RAINCHECK
Everly
As I’m chatting with our new communications assistant at the arena before the game Tuesday night, a gruff voice calls out to me in the press box. “Got the injury report, Rosewood?”
I turn away from Jenna Nguyen toward Gus Mitchell, the grizzled sports reporter who’s been covering hockey for longer than I’ve been alive—something he likes to remind me of nearly every time I see him. His face is weathered and his voice sounds like gravel.
He’s tough, but fair though, which is all I can ask for. “Don’t I always, Gus?” I say, then brandish my tablet and make a show of swiping my finger across the screen. “In your email.”
He narrows his shrewd eyes, shaking his head as he grumbles, “Why can’t I just have it on a piece of paper like the old days?”
“Because it’s not the old days, Gus,” I say with a smile. “Why chop a tree down when I can send it to you in the ether?”
“I hate the ether,” he grouses, but he picks up his reading glasses from the string around his neck and shoves them on his face, hunching over his laptop. “Been covering this longer than you’ve been alive,” he mutters, as if on cue.
I smile at Jenna. “It’s his love language.”
She smiles awkwardly. “Really?”
“I promise. He’s more bark than bite.”
“I can hear you, Rosewood,” Gus chides.
“I know, Mitchell. It wasn’t a secret. I’m training a new department assistant on all the media team.”
I expect a surly comeback, but instead he snaps his gaze to me. “Volkov is out? He’s got an ankle sprain again?”
Jenna gulps, fidgeting with the silver bracelets on her wrists. She knows our center Alexei Volkov has an ankle sprain for the second time in a year. He should be back in a couple games.
“Just a minor lower body injury,” I say with a smile, giving nothing away.
“So it’s his ankle again?” Gus pushes.
I stare him down. “Gus, did I say it was his ankle? I did not. You have the report. He’s out with a lower body injury. And it’s minor. Anything else?”
He huffs. “Yeah, can you make sure I get one of those bags of salted chips with the media meal?”
“Salty for salty,” I say, then turn to Jenna. “Can you handle Mister Salty?”
“I can,” she says eagerly.
He rolls his eyes. “Make them extra salty.”
“As if we’d do anything else,” I say, then after checking in with a few other reporters, we leave.
In the hallway, Jenna brings her hand to her chest, like her heart is beating too fast. “I thought he was going to grill us, and then you went all badass boss babe.”
I laugh, making light of the compliment that I secretly love. “Thank you. And even if the press grills you on an injury, you don’t have to tell them the details.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. While we’re required to disclose injuries to the league and the public, we don’t have to specify the exact type so we usually share upper or lower body injury.
Player privacy is an issue, but we also don’t want to reveal weaknesses to other teams. Reporters will try to push, but there’s a way around everything. ”
“Like you did. Can I just imitate you if that ever happens to me?” she asks with a hopeful smile.
“Of course. And if you aren’t sure what to say you can always answer any question with a generic I’ll get back to you. It covers everything.”
“Good to know,” she says as we walk down the hall, then turn the corner as Zaire—my boss—walks toward us, head high, cutting a powerful image as she strides down the hall. “How’s everything going?”
“Great. We were just checking in with the press box before the game,” I say, stopping when we reach her.
Zaire turns to Jenna. “And you’re learning the ropes?”
She nods eagerly. “Everly is teaching me how to handle questions from the press.”
“Excellent,” Zaire says with a wry grin, then turns to me. “That’s what we like here at the Sea Dogs. We pride ourselves on a mentorship-style workplace. And the biggest tip is working with reporters isn't that different from working with hockey players. It’s all about managing the big egos.”
“It sure is,” I say.
“Speaking of,” Zaire says, returning her focus to me.
“Great work so far on the social media foundation. I reviewed the updates you sent over earlier. Step one looks great. Now that you’re ready for step two, let’s all have dinner with Max’s agent and myself.
We can make sure we’re all set for step two. ”
“I’m there,” I say without a second thought.
“Monday night?”
She names the time and I’ll still be able to fit in drinks with Lucas beforehand. At least I know Zaire isn’t trying to, well, cock-block me.
When she leaves, Jenna takes off for her cubicle, and I return to my office.
Along the way, I spot the manager of promotions walking toward me.
A clean-cut blond guy, Elias played hockey at his Massachusetts boarding school and for one year in college too—something he loves to remind me of.
He’s the poster boy for East Coast prep school guys who have uncles who are general counsels for the team.
He wears an Oxford cloth shirt and khakis, and looks like he’s off to play golf every time I see him.
“Hey, Ev. How’s everything going in com?” he asks.
“Great,” I say. “How’s promo treating you?”
“Fan-freaking-tastic. It’s the best. Soooo many fun things going on. I’ll tell you all about them soon,” he says. “Did you see that slapshot the captain made in Vegas? Not an easy one to make, and don’t I know it.”
“I’m sure you do,” I say with a smile.
He gives me finger guns for some reason, then aims them toward the rink. “We’re doing the T-shirt cannon tonight. Bam, bam!”
He works with Donna, the emcee who hosts the fan promo events during each intermission for our home games. “Fans love the cannon,” I say.
“More than anything,” he says.
Well, not more than hockey, but I don’t correct him. He turns to leave, then spins back around. “Hey, did you hear about the new director opening?”
I square my shoulders. I have more experience. I have a great track record. He’s only got a few years under his belt. Is he gunning for the post with those ridiculous pistol fingers? “Yes,” I say, keeping my answer simple since I don’t know why he’s bringing it up.
“I bet you’d be great at it,” he says, then leaves, and I’m left wondering if he means that or if he’s angling for it too.
But I have to put him out of my mind, since there are a million other things I need to think about. Like the Max makeover, which is the key to me nabbing the job.
* * *
With less than three minutes to go in the game that night, Max lunges across the net to stop a ruthless shot from Montreal.
He stretches so far I don’t know how he’s not pulling a muscle and winding up on the injury report for the next game.
But he pops back up no problem and fresh excitement zips through my body, then an unexpected rush of tingles skate down my spine.
I want to cheer. To thrust my arms in the air.
That was a key play. But I’m working the press box tonight, and cheering is frowned on in here.
I’m frowning on myself, too, because why the hell am I wanting to root for one guy when I work for the team?
Best not to think too hard on that as I leave with two minutes on the clock, making my way to the ice level.
When the game ends shortly with the Sea Dogs sealing the victory, I’m already waiting outside the tunnel, rounding up the crew for the post-game interviews.
Max walks toward me, ripping off his helmet and shaking out his hair. It’s sweaty at his temples.
“Nice save,” I say, still a little tingly from the last play I saw, which turned out to be the final save of the game. “That last one.”
“Thanks,” he says, then shoots me a suspicious look. “Is that all?”
He’s expecting me to bicker with him. To cajole him into talking to the press. But I like to keep him on his toes, so I don’t do that tonight.
“That’s all. I need to catch up with Asher,” I answer, then pick up the pace till I reach the left winger a few feet ahead. “I hear you and Quinn have become sparring partners.” Quinn’s the equipment manager and a huge baseball fan.
Asher nods. “He’s almost as vicious as the Reddit group members.”
“That’s what you want? Someone to fight you on baseball trivia?”
“Course. I’m a hockey player,” he says. “I live to fight.”
“As long as you’re not fighting online from your burner account anymore.”
“I can learn, Everly,” he says.
“I appreciate it and you so much,” I say, then continue down the hall. I’m pretty sure Max is watching me as I go. And I shouldn’t check, but I can’t resist. I turn my head, and yep. He’s shooting me a final curious look before he heads into the locker room, like he isn’t sure what to make of me.
I’m not sure either, especially since I’m looking forward to Thursday more than I should. I have no idea what he has planned, but I want to know him better.
* * *
On Thursday afternoon, Max leads me past dimly lit empty locker rooms and out toward a community ice rink, pointing to the stands.
This place is nothing like the Sea Dogs state-of-the-art arena, with its high-backed vegan leather seats in every row.
This run-down rink on the outskirts of Oakland has bleachers only.
“Front row seats,” he says with a wry grin.
“Unless you want to help me coach today?”
It’s asked with a challenge in his tone. A tease. “I’ll watch, thanks.”
“You do that,” he says as I take a spot in the first row. A smattering of parents and caregivers are here, bundled up in hoodies, hunched over phones or books. Others are simply watching the action on the ice as their six-, seven-, and eight-year-olds lace up.
Max trots down to the bench where he quickly laces up too. He’s wearing a warm-up suit, like the coaches usually wear for morning skate with the players since, well, it turns out he coaches young players. I had no idea. Of course I had no idea. But now he’s showing me, and I’m a little gobsmacked.