Page 7 of The Worst Pucking Deal

He scans the room behind me. “I like your work on our team’s social media accounts,” he says, surprising me. “You’ve made it more relatable and I hear that fans are interacting more.” He beams at me.

Well damn, I never thought the GM looked that close at what we do. I mean, I obviously know Jo and the other executives scrutinize everything, but it never occurred to me that the GM is personally looking at it as well. “Umm, thanks?” I want to slap myself when it comes out as a question rather than an appreciative statement.

“Right, yes,” Jo says, still staring daggers at me. “Lucia is one of our best PR account executives. She has an eye for detail and is very good at researching the trends.”

I am fucking fuming. She’s making it sound like I’m just copying shit rather than spending an ungodly amount of hours doing research before finding ways to tweak the trends to fit the Minneapolis Sabertooths.

“Keep up the good work,” Tom says, smiling encouragingly. “Now, let’s get this meeting started.”

Walking into the room, I try to remain poised and not let on that I feel Jo’s heated eyes burrowing into my back. Really, what’s her problem? I don’t want to sound all full of myself, but I thought she liked me. I do a good job and work my ass off without ever asking for credit. Hell, I’ve never even asked for a raise or a vacation day. Just like I’ve never called in sick.

“Are you okay?” Nick, one of the senior executives, asks. “It’s not like you to be late.”

I suppress the need to roll my eyes. “I wasn’t late,” I whisper. “And yes. I’m good.” Today is clearly not my day at all, and I don’t like how everyone seems to notice it. Just as I don’t like how sourly I come across when Nick has done nothing to earn my attitude.

Luckily, I’m spared from more small talk when Jo slides into the seat next to me, and our GM stands at the end of the table. “Good evening everyone. I’m glad you could all be here on such short notice,” Tom says. I’ve never interacted much with the man, which makes me all the more curious as to why he wanted me here. Usually, he gives his orders to Jo, who then briefs us on what we need to know to do our jobs. “I’m not going to sugarcoat the shitstorm we’re facing or pretend it isn’t all due to one player.”

While he gives us a quick rundown of what he expects from today’s meeting, I pull my laptop out of my backpack and start typing notes.

“Sawyer Perry is our strongest player. I don’t have to remind you about his record-breaking goals from last season,” Tom says, looking at all of us. “But I’m not blind to the PR nightmare that follows him, or the hard work you’ve suffered because of him. And that’s why I thought it was time we all talked together. Because whatever we’ve done up to now is clearly not enough.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, debating whether or not I should speak up. If Tom wasn’t here, I’d never hesitate. But he is, and I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to draw more attention to myself. Then again, he’s clearly asking for help, and this is part of my job.

“Maybe it would help to talk to Sawyer,” I suggest, my mouth working of its own volition and completely ignoring my brain that’s begging for it to stop drawing attention to us… me.

“To what end?” Tom asks, sounding curious.

“Can I speak freely?” I ask, looking up in time to see the GM nod encouragingly at me. “So far, most of his scandals have been about… indulgence.” My cheeks heat at the thinly veiled reference to sex. I’m far from a shy virgin or prudish. In fact, I make sure my vagina is happy and satisfied, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t awkward to discuss in a professional meeting. “But yesterday, he publicly beat the guy who accused him of sleeping with his wife.”

Another woman nods eagerly. “It seemed like the guy got under his skin.”

Despite Sawyer’s image as the bad boy of the Minneapolis Sabertooths, there’s no denying the incident from last night was different altogether. It wasn’t about him being drunk and belligerent, or being caught with his hand up some puck bunny’s skirt.

Not only was I there, watching it as it happened, but from the clip I’ve watched over and over, it’s clear the scorned husband appeared out of nowhere. And he’s the one who confronted Sawyer, even threw the first punch. The forward wasn’t the one to start the fight, but he damn well made sure he ended it.

“Our legal team is assuring me that Sawyer will be out tonight,” Tom says. “And then they want him for most of the day tomorrow. But if you think it’ll help to talk to him, I can ask him to come by after lunch. What do you think, Jo?”

Jo nods thoughtfully. “It can’t hurt. But if we’re working with him, I would feel better if we have some suggestions on how to repair his image at the ready.”

“Excellent,” Tom says. Then he pulls out the chair at the end of the table and sits down. “I want to hear everyone’s ideas. We need a way to keep his image squeaky clean for the rest of the season. Most of our sponsors are married and don’t want to be associated with a man in his thirties acting like an out-of-control teenager.”

Some of the women trade looks that make it clear they don’t see Sawyer’s behavior as a problem. I guess that’s what happens when you have the luxury of thinking with your vagina instead of your brain. I’m not going to deny his wow factor and hotness, which he has plenty of. But where most of the women in the PR department find that enough to overlook his flaws, I’ve been more focused on his flaws. Probably because I’m the one who has to deal with them and smooth things over on his socials every time.

In another life, yeah, I’d totally join them in their swooning. Sawyer is the epitome of a hockey God, and he has the intense eyes, chiseled jaw, and abs that just beg to be licked to prove it. But in this life, I find him nothing but a sad cliche. I come from a family that’s big on rules, hierarchy, and discipline. So seeing an adult acting like the rules of his contract are beneath him, like he’s taking pleasure in breaking as many as possible, is… odd. Since he’s not a teenage boy—as Tom put it—but a grown man at thirty-two, it’s incredibly sad.

The hours fly by and it’s almost 10pm when Nick says, “It sounds like we keep coming back to the same problem, and if you ask me, there’s a simple solution.”

“Which is?” Tom asks, rolling his hand in the air to indicate Nick should explain his thought.

“We need him to have a steady partner—”

One of the women sniggers, “Sawyer isn’t exactly steady relationship material.” She doesn’t say what we all know; he’s the kind to fuck you and leave you, not hang around for cuddles and breakfast in the morning.

Unbothered by the interruption, Nick goes on. “It doesn’t have to be real. But it will improve his image and hopefully make him more relatable and likable to the investors. It would also limit all the damage control we constantly have to do on his social media accounts.”

When Nick stops talking, the room’s so quiet you’d be able to hear a pin fall onto the carpet. It’s as though we’re all holding our breath, waiting for Jo and Tom to weigh in and either shut down the suggestion, or run with it. I’m not sure which would be better. Yes, constantly having to monitor Sawyer is ridiculous, but at the same time, I don’t relish the idea of having to interview candidates to be his fake girlfriend.

Tom looks down at his phone, silencing it when it vibrates again. “Is it doable?” he asks, turning to look directly at Jo.

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