Chapter 6
Halle
I’ve been in my new job for a week now and I’ve learned enough to make my head spin and question how I’ll ever figure it all out.
That aside, and putting away that awkward first-day mishap with the team meeting and Dane, I couldn’t be happier to be part of this organization. It’s everything I’d hoped it would be.
Speaking of which, the team has been out on the road the last few days and are scheduled to be back in town for tonight’s game against Florida. Trevor insisted that I take the team seats for our department tonight so Dad, Lenni, and I could attend before he heads back to Calgary.
I look up from my desktop monitor to check the time. It’s getting late in the day, and I have about an hour to finish up what I’ve been working on before Dad swings by with Lenni. I’d promised them both a tour and to introduce her to the daycare teacher.
I’m about to open a file I was working on earlier when PJ Takatsuka, one of my new coworkers, peers over the cube wall. His dark hair nearly covers his eyes, and he pushes it away behind his ear.
“Hey, Halle,” he says in a quiet, almost shy voice, brushing the hair across his forehead again.
His gaze flits to my desk, avoiding direct eye contact.
If I had to guess, he’s a total introvert.
“Trevor wants me to show you the SQL report and individual player dashboard I created to track the points scored on power plays and team penalty kills stats. Do you have time now?”
I smile and grab my phone and notepad, glancing at the time one more time. “Sure, PJ. Yeah, I’d love to see what you created.”
This earns me a smile, which jostles the tiniest ‘stache I’ve ever seen on a guy’s face. For as much hair he has on his head, his lip curtain looks a bit goofy.
Stifling a giggle, I round the corner of the wall and enter his immaculate work area.
It’s already clear that PJ is a perfectionist. Everything on his desk is neatly in its place, with nothing out of order.
I find that somewhat comforting in a way.
It tells me that he’ll be someone I can count on to get accurate reports when they are needed, unlike one of my classmates in college.
That guy did only the bare minimum on group projects and had me carrying the brunt of the workload.
It made me madder than a wet cat that he got the same grade I did.
Putting those irritants aside, I pull up the chair next to PJ, who swivels around to his desk and taps out a few keystrokes using only his index fingers.
I find it strange that a guy who enters data all day, every day, can only use two of his fingers to type so fast. I won’t judge, but I chew on the inside of my lip to keep from commenting on his talent.
I stare over his shoulder at his dual monitors and the crazy busy displays of graphs, stats, and charts.
A nervous shiver runs down my spine at the reality of my new situation.
Once I’m thoroughly trained, I’ll be expected to manage all of these reports and data.
I wonder if my tiny-mustache colleague felt the same way when he first started.
“Out of curiosity,” I hedge, nervously fiddling with my badge hanging around my neck, “how long did it take you to learn all this?”
PJ’s fingers come to an immediate halt, and he snaps his head up to stare at me. This time, he meets my gaze straight on, the mustache moving when he screws up his lips. “What do you mean? It’s pretty basic database management. You should know this already.”
Wow.
Okay, don’t I feel pathetic now. I bristle at the patronizing tone that has me wanting to shrink down in my shoes.
Belittled by a guy who looks like he’s a twelve-year-old boy.
I inhale deeply as I try to figure him out.
Maybe he doesn’t realize how insensitive his response sounded?
I lean back in my chair and offer some grace—after all, we’re both learning to work with one another.
“Well, yeah, but I’m sure you didn’t have this all nailed down the first week you started, right?” I lift my hand to wave it at all the information blinking back at us on the monitors.
PJ seems to consider this for a second as he turns back to his screen.
“Yeah, I guess so. It was a long time ago, so now it feels pretty second nature. I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out.” He gestures with a dismissive wave over his shoulder and leans forward to point at the monitor in front of him.
While he explains the data to me, I scribble notes on the small notepad and try to keep up with all the information and numbers he points out.
For all the lack of empathy he might use in conversation, PJ is actually a decent teacher.
He regularly stops throughout his explanations to ask if I have any questions. Which I do.
“Let’s say I’m asked to run a query on, oh, I don’t know.
How about Dane Axelrod’s power play goals for last season?
” I try to sound nonchalant when I mention Ax’s name.
I suppose I could have used any number of players, but let’s face it, Dane has been on my mind a lot lately. “How do I search for that data?”
It’s as if a light flipped on inside PJ’s head because he literally beams with enthusiasm over my question.
“It’s low-key easy once you know how the page is laid out.” He taps the monitor in front of us with his finger, and my eyes follow it to the top of the screen. “You just type in his name right up here to pull up the individual player dashboard.”
As if saying his name out loud has summoned some kind of magic, Dane Axelrod materializes in the flesh, his patent smirk popping up above the cube wall inches from us.
My entire body stiffens and I swallow hard, hot flame burning my face. PJ, on the other hand, seems thrilled, his dark eyes widening in surprise. He extends a hand over the top of the monitor to clasp Ax’s outstretched one in a bro-shake gesture.
“Hey, Ax. Good to see you, man,” PJ greets in the most animated fashion I’ve witnessed since meeting him. “Nice assist on that buzzer beater the other night.”
Dane nods absently in appreciation while his gaze fixes on me. I suck in my bottom lip, wholly unprepared for this moment. My heart races as he cocks his head with boyish charm, the look in his eyes almost a dare.
Tension grows and the air between us crackles. Even PJ seems to notice it; his gaze bounces between Dane and me like he’s watching a ping-pong match.
Then, as if realizing I may not know the Vikings player, PJ gestures toward me. “Oh, let me introduce you—” he starts, but is interrupted by Dane.
“Hello, Cherry.” His words vibrate from his chest.
That gorgeous smile of his that accentuates his chin dimple cuts from cheek to cheek.
I notice he hasn’t shaved, and coarse stubble the color of golden wheat covers the planes of his sharp jawline.
Dane lifts a theatrical brow—full of mischief and danger—like he knows something that everyone else doesn’t.
Great. Just great.
The use of that sugar-sweet nickname he bestowed upon me is clearly an indicator he remembers me. The day we met, one of the most embarrassing days of my life to that point, I was covered in sticky cherry slushie syrup.
But I’m not that girl anymore. And I won’t fall for his boyishly cute charm ever again.
Been there. Done that.
Have the nearly five-year-old to prove it.
PJ gives me a puzzled look, as if trying to calculate things in his head and not making sense of it. “Do you two know each other already?”
I reply, “No.”
At the same time, Dane says, “Oh yeah. We go way back.”
He leans over the cubicle wall, positioning his bent arms over the top, and props his chin on his hands.
“And we need to catch up. Don’t we, Cherry?”
A weird-sounding exhalation gurgles up from my throat, like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t have been. I suck in my lower lip as Dane’s eyes latch onto my mouth.
I lift a hand in an awkward wave. “Uh, hey Dane.”
PJ’s gaze continues to go back and forth, his facial expression telling me he’s doing the math but his two plus two isn’t equaling four.
“Cherry?” he asks, looking squarely at me.
My words get caught in my throat, my heart thudding so loudly I worry they can hear it.
If possible, my face flushes even more—I’m mortified that Dane would use that name in front of my new colleague.
But I do work for a hockey team, after all, and hockey players are notorious for giving nicknames to their teammates.
As long as Dane doesn’t offer the story of how he came up with that name, I’ll be fine.
But I’m not one of Dane’s teammates. I’m an ex he hasn’t seen in five years, and we are in an extremely awkward reunion moment. I flit a hand in the air and hope that Dane will move along so we can avoid any further weirdness.
But the universe is totally against me today. As luck would have it, the elevator chimes and little-girl giggles fill the awkward silence that’s fallen over the three of us. Giggles followed by my dad’s booming voice echoing down the hallway.
“Hold up, kiddo. Wait for Papa.”
All eyes turn toward the elevator bank and short corridor not twenty feet away from where we stand, and we see my daughter race at full speed, head down as she shoots toward us.
Right into Dane.