Page 11 of Hard Hitter
Finally, she relaxed.
With her heart rate returning to normal, she checked her messages and reheated a square of lasagna she’d saved for dinner. She even poured herself a half glass of wine to go with it. Everything was fine, or soon would be. Tonight her team was going to beat the visitors from Washington D.C., and tomorrow she’d relieve their aching muscles.
After her early dinner she lay down on the couch with a book. The house was so very quiet. She still wasn’t used to living alone. She’d met Vince when she was just twenty-one and bartending at one of his clubs. She’d never been an adult on her own.
It was obviously time to start. She read her book and tried to think soothing thoughts.
By six thirty it was time to get ready for the game. She went up the creaky narrow staircase to her bedroom and chose a knit dress with three-quarter sleeves and tights. The NHL liked its staff to look professional, even if she might be called upon for some last-minute attention to stiff muscles. It had taken her a few months on the job to figure outwhat to wear. Now her closet held four comfy game night dresses in shades of eggplant (the team color). She wore ballet flats to keep herself comfortable and mobile.
Ari grabbed her bag and headed out the door. Before heading to Water Street where cabs were more plentiful, she took a moment to circle the block for a moment, casing her own building like a thief. She peeked into the alley. The basement door of her little house was closed, as it should be. There was nobody in sight. Checking over both shoulders like a paranoid fool, she walked around back, slipping her keys out of her pocket.
But she stopped at the rear door, confused. There, gleaming against the beat-up metal door, was a new lock. Even though it didn’t make sense, she tried her key anyway. This was her building, for God’s sake.
The key wouldn’t even fit in the lock.
Anger rushed through her veins like a drug.Damn you, Vince!He was like a cockroach that couldn’t be killed off. He’d locked her out of her own basement.
What the hell?
The only windows back here were narrow and just above her eye level. Shaking with fury, she stood on tiptoe to peek inside. She cupped a hand over the glass to try to reduce the sunset’s glare. It took her eyes a moment to identify the shapes in the basement’s dim light.
The first thing she could make out was the strip of lights on a computer modem, doing their little dance to announce their connection. And their light helped illuminate a sort of folding table which held the rest of a computer setup—a screen and a keyboard and mouse, with a chair pulled up to them. But the item which really drove home the problem was the wastepaper basket on the floor. There was something so freaking civilized about it that it could almost make steam come out of her ears.
Vince had set up anofficein her basement. He was conducting some kind of business on her property! With a wastepaper basket!
She was mad enough to spit. She stomped toward the corner, calm mood ruined, and stuck her arm in the air for a taxi.
***
Two hours later she was feeling a little calmer, even though the problem remained unsolved.
But the game was about to start, the stadium filling with ten thousand fans. It was hard to feel crabby with so much expectation bouncing around the arena.
Ari had already given a couple of last-minute chair massages to players with upper body pain. By this point their fate was out of her hands. She stood in the owners’ box, a soda in her hand, a notebook at her side. She would watch the first period of the game from this premium location and make some notes about who suffered the hardest hits, so she could follow up with those players during the intermission or tomorrow.
Hockey was pretty freaking exciting, too. Just because she’d never been a fan before she took this job didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy it.
Beside her, the Brooklyn Bruisers’ office manager stood sipping from a glass of wine. “How’s O’Doul today?” Becca asked, watching the ice team sweep the surface one more time. “I heard rumors that they sent him to you for his hip.”
“He seemed fair,” Ari said, considering the question. “A little rest would probably help him. But I don’t think it’s any worse than a lot of the strains the guys play on.”
In her heart of hearts, Ari would never understand the risks these players took with their bodies every day. That was their job, and they were highly compensated for it. She’d never be rich, but she’d never take a punch to the face, either.
Though you let yourself be pushed down the stairs, her subconscious prodded.
“Is Doulie a diva in the treatment room? He’s so freaking bossy. The travel team actually calls all the hotels where he stays and gets duplicate receipts to submit for him, becausethey’ve learned it’s a bigger pain to ask for his cooperation than to just take over.”
“Really?” Ari laughed. “Sounds like he has them trained.” Everyone was supposed to submit his or her own receipts, or pay an assistant to do it for them. Ari did her own, but it was a pain in the gluteus maximus.
“He has an ego the size of the stadium. If you have any trouble with him, I’m happy to play the part of bad cop.”
“You do that part well.” Ari squeezed her friend’s shoulder.
“Fuck,” Becca moaned. “Do that again. Please? I spent too many hours at my desk today.”
Ari set down her drink and stood behind Becca. She put her hands on the younger woman’s shoulders and began to rub. “You only like me for my hands,” she complained.
“Not true! You make a mean margarita, and you always turn in your personnel forms on time.”
