Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Tank was dressed and ready when McKenna picked him up for yet another evening of schmoozing the fans, talking hockey, shaking hands, and working overtime to convince them he wasn’t some degenerate womanizer.
Good fucking times, he thought sarcastically.
They had officially reached the final day of his redemption tour yesterday, but tonight’s excursion had been included anyway, because it hit on a night when the team didn’t have a game.
He’d returned to practice this morning, and while it was great to be back with his team, he had actually missed seeing McKenna today.
The two of them had been in each other’s faces for fourteen days straight, which, to be honest, was way more than he could stand of most people.
Surprisingly, he didn’t feel that way about her.
Over the course of the past two weeks, he felt as if he and McKenna had forged the beginning of a friendship—despite how unlikely that seemed.
The trip to the VA hospital had gone well, as had the ribbon-cutting at the sporting goods store, and the other five million “positive” promo opportunities McKenna had arranged to help clean his reputation.
Not that there hadn’t been people at some of the various places hoping to stir up shit or provoke him into giving them more ammo to use against him.
McKenna referred to them as trolls and hecklers and said the best way to shut them down was to ignore them.
If she knew him better, she’d know how much remaining quiet went against the grain for him.
Regardless, he’d managed to keep his damn mouth shut, because he was bound and determined to play by the rules.
All that mattered to him was getting back out onto the ice with his teammates. Well, that and protecting his contract.
The first thing he’d done following those initial meetings with team management after the video went viral was to call his lawyer and agent, certain James had been bluffing about breaking his contract.
Both had informed him the president was within his legal rights to terminate Tank’s contract if James felt he was doing anything to damage the reputation of the club.
Then they both told him the same thing Coach Fields had: do what he was told, keep his head down, and stay out of trouble.
“Hey, Mouse,” he said, as he climbed into the front seat of McKenna’s VW Golf.
The damn thing felt like a clown car to him, given his long legs.
He’d already pushed the seat back as far as it would go, but he still had to fold himself in half to get inside.
Tank had offered to drive every single day, but McKenna had set up the trunk of her vehicle like a mini-Stingrays’ swag shop.
She’d continued to reject his invitation to drive, claiming there would be too much stuff to transfer over, so eventually he stopped bothering.
“You realize this car is ridiculous,” he said, feeling like a jackass with his knees pressed against the dash.
“You’ve gotta stop hating on my poor car,” she retorted, stroking the steering wheel affectionately. “She’s my baby.”
“I guess you need a car this small so you can reach the gas pedal and brake,” he teased.
McKenna rolled her eyes. He was becoming very familiar with her eye rolls, because he managed to provoke them no less than twenty times a day. “Wow. You managed to work in a comment about my height,” she glanced at her phone, “in less than three minutes. That might be your personal best.”
In addition to giving her shit about her car, Tank also teased McKenna about her tiny stature.
“I’m just stating facts. You are a tiny human being. So small, in fact, I could probably tuck you in the pocket of my jacket.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not that tiny.”
He laughed. “Seriously, Mouse. How tall are you?”
“Five-four,” she replied haughtily, as if her tone could make her appear bigger.
He snorted. “Compared to my six-three frame, I assure you, that’s tiny.”
She huffed but didn’t continue to argue. Because how could she? She was vertically challenged. And the fact she was petite as well as short only made her look even tinier. Tank bet she didn’t weigh one-ten soaking wet.
“I have to admit, when I first started this job, it took me some time to get used to how big you guys are. At my last job, most of the men I worked with were regular-sized.”
“What was your last job?” he asked.
“I worked in the marketing department for a small sporting goods chain. Pete’s. They have seven stores in Ohio,” she said. “With plans to expand into a couple more states eventually.”
“I think I’ve heard of Pete’s,” he said.
“Why did you leave that job?” It occurred to Tank that while he’d become an open book to McKenna, she shared considerably less with him.
He didn’t like that after two weeks, he still didn’t know much about her.
Part of that was simply because they’d been busy, focused on salvaging his reputation.
But also because McKenna, like Victor, was proving to be a very private person.
She didn’t answer immediately, and for a moment, he wondered if she was going to blow him off.
“I, um… There wasn’t a whole lot of room for advancement there,” she finally said.
Tank wasn’t sure why, but he was damn sure that was a lie. For one thing, a company of that size would have plenty of room for advancement, especially if they were planning to expand. For another, she wasn’t looking at him, focusing on the road more than she needed to—and she was blushing.
McKenna was a true ginger, possessing dark auburn hair, a pale complexion, and a freckled nose.
As such, she was prone to blushing, something she’d admitted hating a few days earlier.
Tank had been amused, then pointed out that she should’ve known better than to confess something like that to him, because he would take making her blush as a challenge. And he had.
“Were you into sports in school?” Tank asked, deciding to continue digging.
“Not in the playing sense but as a spectator, yeah. I was on my school’s yearbook staff, and senior year, I was made the editor of the sports section.
I can’t begin to count how many nights a week I spent at school, sitting in the bleachers of the gym or the football stadium, taking pictures and interviewing the fans and athletes. ”
“Sounds like you knew what you wanted to do for a living right out of the gate.”
She nodded. “Yeah. I guess I did. I like writing. Not just about sports but about the players and the way a game like hockey can bring people from all different walks of life together.”
“Were you always a hockey fan?” Tank asked.
McKenna nodded. “Oh yeah. It was impossible to live in my house and not be one. My mom literally lives and breathes hockey.”
“Your mom?” Tank asked, amused. “Not your dad?”
His question was met with another one of those pregnant pauses. Only this time, she didn’t bother to lie. Instead, she just flat-out ignored the question.
“Why are we talking about me? We’re wasting valuable time.”
McKenna was incredibly efficient when it came to planning promotional opportunities, always going the extra mile to make sure he knew everything he needed to going in. Hell, most of the time, he knew more than he needed to.
Like right now, as she changed the subject to give him the names of not only the coaches of the Pee Wee team they were going to see but also the name of the head coach’s wife, with whom she’d spoken while setting up the appearance.
She followed that with all the details of the celebration the parents had held for the kids following their big win.
Tank had to admit, the parents had gone all out.
He’d won countless tournaments on God only knew how many teams when he was young, and the parents had never congratulated him and his buddies with a bouncy house, laser tag, all-you-can-eat pizza, and two giant ice cream cakes—one chocolate, one strawberry—in the shapes of a hockey stick and a puck.
But he figured the over-the-top celebration made sense when he learned that the team went from dead last the previous year—never winning a single game—to top of the heap this season.
Because it was a Monday, they’d scheduled their meet and greet for four o’clock, as that was when all the kids were out of school.
When they pulled up outside the ice-skating rink, he watched as McKenna opened her trunk, pulling out a box of swag she’d obviously packed prior to picking him up.
He tossed his duffel bag over his shoulder, grabbed his hockey stick, then took the box from her.
He was surprised when she pulled her own skates from the trunk.
His were in his bag, since today’s photo op didn’t just include him posing for pictures with the team.
He was also slated to skate around with them, do some fun drills, stuff like that.
Of all the things the PR department had scheduled for his penance, this was the thing Tank had been looking forward to the most. He loved getting to slap the puck around with young players.
“Skates?” he asked, when she hung them over her shoulder by the tied laces.
“I’m taking pics of you with the kids. I figured I’d get some big group shots in front of the net. It’s easier for me to skate than to try to walk on the ice in my street shoes.”
“You skate?”
“Why do you ask that like you’re surprised? Of course I skate.”
Tank wasn’t sure why he was shocked. Maybe it was as simple as he’d never seen her in skates before, which was a stupid reason, considering she’d have no reason to wear them around him.