Chapter 15
Zaila
The roar from Wildcatters Arena during that Tuesday evening’s preseason game echoed even through the glass of the press box, but I could tell this wasn’t celebration. Tension rippled through the space like its own entity.
I leaned forward, fingers flying over my laptop, even as my gaze stayed locked on the ice. Jeff had the puck again, streaking down the left side like he was the only man on the team. He refused to pass to Stolly, who was open. Instead, he took the shot, and…missed.
Again.
Groans rumbled through the stands. The Jumbotron cut to Cormac on the bench. The team captain’s jaw clenched, his eyes burning a hole into Jeff’s helmet.
I felt that same frustration. This wasn’t the junior championship or even the college-level Frozen Four. This was the national professional hockey league. The season hadn’t even started yet, and Jeff was failing.
I clicked open my dashboard. Fan sentiment continued to trend negative, with the #TradeJeffNow climbing. My stomach sank.
Tim nudged my elbow, his face a mask of resigned disappointment. “He’s going to blow it. God, and to think we could have had Brokowski.”
That was the other rookie the Wildcatters had looked at instead of Jeff.
He’d been picked up by the team just before Houston’s turn in the draft, so that wasn’t an accurate statement.
But nonetheless, everyone was talking about Brokowski’s fantastic preseason and how seamlessly the young player had clicked with his teammates.
That had to be part of why Jeff kept pushing—he and Brokowski had competed for everything for the last fifteen years.
Jeff Cross had something to prove, but each time he got on the ice and tried, he failed.
Returning my eyes to the ice, I watched Jeff ignore another wide-open teammate, go for a wraparound, and get flattened by the other team’s defenseman.
Turnover.
I sighed, my shoulders tucking as if I’d been the one to sign him.
Two minutes later, the puck hit the back of the Wildcatters’ net, and we chalked up an overtime loss.
Cormac snapped his stick against the boards.
Tonight and tomorrow would be long, as no one was happy with this loss, even if it was preseason.
There was no way around it: Jeff was throwing off the whole team.
I typed in Tough loss. Tougher lessons.
Then I deleted it, because something told me Jeff had learned nothing. And based on Cormac Bouchard’s fury, the Wildcatters’ locker room was about to light up. I hoped no one filmed the confrontation and posted it online. I really needed a good night’s sleep.
“The rookie is all yours,” Jay informed me as he walked by. “I’m done babysitting egos.”
“What? No…” I began, but Jay was gone. That butthole wanted me to clean up the mess when he was the one in charge of the department? Talk about ego.
“He can’t do that,” Tim said.
“He’s my boss, so he can.” I shrugged.
“He shouldn’t,” Tim said.
“That’s something entirely different,” I muttered as I settled back in my seat, eyes still on the ice. Jeff skated toward the locker room without looking at the crowd. “I hope they make the call to trade him soon,” I said, my voice low. “He’s throwing off the team’s chemistry.”
“Jay can’t handle Jeff,” Tim mused. “So he expects you to work your magic on the clown, I guess. Or maybe this is a punishment for the mascot thing.” He shrugged. “You can always go to Gunnar—”
I shook my head. “No. I’ll manage.”
Tim turned to face me. “I don’t like the way Jay’s been acting. He and Jeff chat way too often, and I can’t see anything good coming of it, especially if he’s putting you on the account when he’s been so involved until now.”
I bit my lip as I nodded. “I have to do my job, Tim.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Just…be careful. With both of them.”
After a long week, on Friday evening, after my colleagues had left, I was still in the office because I couldn’t face going home.
I’d put together two different extensive social media plans for Jeff and was working on a third, mostly because I didn’t want to see my mother slowly fading in front of me.
Cowardice remained as unbecoming now as it had been in second grade when Nora Kramer had called me a slimy gypsy orphan.
I’d been terrified to stand up to her, and I’d suffered stomachaches and headaches for two weeks until my father took me out for ice cream and pried the details of her taunting from me.
During that hour together, he’d said something I’d stuck to every day of my life: “When someone is mean or tries to bully you, remember that their behavior is a mirror of their struggles and insecurities, not yours. You don’t have to drop to their level.”
He’d gone on to tell me he knew me, knew that I was a kind, confident person, and all I had to do was stay true to myself.
“Keep on doing you by standing up for what’s right,” he’d said.
He’d told me I was stronger than I thought and so special to him and my mother.
“Never—and I mean never—let anyone make you feel otherwise,” he’d concluded.
“Or like you should be anyone other than yourself.”
I was letting my mother’s prognosis steal precious time with her. I wasn’t being brave or myself and the fear, the spiraling thoughts, had won this week. I was angry about that, but unable to stop myself from falling prey to my worries.
“Zaila. Hey. What are you still doing here?” Gunnar asked from the doorway, startling me from my thoughts.
He leaned against it as if he had no cares weighting him to his desk.
Maybe he didn’t. He was wealthy and, according to the internet, one of the most sought-after bachelors in the country, not just the city.
I held up a stack of papers. “I put together some more social media plans after I went through this past week’s analytics.”
Gunnar nodded. “I appreciate the effort, but it’s late. You should go home.”
“I will soon. I wanted a head start on next week’s presentation, which is about fixing Jeff’s image.”
Gunnar frowned as he stepped into my office. “Wait. Why are you working on Jeff’s image? That’s Jay’s job. He and I discussed it at length a few weeks ago—right after that meeting with the players.”
My jaw clenched as I stared at him. How dare he meddle in my job and how I did it? Now suddenly I had value to him? If he had questions, he should talk to Jay. I lifted my chin. “Well, my boss gave me the account.”
Gunnar narrowed his eyes. “What’s going on with you?”
“I’m working,” I said, stressing the second word.
“But I don’t pay you to work this late on a Friday night. You’re young. You should be out with friends, partying, making bad choices—”
“Regardless of what you saw at the karaoke place,” I broke in, too annoyed to be appropriately respectful.
“I’m not interested in that. Never have been.
I…” I shook my head. “You know what? My personal life is none of your business, Mr. Evaldson. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to finish this.
” I looked down at the stack of papers, my gaze sliding across the words and numbers without a bit of comprehension.
“I do mind.” Gunnar strode forward with soft, steady footfalls until he was right in front of my desk. Then he had the audacity to round it and lean his lean hip against the edge, lifting one muscled thigh straight into my line of sight.
I hadn’t needed the reminder of his attractiveness, nor did I want it.
My eyes still worked just fine, even in the dimmed lighting the building shifted to after six p.m. With a mulishness I hadn’t exhibited since childhood, I dropped the paper to my desk and swung my gaze up to Gunnar’s. “What do you want?”
He studied me for a long moment. The silence turned oppressive as my mind once again chewed over my mother’s illness. I wanted to be there to hold her hand when she went, but I couldn’t bear to say goodbye, and it would be forever…
“Why are you working on Jeff’s account?” Gunnar asked again.
“Because Jay told me to.” Suddenly I wanted to say more, to tell him Tim was worried about Jay and Jeff and whatever they were concocting, but both men were already on Gunnar’s bad side. Tattling wouldn’t help anyone, least of all me.
“That’s outside your scope—”
“Jay’s my boss,” I cut in. “So, if he hands me an account, I take it on.” I squeezed my hands tightly, trying to keep myself together.
Gunnar had hurt my feelings, made me feel small and unworthy when he’d ditched me at the retreat. I drew a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to regain my composure and my ability to have a rational, calm discussion.
“We’ll see about that,” Gunnar said, his gaze narrowing.
“No, we won’t. Just…leave it, Gunnar. Between the gossip about me from the retreat and Jay’s piling on, I’m…” I dropped my head into my hands, unwilling to admit the depth of my hurt and embarrassed by my inability to hold my feelings closer. “I’m tired.”
“Okay,” he said, more softly than I expected.
I closed my eyes and soaked up the silence, enjoying being near him even as I recklessly wished he’d make a damn move—put us both out of our misery.
“Mary,” he said.
I frowned, confusion growing as I looked up at him.
“Laura, Jennifer, Sarah, Helen, Elizabeth…ummmm…”
“Why are you saying women’s names?” I asked.
“I’m guessing your middle name.” He raised an eyebrow. “Caroline, Sasha, Patricia, Ruth, Martha, Kristin, Ellen, Nora, Isla—”
“Oh my God.” I laughed. I couldn’t help it; this man was utterly ridiculous, and he didn’t seem to care. “No, none of those is my middle name.”
“All right, let’s see… Bertha, Martha, Madelyn, Carmen, Cara, Carina, Courtney, Cassiopeia…”
I giggled until tears slid from the corners of my eyes and I gasped for air. “N-no.” How did he do that? I’d been so frustrated and hurt, and now I was laughing so hard my sides ached.
“Damn.” His lips quirked and those glacial eyes warmed into the hottest flames. “Who knew there were so many women’s names?” He thought a moment. “Susan, Isolde, Esme, Charlotte—”
“I don’t have a middle name,” I said between gasps for air.
“Really? That’s unusual.”
I shrugged as my gaze returned to the table. ”Okay, I do, but I’m not telling you.”
“Fair enough. Now that you’re not glaring like you want to stab me with your pencil, please tell me what’s bothering you,” he coaxed.
I closed my eyes, blocking him out, wishing I could block out my overactive mind. “My personal life has no bearing on my work here—”
“I find it fascinating that people believe that,” Gunnar said.
His tone was conversational but his eyes, now much cooler, assessed me carefully as I opened my own.
“Because I’ve found that personal issues have a great bearing on stress, and thus work performance.
” He leaned closer. I could feel his warm breath on my cheek.
“That’s true for the athletes and my employees. ”
My scowl deepened. “I may be employed by this organization, but I’m certainly not your anything.” I plunged my teeth into my bottom lip, wishing those last words could be returned to my foolish mouth.
He straightened. “And that bothers you?”
I shrugged. “Why should it?”
“Why, indeed,” he murmured.
Before he could interrogate me further, my phone beeped. I glanced at the screen, noting MOM as the incoming call, and answered immediately. “Hi. Are you okay? Do you need—”
“I’m fine, darling. I’m just fine,” she assured me. “I know I gave you a scare, but I’m not dying tonight. Not even tomorrow.” Her laugh was hollow.
That could never be a funny joke. I swiveled away from Gunnar, wishing he’d leave, but hoping he could hear my conversation almost as much as I hoped he couldn’t.
“When will you be home?” Mom asked.
“Well, I...”
“You can’t avoid me and my diagnosis forever,” she said in that gentle voice that felt like sandpaper across my nerves. She’d never had to raise her voice to get her point across. I strove for that level of emotional mastery…and so far failed.
“I’m not.”
“You are, and I get it. You’re still grieving your father. But, Zaila, I’d like to spend time with you.” She paused, likely gathering her thoughts and composure. “It’s one more memory I’ll get to add to my beautiful bank of them.”
I swallowed the thorny lump of emotion that clogged my throat. “I was just packing up. I’ll be home soon.”
After saying goodbye, I pocketed my phone, turned off my computer, and picked up my purse, aware of Gunnar’s remaining presence. “I’ll see you next week,” I told him with the briefest of glances as I moved past him toward the door.
Even that was enough to see his expression now held a deep sadness. Had he heard what my mother said? He nodded. “Until then,” he murmured.