6. Renee
Morning brings with it a renewed determination to ace this interview. I make sure I look the part of a social media mastermind—free access to a movie star’s closet doesn’t hurt—and I leave in plenty of time to get to the stadium before my nine o’clock appointment.
At least, that was the plan. But the traffic on the 405 had other ideas.
Every asshole in L.A. got behind the wheel of their car today, it seems, and they all decided to go in the same direction at the same time. I’m honked at and cut off more times than I can count.
By the time I get there, I’m disheveled and frustrated and I realize I’ve forgotten my portfolio—the one I stayed up until three a.m. putting together—on the coffee table in Sutton’s living room.
Old Renee would’ve had a meltdown. But I’m a new Renee now. This is a fresh start. So I channel a bit of my bestie, pull my shoulders back, and walk in with Sutton-tude aplenty.
I can’t afford to blow this.
My first thought is that the stadium offices don’t smell like sweat. I thought for sure it would, but it actually smells like cologne of some sort. Not at all unpleasant—woodsy, maybe some citrus notes.
The waiting room furniture is leather and dark wood, very masculine, but the interior office is feminine on a whole other level. The walls are painted black with stark white trim and accents. The desk is glass and sits on a white fur rug and a crystal chandelier hangs above a pair of seats for visitors.
“Hello, Ms. DuBois,” says the woman behind the desk. “I’m Michelle. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”
She’s about my age, maybe a little older, though her glamor makeup makes it hard to say for certain. She has long brown hair ironed straight and striking gray eyes. She’s taller than I am by a couple inches, and built better.
She talks faster, too. By the time I’m in the guest chair, she’s already going a million miles an hour. “Now, I looked at the samples you sent for the author you worked for. Loved it all. Oh—and Danni, our other social media guru, will be here in a few minutes. She’s stuck in traffic.” She chuckles. “One of us is always stuck in traffic.”
I like that she’s so relaxed. Under the desk, she slips her shoes off and crosses her feet. “So, let’s talk details. The job is fluid. There are times you’ll travel with the team, so you can be at post-game press conferences. You’ll be responsible for social media postings. You’ll have total control of the social media for the entire team and each individual player.” She shakes her head. “Their verified accounts, anyway. We encourage them to keep their private lives walled off. The public is unforgiving, and some of the players’ behavior isn’t… what we would hope.” Michelle sighs the weary exhale of a woman who’s seen some serious shit. Then she straightens and brightens her smile back up. “Of course, some are better than others, but they’re young, you know? Some don’t quite understand yet that everything they say is scrutinized, and then there are those who don’t use socials at all but who still find a way to get their after-hours business plastered across every tabloid in the country.”
I wince. “Is that why the team moved from San Diego?”
“Do you mean, Did San Diego kick the Firebirds out?” She laughs, but last night, I read some articles that implied that was the case. There were reports of alcohol abuse, partying with underage girls—that particular player was released from his contract post-haste—and multiple stints in rehab. Not to mention locker room brawls between players. Supposedly, this L.A. iteration of the team is a whole new roster of players. “God, no. The Firebirds were shopping around for a new home for a while before we landed in Los Angeles. But since we’ve been in L.A., there have been a couple lingering… well, let’s be kind and call them ‘issues.’”
I nod. “The papers make it sound as if the team is troubled. ‘Cursed’ was the term they used, actually.”
There’s no point in beating around the bush if I’m going to be responsible for making the image of the team more wholesome, right?
Michelle grins. “Looks like you did your homework. I like that.”
The door swings open and another woman bustles in. She’s taller, blonder, slenderer. She’s wearing a long jade-colored dress that sweeps the floor and a denim vest over top even though the temperature in L.A. is a blistering ninety degrees today.
She strides toward me with her hand extended. “Danni Ricardo. Michelle and I are so excited to meet someone who has the skills we’re looking for.”
“I was just telling Renee about the job and some of the expectations,” Michelle offers.
“Well, before you offer her the job, you better tell her about Scott.”
Michelle grimaces. “I was hoping we could let Decker handle scaring her away. I thought we would make the job sound like a Broadway musical.” She laughs playfully, but there’s a note of fear beneath it. I make a mental note to watch out for this “Scott” character. They whisper his name like he’s Beetlejuice or something, like saying it too loud might summon him.
Before I can ask more questions, the door swings open again. “Is this her?”
A man pokes his head into the room, followed by a body moving awfully gracefully for someone so large. He’s salted-and-peppered and scruffy, wearing a team-issued track suit that hugs tight to his biceps and shoulders.
“Come in, Decker.” Michelle waves him toward her. “Deck, this is Renee. She’s an applicant for the social media job.”
His face pinches. “I thought we were going to hold off on the…” He catches himself, shakes his head, and starts over without explanation, as if he didn’t mean to say that and he’s hoping I’ll just forget about it. Hand thrust out, he says, “I’m Decker Price.”
“Renee DuBois,” I tell him as we shake hands. “Who is Scott?”
“Captain Attitude, that’s who he is.” Decker flicks a piece of lint from his sleeve.
Michelle cocks her head back at him. “Not a captain yet.”
“Mega-superstar on the team, but he has a mouth?—”
“And a dick,” Danni interrupts. “Pardon my French.”
“It’s why he won’t be a captain,” concludes Decker.
“Because of the mouth or the dick?” I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. They all look at each other then back at me for a second. Then, at just the second I think my mouth has blown the interview, they burst into huge laughs.
“Oh, I like this one!” Danni wheezes. “I like her a lot.”
“Me, too.” Decker drops into the seat next to me, which groans underneath his massive bulk. He glances at Michelle. “If you don’t hire her, I’m going to find a place for her. I can’t wait to see how Scott behaves with her around.” He turns to me again. “Either way, welcome to the Firebirds. And don’t worry about Scott. He’s all mouth and attitude. If it gets too bad, come to me. I’ll handle it.”
It’s nice that he’s offering, but I’ve never had to ask anyone to deal with a man for me before. I don’t think this Scott, whoever he is, is going to pop that particular cherry.
Decker glances at his watch and bolts upright. “Shit! I gotta get changed. Gonna be late for practice if I don’t move. See you ladies later. And Renee—welcome. Can’t wait to get to know you.”
When he leaves, Michelle clears her throat. “You should know: the reason the last woman in your position got fired is because she got personally involved with Scott.”
“Sampled his party favor, so to speak.” Danni smiles over Michelle’s shoulder as she bends to look at something on Michelle’s computer screen. “And then she went all kinds of Fatal Attraction and he went into survival mode. Went to the front office, said, ‘Trade me or get rid of her.’ But that was a bluff. Scott is a name draw and a goal scorer. He knew he wasn’t getting traded anywhere.”
Michelle looks at me soberly. “The point of telling you all this is to let you know that one ironclad rule will be written into your contract: no fraternization with players.”
“Can’t name Scott specifically?—”
“—but it’s absolutely about him.”
The way they finish each other’s sentences would be amusing if it wasn’t a little unsettling right now.
I’m stuck on the word “contract.” I’ve never had one of those before. And I’m not what one might call commitment-phobic, but I’m definitely commitment-concerned. I like being able to move freely, navigate through my life without having to worry about entanglements. Because in the past, my entanglements have gone south. Every. Last. One. Of. Them.
“So have either of you… you know… with him?” I ask. I’m just curious and seeing as how this interview has gone way off the rails, I figure it’s a safe space to ask.
Danni shudders from head to toe. “God, no.”
“No fucking way.” Michelle shakes her head. “I would give up men altogether before I crawl into bed with him and his—well. Anyway. You get the picture.”
I nod. “Note to self: stay away from Scott. Gotcha.”
“I mean, you can look,” Michelle suggests with a sidelong glance at Danni. “We all look.”
“Oh, yeah.” Danni fans herself with the file folder on her desk. “Just don’t touch. Or kiss. For your own good.”
“So, enough scaring you. You wanna head down to the ice and see the team you’ll be promoting?” Michelle pushes away from her desk and stands.
“Sure!”
We ride the elevator to ice level and then walk down a frigid corridor. “That’s the locker room.” Danni points to a set of double doors and then shakes her head. “But unless you want to be bombarded by the sight of dick and ass, don’t go in there before or especially after games.” She shakes her head. “Too much temptation behind that door.”
Michelle chuckles. “I mean, she’s partly right—but not all the guys are pigs.” They look at each other before she adds, “That statement, like so many others, comes with a Scott disclaimer.”
I can’t believe anyone is as bad as they’re making this guy sound, but what do I know? They’re certainly hammering the point home.
We breeze past the locker room, round a corner, and then emerge at the edge of the rink. The players are out there. There’s nothing graceful about them, no figure eights or ice dancing components, but there’s an undeniable melody to what they’re doing.
There are no names on the practice jerseys, only numbers, so I have no idea who’s who. Nonetheless, I pull my camera out of my bag, and start shooting. One of the guys winds up for a shot and I snap-snap-snap until he brings his stick forward and smacks it against the little black puck. Then I follow the puck as much as I can as it sails through the air and splashes into the back of the net.
But it’s the celebration afterward that lights up the room. He drops to one knee and skids along the ice, fist pumping the air before he rises to his full height and stares daggers down at the goalie he just scored on.
Something creeps up in my chest. A feeling that doesn’t have a name. “Is that…?”
Danni nods. “That’s him.”
Curiosity isn’t my friend. Neither is the fact that, before he dumped me, Felix and I hadn’t done it in months.
Even through pads and from behind, I can tell that this Scott figure is a beast. He’s huge—six-six at least, closer to six-nine in skates—and absolutely ripped. His dark hair curls underneath the back of his helmet, slicked with sweat.
I swallow and put my camera back up. It’s easier to distance myself like this. When I look through the viewfinder, he’s not a sweaty, growly beast with a stubbled jaw; he’s just a few pixels in a camera.
Then he turns around and I drop the camera right back down.
Because “Scott” isn’t just some hockey player boogeyman with a bad reputation. I know that jaw. I know those curls. I know those cruel green eyes.
“Scott” is Weston Scott.
My asshole neighbor.
He sees me seeing him and a nasty frown ripples across his face. He’s on us in a flash, looming over our little trio on the other side of the glass.
“What the hell is she doing here?” He looks at me. “Did you fucking followme?”
I blink, dumbfounded. “Why would I follow you?”
“Same reason random chicks show up here all the time. First, my building and now, the rink? Did I fuck you and forget to call or something?” He shakes his head and looks at Michelle. “Get Decker. I want security. I’m sick of this shit.”
“Wow. Your ego is as big as…” I’m about to say something regrettable before I correct course and clamp my mouth shut.
“I think we all know how you wanted to end that sentence, Princess P.” He chuckles. “Fine. you know what? Stay if you want. We’ll see how long you last. Something tells me this is gonna be fun.”
Then he’s gone, skating away, leaving me standing stupid and flabbergasted on the wrong side of the glass.
This is gonna be fun, he said.
But I, for one, do not agree. Not one bit.
This is going to be a nightmare.