My Undoing
Everly
I’m praying sweet, angel-faced Jenna who comes to me for publicity advice did not see my new thong.
Please, universe. If you could grant me one wish right now, it’d be that. I’d be super grateful.
I stuff the lace to the bottom of the envelope, then farther, like, say, to the center of earth, and ideally all the way to Siberia on the other side.
I’m not in the spin business for nothing though. I flash an oh what a silly mix-up grin, and say to her, “I got the size wrong.”
I roll my eyes, like can you believe it?
But would my face be as red as a fire engine over the wrong size? Maybe Jenna won’t notice I’m imitating a candy apple.
The worker bee tilts her head to the side and says helpfully, “Want me to handle the return? I don’t mind at all. I do it for my girlfriend,” she says. “She orders way too many shirts to try on all the time, and I’m always the one sending them back.”
It’s a relief that she didn’t see the new lingerie our star goalie sent me. “Nah. I need to return some…” I glance around quickly, but my desk is mostly empty except for a succulent that I’ve never fed. “Some plant food too. I can do it all.”
“I don’t mind. I totally have a green thumb.”
Jenna is the nicest person in the sports world, and I don’t deserve her. “You don’t need to spend company time dealing with my mistake. But thanks, Jenna. You’re the best.”
“Okay, well let me know what I can help you with.”
I wrack my brain for a project to keep her busy. “Actually, I need some research done on the upcoming event with Little Friends next week.”
Quickly I give her a few tasks for Dogs on Ice, and when she trots off, I shut the door, something I rarely do unless I’m sitting in on an interview, but I need a moment alone with this treat.
I return to my chair, take a breath, and then set my hand on my chest. My heart is beating so fast. No one has ever sent me lingerie.
I haven’t had a relationship long enough to enter the meaningful gift stage.
My fingers are so eager to touch this pretty thing.
To see if there’s a note. I dip my hand back into the envelope and pull out the panties, getting a good look at them at last.
A smile coasts across my face. A smile of amazement.
He got me the exact same pair. A perfect replacement. Delivered in less than twenty-four hours. But there’s not only a replacement here. There’s one more item waiting patiently at the bottom of the envelope. I dip my hand back in, the tissue paper softly crinkling as I pull out another gift.
My breath catches.
It’s another pair of panties, and these are royal blue lace. Specifically, Sea Dogs blue. With white lace edging and white embroidered rosettes along the waistband.
He bought me a pair of panties in team colors. I squirm a little in my chair, my chest tingling, my belly flipping. I reach for the small card in the envelope, flip it open, and press my lips together to swallow my gasp.
It’s not signed, but it doesn’t need to be. There are only five words—Wear the blue ones tonight.
I clutch the card in my fingers, not wanting to let it go as the puzzle pieces slide fully into place.
Max must have ordered both of these last night, and I try to picture him in his home.
I think he lives off Union Street in a tall building, overlooking the city.
Was he in bed, scrolling through sites, picking out underthings for me?
Including a pair to wear to tonight’s home game?
A noise escapes my throat. A soft murmur. Thank god the door is closed since I’m turned on as the late-night reel plays in my head for the thousandth time. I close my eyes, relaxing against the back of the chair, picturing the things he did to me all over again.
Seeing, too, what he might do to me in these.
Such a dangerous thought.
Something I can’t entertain except in my mind. But here, in the afternoon with my eyes closed, I entertain the hell out of the fantasy. Breathing in deeply, then out, savoring the naughty moments unfurling before my closed eyes.
“Yoo-hoo.”
I sit bolt upright. It’s Elias in promotions, and he’s rapping on the door.
Fear of getting caught fondling a lingerie gift roars down my spine.
Hastily I shout “come in” right as he helps himself, swinging the door open.
I stuff both pairs of panties back in the envelope like they’re contraband and he’s border control.
Fresh-faced Elias is smiling because of course he’s smiling. Everything goes his way all the time. His gaze drifts to the bag. “Ooh, a fun little gift?”
How the hell does he know it’s a gift? Does he even know what it is? “Yes. I mean, it’s a shirt. The wrong size. It happens.” I wave a hand like this is all no big deal. Then grab my latte and gulp some–that makes my casual routine more believable. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“I hear ya,” he says with a solidarity nod. “Like, how hard is it to get a size right?”
“Seriously,” I say, trying to mask my breathiness, trying to hide the furious beating of my pulse, and hoping I’m not red-faced anymore. “So, what can I do for you?”
“Just wanted to talk about…” He pauses, wait for it style, then booms shockingly on key, “Who let the dogs out?”
It takes me a beat to catch up. “Right. The dog rescue event next week.”
“It’s going to be great. We used to do those sorts of promos when I played in college,” he says in a reminiscing tone, and it only took less than one minute for him to remind me he played college hockey.
What I really want to say is did you do those events?
Because I really don’t think adoption events are done for college hockey.
But there’s no point in calling him on it.
I wait for him to keep going and he does, asking, “And you talked to my contacts at Little Friends, right?”
Um, he’s not the only one who has contacts at the city’s rescue. I know people there too, and I contacted them. But I don’t want to be an asshole, so I say, “Yes, I spoke to Little Friends, and everything’s all set for the dog adoption event. Thanks for checking in.”
“Sweet. Just want to make sure everything’s good to go. And I paved the path for Donna to be there.”
Hold on. I don’t need the emcee. It’s not an in-game fan experience event. It’s community outreach. An adoption event we’re hosting. “I’m actually going to have some of the players do that. Since, well, they’re the draw.”
His face falls. “Shoot. Donna loves that stuff especially. Big dog person.”
I take a moment to think things over. “I’m sure we can make room for everyone,” I say diplomatically, solving the problem with a the-more-the-merrier approach.
“Cool. I’d feel like a jerk if I told her not to come,” he says, then turns to the door.
Leave, Elias, leave. I need to ogle my pretties some more.
But instead, he swings his gaze back to me again.
“Hey, I wanted to give you a heads-up. I’m applying for the director job too.
But I’m totally not going to get it. You have way more experience—on the desk,” he says, a subtle dig that I don’t have on-ice experience.
“But I figured hey, how am I going to get experience applying for a promotion if I don’t apply for one? ”
Great. The general counsel’s nephew is applying for the job I want. That doesn’t hurt my chances at all.
“That’s fantastic,” I say, and it nearly sounds like I mean it.
He raps his knuckles on the wall for luck. “May the best…” He stops himself from saying man, shifting to, “human win.”
“Absolutely,” I say.
But before he leaves, his eyes drift to the package on my desk. “Enjoy your gift.”
Oh fuck off, Elias.
He leaves. Finally. I grab the package from my desk, do my damnedest to fold it in half, then quarters, and stuff it into my purse. It’s not easy. It takes up all the space and makes my purse bulge.
But I’m pissed and annoyed. I’ve worked so hard for this chance.
I show up day in and day out. I travel with the team to a good chunk of their away games.
I work late hours. I handle tough questions from the press.
And I present the team and the players in the best possible light.
Why is he even applying? He manages the in-game fan experience, not publicity.
Then again, Zaire told me she wanted healthy competition for the post. It’d be ridiculous to think I’d be handed it on a silver platter or that I’d be the only internal candidate wanting the gig.
There are surely external candidates too.
From other teams, other cities. So many of them.
All I can do is work harder, try harder, and do more.
I can fight for it. And I’m prepared to do that when a text from Max lights up my phone.
Ignore it.
You don’t need a distraction.
But the pull is too strong, so I slide open the preview.
Max: I see you got a delivery.
My neck turns hot. I want to just rappel down the cave of texting him. Enjoy some flirty banter, but instead, I shove my phone out of reach before I’m tempted to answer.
For the next few hours, I dive into work to take my mind off Elias. In the late afternoon, there’s another knock on my open door.
Is my office a train depot today?
I spin around. Goosebumps rise on my arms. I’m hot everywhere as Max rests his forearm against the doorway. He’s wearing a Sea Dogs workout shirt and basketball shorts. His blue eyes lock with mine and his voice is deep and raspy as he says, “Hey.”
One word, and I melt a little. “Oh, hi,” I say, feeling far too fluttery for my own good.
“Do you have a second to talk about…that thing next week?”
He sounds so believable that no one could know he’s here for any other reason.
But I know. I know because of the way he rakes his eyes over me, like he’s undressing me, like he’s checking to see what I’m wearing underneath my clothes. “Sure,” I say, feeling a little hypnotized under his stare. “Don’t you have a game?”
“In a couple hours. Gonna work out first,” he says, and that’s his pre-game ritual. He steps inside and locks the door. “Are you coming tonight?”