Chapter 3 Ellie
ELLIE
The Holbrook Enterprises Tower looms like a fortress against the snowy sky.
I feel very out of place against the dark-gray marble floor and walls as I walk in wearing my pilling leggings and my scruffy overcoat, my Rhode Island Hockey Club tote bag slung over one shoulder.
The lobby is decorated for Christmas, though somehow the fifteen-foot-tall Christmas tree with its bloodred ornaments doesn’t inspire warm, fuzzy holiday feelings. The choral holiday carols that filter faintly over the sound system sound like a funeral dirge.
“I, um—” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat.
The receptionist, an older lady, peers over the side of the desk. She slides her glasses down her nose then back up.
“I’m here for a meeting with Dana Holbrook. She asked for me to come see her immediately.”
She nods to one of the security guards. Wordlessly, he buzzes me onto the elevator.
I bite my nails as I ride up. In the mirrored walls, I look like a little girl. Not a cute one. Like an inept one who wanders into traffic on a whim.
On the train on the way to Manhattan, I tried and failed to come up with a PR plan. In the fancy elevator, the plan looks even more anemic in my beat-up RIHC notebook than it did an hour ago.
I’m not a marketing major. I’m not even a girlboss business major.
I majored in early childhood development.
I can draw a happy cloud that shows you how to use the potty.
I can read Max the Great over and over and over again and still make it entertaining.
I know all the Paw Patrol characters. I can teach a child how to tie their shoes and put on their own mittens in five minutes with nothing but two stickers and an interpretive dance.
I do not know how to create a PR plan to manage the disaster of your failed NHL team’s GM, head coach, and assistant coach all getting arrested and indicted on federal charges.
Where do you even start?
I should have just moved away once it was clear I was blacklisted in the daycare circuit in Maplewood Falls. My dad said one of his old NHL buddies’ wives was opening a daycare in Colorado and wanted me on. But that’s so far away from home and all my siblings and cousins.
My dream was to fall in love with a local boy—someone kind who loves hockey and has a real job, who wants a big family and can at the very least tolerate my overly large, very codependent family.
Someone the opposite of Fletcher, who won’t protest when we buy a house down the street from my parents.
Sucks for me that all the guys I dated thought I was a cool girl because I liked hockey. They didn’t think it was so cool that I know more about the game than them, and they definitely didn’t like that I could play better than them.
I don’t consider myself that good at hockey, but to make one of the Maplewood Falls rec-level players happy, I’d have to give it up. My other option is to date a guy who’s a pro hockey player, neither of which is going to happen.
I’m still young, I remind myself. Twenty-three is young.
I gulp.
The other offices in the hall are empty as I creep along, feet sinking into the plush carpet. It’s December. Most people are probably out soaking up the festive holiday season.
Too soon, I’m standing in front of Dana Holbrook’s office.
There’s a faint clicking noise.
I peer around the doorframe that’s been draped in garland.
Dana is sitting at her oversized mahogany desk, a single lamplight casting her perfect skin, perfect hair, perfectly sculpted cheekbones in sharp relief.
Click. Her nail taps on the wood desk.
Click.
I swallow.
“What are you waiting for?” The words slither out.
Shoulders hunched, I scurry into the office, dump all my stuff on the floor next to the chair in front of her desk, sit down, then stand up. “Hi, Mrs. Holbrook.”
Her lip curls. “I told you to call me Dana, Ellie.”
“Right.” I salute.
“Sit down.”
I almost stand up again.
“We need to talk about—”
“The disaster today? Yes, and I am on it. I have a whole PR plan prepared.”
“Do you? Good. Did you email it to me?” She’s scrolling through her email.
“Er, no.” I set my notebook on the desk. “Just worked it up on the train.”
Dana looks down her nose that must have cost a fortune because it’s perfect yet not fake looking. There are three lines on my little notepad. “A press conference,” she reads upside down.
I hurry to turn the notebook to face her. “With snacks.” I point. “And a volunteer event with the players to help inform people why gambling is wrong.”
“The Rhode Island Hockey Club makes eighty percent of our advertising revenue off of online gambling ads.” Dana doesn’t blink.
“So…”
“So?” She looks down pointedly.
“Right.” I scratch it out. “Well, there’s the Puppies on Ice Day.”
“What does that have to do with the crisis?”
“Uh, I mean, who doesn’t like hot guys and puppies?” My sweater is soaked in sweat. My sports bra is drenched. I am wearing too many layers. “It’s, uh, warm in here, isn’t it?”
“I will handle the crisis PR response,” Dana says. “Never complain, never explain. Besides, once we announce our new coach, no one is going to care that the old one is currently being strip-searched in prison.”
“Oh, we have a new coach?” I perk up. “Is it Jared Trotz from Toronto? I heard his name getting thrown around and—”
“I’m a businesswoman, Ellie,” Dana sneers. “I’m not paying some overbloated whale carcass with bad feet millions of dollars to shout at the players and lose games. I can find someone to do that for much cheaper. And I have. You start tomorrow.”
“Start? Start what tomorrow?” My eye is twitching.
“You are the new coach of the Rhode Island Hockey Club.”
“Ha! Hahaha! Ahahaha! Funny. Sooo funny.”
Dana’s not laughing.
“I mean—” I start to panic. “I’m just a girl. I’m a child, a mere babe. I can’t coach a team. I live at home. I don’t have my shit together. Like, at all.”
Dana doesn’t care. Dana is bored of listening to me.
The perfectly manicured nails are tapping on the blotter again. “You are the only staff member left aside from Stacey in HR and Harlowe, who books the hotel rooms and food. We’ve had a wave of resignations.”
“Thanks for giving me a heads-up,” I mutter.
“You know hockey.” It’s not a question. “You played D1 at Boston University.”
“Yeah, on the female team.” I feel sick.
“You were on the USA Hockey team,” Dana continues. “Went to world championships. Earned an Olympic silver medal.”
“The girls’ team. Girls,” I repeat. “And I wasn’t that good. I’m a little on the short side.”
Dana stands up. She is not on the short side. And she’s wearing So Kates, so that’s like an extra five inches on me. “And you coach currently, and ref, do you not?”
“Yeah, again—girls. Little ones.” I mime with my hands. “Tiny. Children.”
“This team needs a coach.” Dana takes a step toward me.
“I’m sure I could find one. There has to be someone out there—a man who wants to prove his mettle.” My neck is craning all the way back.
Dana peers down at me. Imperious. A queen. “You’ll do.” She holds out a set of keys. “I’ve already had IT switch your email over.”
The keys are heavy in my hand. “What about my PR duties?”
“This is in addition to your normal job. I’m not running a charity. I didn’t become a billionaire by coddling people. And don’t,” she warns, “ask me for a pay raise.”