Page 4 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
Connor Jenkins’d probably go with me, but the more I think about it, the less of a good idea that seems. He’s a little too hot-headed sometimes, and putting him and Brock Savage in the same room seems like a recipe for an explosion. Or at least some noxious gas.
“Thanks, Molly,” I mutter, still mulling over what I want to do about this situation if Molly can’t get him to take it down.
I hate feeling helpless. With the season officially over, I don’t have any of my usual outlets to blow off steam. And hitting the clubs seems like it would only make the situation worse.
Fuck it. I know Molly told me to let her handle it, but I can’t just sit on my hands and wait for someone else to fix something. That’s not my style.
Pulling out my phone, I search up that douchebag Brock Savage’s show information, find the phone number, and hit call.
CHAPTER THREE
Maggie
The phone ringsfor what feels like the fifth time in as many minutes, and I let out a low growl of frustration. Since Brock is still refusing to even set up interviews with any of the people I pulled from the pile of resumes, I’ve been making him answer the phones. But he’s in an interview with one of the local high school baseball coaches about their path to the state championship, so I can’t interrupt him. It’s been quiet almost all day, and the minute he steps into an interview … Did he tell people this was the time to call?
I wouldn’t put it past him, the ass.
Taking a deep breath, I pick up the phone and use my best receptionist voice. “You’ve reached the Brock Savage Show. How can I help you?”
A smooth voice answers, sounding vaguely familiar. “I’d like to speak with Brock Savage, please.”
“I’m sorry. Unfortunately he’s unavailable at the moment. Can I take a message?” I’m getting so fucking tired of taking messages. I grab the pad of hot pink sticky notes and set it in front of me, pen in hand, poised to write down the name and number of whoever’s calling for Brock. I picked hot pink because I know Brock hates it.
A humorless laugh greets my answer. “Fucking figures.” He lets out a low growl.
Even though he hasn’t said his name, I cringe, my stomach dropping. I have a feeling I know who this is. “May I have your name and number?” I ask, sticking to my receptionist act. “I can have Brock call you back when he’s available.”
“Fat chance of that,” he mutters, adding something that I think might be French? I’m not sure of the words, but the inflection makes it clear he’s cursing.
“Jack Bouchard?” I ask, sounding far more tentative than I wanted. But he’s pissed, and I can’t blame him. I don’t want to piss him off more.
He’s silent for a beat. “Is this the assistant? No, that’s not right. You told him he needs to hire an assistant. Are you a new assistant or is this the social media chick?”
A soft laugh huffs out of me. “Social media chick, at your service. My name is Maggie.”
I can practically hear him grinding his molars, and I push forward, hoping I can smooth things over. He might like to party and probably sleeps around, but he doesn’t seem like a complete jackass like Brock. Definitely not the reprehensible fuckup Brock made him out to be. “Look. I’m really sorry about …” I flounder, casting about for the right words.
“The hatchet job your boss did on me?”
Sighing, I close my eyes, rubbing them with the fingers of my free hand. “Can I take you out for a coffee or something? As an apology?”
Another long beat where I wait, almost certain he’s going to launch into a string of expletives—though possibly not all in English—and finish up by telling me to go fuck myself and to give Brock the same message.
Instead, he surprises me by saying, “I don’t want coffee. I need a drink. Meet me in two hours at The Salty Salmon.”
“The Sal …”
“The Salty Salmon,” he repeats. “Google it. It’s not hard to find. Tell the bartender you’re there to meet me, and they’ll show you to my table.”
“This isn’t a mafia front where you’re going to have me offed, is it? Should I send Brock instead? I can tell him that a hot fan called and wanted to take him out. Ohhh, better yet, I can tell him it’s a meeting with a network exec. He’d for sure show up then.”
He chuckles, the sound warm and genuine, like he thinks I’m actually funny. That’s a rare thing for me these days. Brock doesn’t understand my humor at all—of course he’s the type that thinks women can’t possibly be funny anyway—and my ex stopped finding me funny ages ago. I can sometimes get Liam to laugh, but it’s harder lately since his dad’s been flaking so much.
“Don’t send Brock,” he says. “Much as I’d like to throw down with him, I don’t think that’d help rehab my reputation any more than that interview did. But if you want to buy me a drink, I’lltake you up on it. And no, The Salty Salmon’s not a mafia front. No one’s going to take you out back and fit you with cement shoes or send you to sleep with the fishes.”
Chuckling as well, I nod. “Okay. See you in two hours.”
After hanging up, I set the phones to forward to Brock’s voicemail. If he’s getting angry calls from former interview subjects, I have zero desire to field those. He can handle his calls his own damn self whether he likes it or not. If he wants the content on his socials to stay at the same level it’s been since I took over, he needs to figure his shit out. I don’t have time to be answering the phoneanddo my job. Not when it’s going like this.
