Page 6 of Zero Pucks Given
He ignored me and spoke to Bob. “I don’t want to announce a different winner. I don’t like backtracking. Josie will go on a date with Grayson, sponsored by the team.”
“Uh, no she won’t,” I said. “You can’t justforceme to do something against my will.”
Even as I said the words, I realized I was arguing with one of the richest, most powerful men in town. If he wanted to, he absolutelycouldforce me to go on the date by threatening my job at the arena. All he had to do was pull a few strings and my life could be ruined.
A chill ran up my spine which had nothing to do with the temperature in the arena.
The owner of the team gave me a kind, almost grandfatherly smile. “I must admit I’m surprised by your resistance. No matter. On behalf of the San Antonio Surge, I would be happy to sweeten the deal with a one-time cash prize. Ten thousand dollars.”
I blinked at him. “Tengrand?”
“To fulfill the obligation you agreed to by signing up for the contest, yes,” he said calmly. “It was all spelled out on the contest website. Of course, if youdidn’tsign up for the contest, then we can pursue legal action against whoever did. Oh, what a mess that would be.”
There it was. The stick to go along with the carrot. If I refused, then Sharon might be in legal trouble. I seriously doubted they would go after her like that rather than simply announce a different winner, but…
Ten thousand dollars, I thought. For a woman working concessions at a sports arena, that was a massive chunk of cash.
And all I had to do was go on a date with a millionaire bachelor.
“Fine,” I said, clenching my jaw. “I’ll do it.”
4
Grayson
“I won’t do it,” I growled. “Fuck off.”
I was standing at my locker, still wearing all my pads. I usually had half an hour to shower and change clothes after a game before I had to give interviews with reporters and other bullshit, so I was pretty pissed off to be bombarded the moment I got into the locker room.
“This is the big contest we’ve been promoting all season,” said Bob, the head of the team’s marketing department or whatever. “You can’tnotdo it.”
I pulled my jersey off, then tossed it at his chest. “Fucking watch me.”
I turned toward the locker and started peeling off the layers of hockey pads covering my body, but Bob didn’t leave. He lingered behind me like an annoying pest.
“Here’s the thing,” he said in the same tone a parent took with a pouting teenager. “This isn’t a negotiation, Grayson. You’ve agreed to this.”
“Maybe my agent agreed to it,” I countered, “but I’ve said it all along—I don’t care. I don’t want to do your stupid goddamn promotion.”
I strippeddown to my jock strap, then removed that, too. Bob’s cheeks turned red, and he said in a tight voice, “Do you have to change right now?”
“You’re the one who barged in here as soon as the game ended,” I replied, taking my sweet time wrapping a towel around my midsection. “If you don’t want to see a bunch of flopping dicks, you came to the wrong room.”
Bob pursed his lips and began to argue some more, but then an assistant tugged on his sleeve and whispered something in his ear. “I’ll be right back.” He turned to the assistant. “What do you mean he’s not wearing the sponsorship patch? They were sewn into the jerseys this weekend.”
“It appears he removed it with scissors…” Their voices trailed off as they disappeared somewhere else in the locker room.
I let out a long sigh. I loved playing hockey. The moment I could walk, my dad put me in a pair of skates and taught me the sport. Getting to play for a living, professionally, was a dream come true. Not only that, but I’d worked my ass off to become the team captain. I was a leader and a warrior. I went out on the ice and battled every single game.
I savored every single moment of it.
But I hated all the other bullshit that went along with the job. Marketing. Publicity events. Commercials. Contract negotiations. Press conferences. All of it was a waste of time. After four hours sweating my ass off on the ice, the last thing I wanted to do was talk to fucking Bob from Marketing.
The fact that he was giving me more bullshit to deal with made it even worse.
Mason, the rookie right defenseman we’d drafted in the first round last year, opened the locker next to mine. “Whew. I tell ya, I wish my agent was as good as yours, Captain. I’ve got two Subway commercials this month, but that’s it.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” I replied.
