Page 13 of Pucking One Night Stand
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.
