Page 29 of On the Line

“I wasn’t expecting to see Morgan and your girls at the rink this morning,” he says when the guys head out to the truck. “I thought Morgan lived in Park City.”

“She does, but she’s moving back to Boston in a couple weeks. She’s here this weekend looking for apartments, and she wanted to see the girls. Jules had suggested I bring them to the practice this morning,” I tell him, “but obviously I needed to be here for the delivery. Plus, I wanted Morgan and your sisters to meet since they’re similar ages and I think they’ll get along great.”

“Yeah, they all left together after practice and went out to brunch.”

“You didn’t want to go?”

“Three women in their twenties, and three kids under five?” His laugh is practically a grunt. “I’d rather be here.”

I’m trying to figure out what to say in response, because my immediate thought isI’d rather you be here too, and that makes no sense. I still can’t quite reconcile this version of him with how I’ve thought of him for the eight years I’ve known him. But the delivery guy is backing toward my front door, so I reach over and open it as he moves in with my new dresser, and I’m saved from having to say anything.

I close the door behind them as they move up the stairs, and Jameson hands me a business card. I glance at it, and then look back up at him, eyes wide.

“Why am I holding a business card for the general manager of the Boston Rebels?”

His dark eyes bore down as he scans my face. “Because one of the people in their marketing department left very suddenly, and they’re looking for someone to fill the spot. When I mentioned that someone I worked with, who has years of experience in sports marketing, was looking for a job, she was very interested in talking to you.”

She. Alessandra Jones is one of the few women in hockey to have made it all the way to the top and is currently the only female GM in the league. She’s an icon, and working for her would be a dream.

“Jameson”—my voice is full of warning—“this feels a whole lot like nepotism, which is exactly what I told you I was trying to avoid.”

After the way he, and others, treated me when I started at my uncle’s agency fresh off a postgrad internship at another sports agency in New York City, I promised myself I would never accept another job acquired because I “knew someone.”

“This isn’t nepotism. It’s me, hearing about an opportunity that would be perfect for you, and telling the GM nothing more than ‘I know someone you should talk to.’ I didn’t pull any strings or play any angles here. If you don’t want to pursue this just because I’m the one who brought it to your attention”—he raises his eyebrows and gives me a one-shoulder shrug, which lifts the sleeve of his shirt and has my eyes focused on the tattoos along his bicep—“that’s your choice.”

My eyes shift up to his, and he’s clearly smirking at me. No doubt he noticed me staring at his carved arms and the ink decorating them.

“That’s really all you said? Because I know how people view you in this industry, and if you put even the slightest amount of pressure on her ...”

He lifts his eyebrow again. “And how do people view me?” His voice is a balance between curious and teasing.

He’s been called “the most powerful man in hockey” and a whole host of other titles, all reflective of how influential he’s been in representing players and even helping coaches and GMs build just the right team. The Boston Rebels practically owe him both their Stanley Cup titles in the last decade because of how he’s helped build that team postretirement.

I could go on and on about what’s been written about him and his sway over this industry, but I’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing that I’ve followed his career that closely.

“I think you know. Tell me you didn’t pressure Alessandra Jones into meeting with me?”

He looks up the stairs as the delivery guys trudge down and waits until they’re out the door before he takes a step closer and says, “I didn’t pressure her in any way. I vouched for your experience, but nothing else.”

I gulp, both because of his proximity and because this opportunity might be too good to pass up. “All right, I’ll send her an email as soon as I have a chance.”

* * *

I’ve been in enough meetings at the headquarters of various sports teams’ facilities that I figured I knew what I was walking into for today’s meeting with Alessandra Jones.

I could not have been more wrong.

When I’m shown to her office, it’s not full of the standard high-end office furniture. Instead, her office has a high ceiling with a beautiful light fixture hanging from it, an antique pale wood desk with nothing on it but a closed laptop and clear acrylic organizers with pastel folders, and behind the desk are lovely built-ins full of books and awards and picture frames.

One wall is glass and overlooks the practice rink. An off-white couch sits along the glass, two matching chairs opposite it, and a long tufted ottoman in between. There are throw pillows on the couch and a blanket draped over one chair, and the whole space feels unimaginably cozy for an office space in a hockey rink.

The woman herself is standing behind her desk, feet crossed at the ankles and brows scrunched in concentration or displeasure as she looks at a copy of a local Boston newspaper.

“AJ?” her assistant says quietly and Alessandra looks up, startled, as if her assistant hadn’t just knocked on the door before opening it.

“Why hello,” she says, a broad smile replacing her scowl. “You must be Lauren.”

She steps around her desk, so I take a few steps across the room and shake her outstretched hand. “It’s so nice to meet you, Ms. Jones.”

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