Page 29 of Wild Love
Then when I can practically smell the sweat and pheromones, they just wave a hand toward a long hallway where the players work out, watch film, and dress, and instruct us to turn around. I was really hoping for a peek into the locker room. Not for a glimpse of a perfect ass, although that would have perked this tour right up, but because I want to see if it’s as over the top as I imagine.
And now they’re shuffling us back to the conference room. The slide on the projector reads Wildcat History and has a picture of a team from back in the eighties if the Burt Reynolds mustaches and mullets are any indication.
“Oooh, maybe now we’ll get to meet some players,” I say as I take my seat between Quinn and Reese. “I’ve got this whole image in my head where they parade them in front of us to show us what all our hard work is really about. Maybe Jack Wyld gives us a touching speech, and then we all get a fist bump and an autograph. Go, team!”
Quinn shoots me a weird look.
“Doubtful. Not after last summer.” Reese’s voice is quiet as he mutters the sentence out of one side of his mouth.
“What happened last summer?” I’m whispering, but I have no idea why.
“Last page of the handbook,” he offers at my confused expression and points the end of the green Minnesota Wildcats pencil in his hand.
I flip through the little paper booklet we were each given first thing this morning and skim the paragraph on workplace relationships.
“Seriously?” I whisper as I reread it, homing in on thewe strongly discourage dating between any Wildcat employeesclause. They provided helpful examples of Wildcat employees to further drive home the point. Manager and team member, coworkers, and intern and player. It doesn’t explain what happened last summer, but the result is pretty straightforward.
It isn’t like I was really going to date a player, but I am surprised to see it in black and white.
Jack does not come in to give us a rousing pep talk. Neither do any of the other players. After many more slides on the Wildcats and the internship program, we’re finally shown to our workspaces, and all my hopes of a famous athlete sighting on my first day are dashed.
Exhausted from sitting too long, but still so giddy I can’t stop smiling becauseOMG, I work here, I sit at my new cubicle in the intern pool. We’re grouped with other interns in our department, so it looks like I’m going to be spending a lot of time with Quinn and Reese.
I spin in the chair, and Quinn gives me an amused smirk. I think I’m growing on her. She hasn’t said much today except to let us know that her dad is friends with the owner, and she scores an invite to the season kickoff party every year. Am I jealous? Not at all. Am I going to befriend her in hopes she gets a plus-one? Maybe. Kidding… I think. I really need to get Reagan out of my head. I’ve worked around athletes for years. Still, this feels different.
Reese is also local, like Quinn. It’s his second year interning at the Wildcats, but he’s a lifelong fan, backed up by the many random stats and records he recites about the players any time one is mentioned. The first thing he sets on his new desk is a hockey puck.
It’s after five, but we’re waiting for Blythe to get out of a meeting and give us instructions for tomorrow. When she appears, the entire floor stops to watch her. She’s got that something about her, and I swear she walks like every space is her personal catwalk.
“I’m so sorry. I got held up in a meeting. How was your first day?” She glances between us.
We mutter a chorus of tired “good”.
“Go home and let your brains recover from information overload. We’ll get started first thing tomorrow.” She smiles, hands clasped around her cell phone. “See you in the morning.”
Reese loosens his tie and pulls it off over his head. “Some of the other interns went to Wild’s, the bar down the street. You guys want to grab a drink?”
“I’m in,” I say, getting my purse. I’m too excited to go sit in my empty apartment.
Quinn stares down at her phone as she answers. “The players won’t be there. They avoid this area during the summers. Even the ones that come into the arena.”
Reese and I exchange a look, and Quinn stops messing with her phone long enough to look up and roll her eyes. “There are so many better bars in the area. The only appeal of Wild’s is the hockey player sightings, but whatever, sure. I have a nail appointment downtown at seven, so I might as well stay.”
“Great.” Reese tucks his tie into his pocket. “Let’s do it.”
I text Reagan while we walk. She tells me that she and Adam are at the library but promises to call when she gets home to hear all about my day. I consider texting Maverick to see if he wants to join us, but I doubt he wants to be accosted by a bunch of eager interns. If they’re anything like me, salivating for a first run-in, then he’d be sorry he showed. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Johnny would probably eat it up.
Wild’s has a cool vibe. It’s your basic sports bar. TVs tuned to sporting events, Wildcats memorabilia on the walls, dartboards, and pool tables. It’s bright inside instead of the usual dim lighting that gives off thatdon’t look too closely at the grimemood of some bars. The table we sit at isn’t sticky or rickety. I guess when you have pro hockey players hanging out, you have to step up the cleanliness.
“Are you a Wildcats fan?” Reese asks me. In a surprising move, Quinn offered to grab the first round and is at the bar getting our drinks.
“I guess so.”
He chuckles, deep and throaty but friendly. Then points to Quinn standing on the quiet end of the bar next to two guys. The bartender brings the drinks, and she gives them a parting glance before heading back to us.
“Do you know Declan Sato or Leo Lohan?”
“No.” I shake my head and then give the guys another up and down. “Oh, shit. Are they players?”
