2. Cassy #2
Hair gets a quick comb-through before I slick it back into a ponytail. Not tight-librarian ponytail, more like a don’t-fuck-with-me energy.
Makeup, just enough to erase last night’s sins. Smoky liner, gloss, and finish with a quick spray of my favorite Bond No.9 NoMad Eau de Parfum.
I let out a deep sigh and glance at the mirror, giving myself a once-over.
“Damn you look good, girl,” I murmur, grabbing my laptop case and tote from the desk.
Back out of the bedroom, my heels click like warning shots as I tear down the hallway. The stairs are a death trap, but I take them fast anyway, way too fast, and nearly collide with Martha coming up with a laundry basket.
She gasps and clutches the basket to her chest like it’s a bulletproof vest. “Morning, Cassy, you know, your father—”
“Bye, Martha!” I shout over my shoulder, not breaking pace as I sprint for the front door, fling it open, and launch myself outside like I’m late for the Olympics.
Down the front path, keys already in hand, I reach my car, throw the door open, toss my laptop case and tote into the passenger seat, slide behind the wheel, and fire the engine.
Screw subtlety, I tear out of the driveway. Vegas Aces, here I come…
The red blur of my car skids up to the security barrier of the Silver State Arena like I’m a Fast & Furious extra who missed the casting call.
The guard steps forward, a cigarette barely hanging from his bottom lip, and a clipboard clutched in one hand. He peers down through my window as I wind it down.
“Good morning, can I help you?”
I reach over, digging through my tote bag, thank God I shoved my temporary ID in there. “Oh, hi,” I slide the card toward him. “I’m starting this morning. Cassy McCullum. New Media and Communications Manager.”
His eyes dart from the ID to my face, then back to the ID like it’s suddenly turned into a live grenade.
“M... McCullum?” he stammers, already sweating. “Not head coach McCullum’s...”
“Yes.” I cut him off before he starts quoting my father’s stats.
He freezes for a moment, blinking like I just confessed to being Queen of England. Then, there it is, his gaze starts drifting south.
Nope. Don’t even think about it, buddy.
I don’t say it, but my glare is loud. He snaps to attention and drops his cigarette like I’ve just issued a direct order. The barrier lifts with a mechanical groan.
“Please drive to the left and park in the staff parking area, then at the main entrance, just swipe your temporary ID, Ms. McCullum.” His mouth is still parted as he hands my ID back. Still staring.
I don’t respond. I'm used to it. I take my ID, roll the window up, and drive straight through the gap, wondering how that guy manages to walk and breathe at the same time.
The lot to the left is quite full, but I swing into a spot, kill the engine, and sit back for a second. Deep breath. Shoulders back.
You’ve got this, Cass.
Grabbing my laptop case and tote, I step out into the warm Vegas morning and head for the arena entrance. Flagpoles line the walkway outside, NHL logos flapping beside the Aces team colors.
A faint hum vibrates from inside, steady and low. The scent hits me before the door does, rubber flooring, synthetic ice, and a mix of industrial cleaning products.
I reach the main doors and swipe my ID at the scanner. Beep. Green light. Soft click. I’m in.
Okay. From what I remember, Media and Communications is down on the right.
The cold air smacks against my skin as I step in, and the building pulses with activity.
To the right, the hallway stretches out long and bright. Staff are everywhere, trainers wheel massive equipment carts, people in polos and headsets zip past, and everyone moves like they’ve got three deadlines and no patience.
The arena itself is massive, every inch buzzing with energy. Behind glass windows to the left, I catch a glimpse of the rink where the ice is already being prepped. A Zamboni glides across it like it owns the place. Overhead, banners from past wins hang like trophies.
I keep walking.
After a few minutes, I reach it.
The Media and Communications Department sits behind a sleek, glass-fronted entrance, with bold red, silver and black branding stretched across the panels. The gleaming Vegas Aces logo takes up an entire section of the wall, mounted just to the side of the doorway.
Digital banners above flash through a loop, upcoming games, major sponsorships, and photo ops. Below that are giant posters of the team’s star players. One of them may or may not have had his dick in my mouth last night.
Come on, stop it!
The media entrance is busy, staff flowing in and out, arms full of press kits, phones glued to ears as they bark out interview schedules. I step inside.
Easy. This job is going to be a walk in the park.
I keep going p ast the press briefing room. The department vibrates with energy, open workspaces are cluttered with coffee cups, monitors flash game highlights from Saturday’s win against the Anaheim Titans, and someone mutters about engagement stats while someone else yells about embargo times.
Emails are flying, and social posts are probably being drafted in real time. It’s like a war room, if the war were for likes, clicks, and post-game quotes.
Then—
“Ms. McCullum.”
I freeze, then turn.
There she is. Valerie Singleton. Senior Director of Communications. My boss.
She’s standing a few feet behind me, dressed like she owns every PR crisis in the NHL. Arms stiff, lips tighter than her high ponytail, her watch already raised like it’s the enemy.
I give her my best fake-it-‘til-you-own-it smile.
Let the games begin.
“Good morning, Ms. Singleton.”
She nods once, crisp as a military command. “Welcome to the team,” she says, already turning on her heel like we’re in a sprint and I’m ten steps behind. “And please, call me Valerie.”
“Okay.” I catch up, matching her pace. “And please, call me Cassy.”
She stops at a desk near the middle of the department, grabs a sleek black laptop from a pile, a laminated schedule, and a clipped-on ID badge that has my face on it, looking a little too enthusiastic. She hands them all to me like she’s dealing poker.
“This is yours, laptop, schedule for today, and your badge. Keep that on at all times.” Then she raises her voice, calling toward one of the desks, “Riley.”
From behind a monitor, Riley Benson stands tall and glowing like she actually slept last night. Probably because she didn’t wake up next to a six-foot-four reminder of poor decision-making.
Truth is— I didn’t wake next to one either. Asshole.
“You already know Riley Benson, our Player Media Liaison,” Valerie gestures.
Riley walks over, her ponytail bouncing, looking far too smug to be innocent. “Hi, Cass,” her voice is sweet, her eyes practically winking.
Of course, I know Riley. We’ve been best friends since we were fifteen. She knows all my dirty secrets, like the fact I once made out with a mascot on a dare and that I have an unhealthy obsession with five-star hotels.
Valerie checks her watch. Again. “Okay, I’m late for a meeting. Riley, can you show Cassy to her office, please?”
“No problem,” Riley’s tone is smooth and professional as she turns to me with a too-bright smile. “Please come with me.”
Valerie doesn’t waste another second and hurries off.
Riley leans in the moment Valerie’s stilettos are out of hearing range. “Come on, I’ll show you where it is.” Then in a hushed whisper, “So, what the hell happened with you and Blake last night?”
We walk past a few cubicles, and I keep my voice low. “You busy tonight?”
“No, why?” she asks as she takes my ID out of my hand and swipes it against a panel beside a sleek glass door. The lock blinks green and unlocks.
She hands it back to me. “Your new office, Miss McCullum.”
“You up for a drink tonight?” I ask as we walk in.
“You bet. Where?”
“We can decide later.” I step inside, already eyeing the space. “I’ll tell you all about that shithead tonight.”
My laptop case, the new laptop in its case Valerie gave me, plus the laminated schedule, and my tote, go straight onto the massive executive desk that dominates the space.
Glass walls. Bold team branding. A digital screen on the far wall plays an endless loop of team highlights. Framed jerseys, a signed puck or two, and a massive wall-to-ceiling window overlooking the Vegas strip stare back at me.
Um… not bad.
There's a pair of modern guest chairs in front of the desk, leather and ridiculously stylish, and to the side is a chic, modern couch. On the wall to my left, a massive whiteboard has someone’s chaotic notes about next week's press coverage still half-scribbled.
There’s a minimalist desk lamp and a few shelves, all begging for a personal touch.
It has clean lines and a smart design, sleek and cool without being cold.
“I’ll pop back in ten, get you up to speed, and help you settle in,” Riley says, giving me a quick hug. “Oh my God, I’m so happy you’re going to be working here. We’re going to have so much fun, girl.”
I smirk as she heads for the door. “Okay, thanks. Oh, can I grab a coffee from anywhere?”
“I’ll get you one and bring it in with me,” she calls as she’s already halfway out.
The door clicks shut behind her.
I turn in a slow circle and take in my new lair.Vegas Aces, welcome to the era of Cassy McCullum.
I sink down into the sleek, ridiculously ergonomic chair behind my desk and rest my palms against the cool surface, exhaling slowly.
It feels like I’m sitting in the calm before a category five media hurricane, and I am one hundred percent wearing lip gloss to the storm.
On the corner of the desk sits a neat stack of media passes, each one clipped and labeled, like someone actually believes I’ll stay this organized past Wednesday.
Nestled beside it, a small white envelope has my name written in black Sharpie.
PR handwriting. Precise. Assertive. So, I pick it up and flip it open.
Welcome, Cassy!