at her rambling and flip through channels, trying to find something to watch. If I pick a scary movie, she might cuddle up with me, but then again if I pick something romantic—My train of thought is interrupted by a loud crash and the sound of glass shattering.
I jump up and rush into the kitchen. River stands barefoot and wide-eyed, surrounded by broken glass.
I start toward her.
“W-what are you doing?” she asks.
I need to get to her.
“Carter, I-I’m s-so, I’m s-sorry.”
She flinches and draws her arms up to protect herself as I lift my hands up in surrender.
My feet stop in their tracks. The way she peeks around her arm, tears my fucking heart out.
She must see I’m not a threat, because she slowly lowers her arms. What I did was a rookie mistake.
I knew better than to charge toward her like that again.
I should’ve communicated with her, but I wasn’t thinking about anything other than keeping her from cutting herself.
She needs me, and there’s an obstacle of glass between us.
Fuck it.
“There’s no reason to be sorry. Don’t move. I’m coming to you.”
Walking through the shards of glass, I begin to make my way to her.
I need to hold her; she needs to know she’s safe, and clearly, I don’t really give a shit if a piece of glass cuts me while making that happen.
When I close the gap between us, I pick her up, and her legs instinctively coil around my waist.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s just a glass.”
“You’re gonna get cut,” she whispers, her breath dusting across my lips.
“I don’t care.”
A lone tear trickles down her cheek. I turn us around and set her on the kitchen counter.
She doesn’t make a move to unlock her legs from around my waist. Closing my eyes tight, I let my head drop to her shoulder and remind myself this is gonna be a long road.
She said she’d try, and she agreed to my help.
Not once did I fool myself into thinking this was gonna be easy.
I just didn’t think it would be so hard on me, that my heart would break every time I see her like this . . .
I want to kill the mother fucker that did this to her.
My hands slide from her thighs to her back as I wrap her in my arms. “I’ll clean this up, okay?”
I feel her nod. I can’t back away, not yet anyway. My chest heaves, and my lungs work in overdrive as I try to calm down. At this point, I don’t know if I’m comforting her or if it’s the other way around while my hands glide up and down her back.
“You just sit tight, yeah?”
Still, I hold her close.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I can’t make myself move. She threads her fingers through my hair, and I lift my head to meet her misty eyes.
“Are you mad?”
“Seething . . .” I say, kissing her forehead. “But not at you. Did you get cut?”
“No.” She shakes her head.
Thankfully, the pitcher was made from thicker than usual glass, so there seems to be more bigger shards than smaller ones laying around. I’ll sweep this up in a few minutes. Picking her up again, I carry her back into the living room just as the doorbell rings.
“Tell me how to make the tea and I’ll do it,” I tell her softly as I set her down on the couch.
As I walk to the door, I can’t get what just transpired out of my head: the fear in her eyes, and the way she thought she did something wrong because she dropped a glass pitcher.
All of it makes me fucking sick. I can only imagine how she feels.
Fuck, I want to fix this for her. Hopefully, the more time we spend together, the more I’ll earn her trust, and eventually, she’ll understand that with me, she’s always safe and that there’s not a damn thing I won't do for her.