I take the elevator up to the corporate office on the third floor and exit the elevator. Adel isn’t at her desk, which is a bummer, but it’s around lunch time so she’s probably taking a well-deserved break.
The homemade butterscotch candies sit perched on her tall desk, but it doesn’t taste nearly as good without Adel’s sweet greeting, so I walk past without grabbing one. If she’s back at her reception desk by the time I walk back out of Sam’s office, I’ll take one then.
Walking down the long hallway, the sound of my sneakers clapping against the espresso wood floors is the only sound I hear. I know the walls here are soundproof on purpose so that private conversations can remain private, but now I realize why Sam asked me to come in at lunch time.
A heavy feeling tugs at my chest. Is this going to be more bad news?
I glance at the glass shadow boxes of Hawkeyes gear lining the hallways again, buying myself a few seconds longer as I walk past and head for Sam Robert’s office.
I glance at a shadow box of the first Stanley Cup that was won under Phil Carlton’s ownership. A photo of Bex Townsend, before he was our coach, and the team that played fifteen years ago celebrating on the ice, Champaign spray going everywhere, the players still looking drenched in sweat from a hard playoff game, Bex in the center of the photo holding up the Stanley Cup in his hands, smiling from ear to ear. Inside the shadow box, along with the picture blown up and printed in black and white for dramatics, is the puck from the winning shot that Bex made and the pair of his gloves that he wore when he won that day. The gloves look worn and beaten from the stress of a long season, the winning puck covered in silver marker from all of the players on the winning team signing it. A Hawkeyes shot glass, taken from the bar, also sits inside with one of the players knocked out front tooth from a fight that broke out on the ice during that game.
Phil Carlton likes to tell the story about how his old Zamboni driver spent hours that night, after the game, looking for that tooth, wading through thick confetti paper and red solo cups that had been left behind. He presented the recovered tooth to Phil the next morning in the shot glass he found discarded somewhere in the hallways of the stadium in the aftermath of a massive celebration of fans after the momentous win.
Phil also says that there is nothing better than having a Stanley Cup sitting in your office, but that he spends more time looking at that tooth each time he walks down to his office than he has ever spent looking at the attention-grabbing silver and nickel alloy Stanley Cup that stands at an impressive 35-plus inches tall. When I asked him why the tooth hold more importance to him, he said, ‘Sometimes, in order to achieve true greatness… to reach the very pinnacle of your success, you must be willing to sacrifice something to importance. That tooth is a daily reminder for me… and it should be for you too. One day, this sport might ask something of you. It might require a broken ankle, a torn ligament, missing time with your family, or maybe something else entirely. But you’re the only one that can make the call on what you’re willing to give up.’
That was a few years ago now but it still sits with me, and every once in a while, I wonder when that day will come and what the hockey gods will ask of me.
I hang a right to the third door that leads to Sam’s office, twisting the door handle to open it and then walking through. Directly inside is a large waiting room where his assistant, Penelope, has a large desk perched horizontally right outside of her father’s office door.
“Briggs!” She beams in that sweet way that Penelope does to everyone.
Her light blue eyes, that match Sam’s, sparkle at me as she spins her legs out from under her desk and toward me in her chair. Some kind of ergonomic ball thing. Like those yoga balls my physical therapist used to help me stretch out my back.
Her long blonde hair is in a high ponytail, and she’s in dark jeans and a Hawkeyes polo, like most non-athlete employees of the team wear.
She’s a cute girl who used to be a college figure skater but dropped out of the program for some reason. She still keeps in good shape, skating every morning before we all come in for practice. Not that any of that matters. I don’t shit where I eat. And Sam would probably retire anyone of his players to a benchwarmer for the rest of their contract terms with The Hawkeyes if they ever made a pass at his daughter.
“Hey, Penelope. He’s expecting me,” I say, pointing at his closed office door and walking right past her toward it.
“Yep.” She beams. “Go right on inside, and then I have a few things for you before you leave.”
Things for me? Is it all my shit from my locker because he’s going to rip my contract in half right in front of me and light it on fire? I doubt it… I make this franchise too much money, and we’re on the cusp of a Stanley Cup Win.
“Okay.”
I rap on the door with the back of my knuckles lightly, just to warn him that I’m coming in. Never walk in on a man with his door closed before giving me a quick heads up, just in case… well, his head’s up. A lesson you learn living in college dorms that sticks with you for a lifetime.
I start to twist the door handle when I hear him tell me to come in.
“Briggs,” he says, standing from his seated position behind the large desk, when he sees my face appear behind the door of his office.
I glance behind him at the wall full of bookshelves filled to the brim with books, memorabilia, and photos out on display.
“Boss.”
I walk up to his desk, but he doesn’t sit back down, so I don’t take a seat either. I don’t think that bodes well for me.
“I brought you in—”
“Before you say anything…” I stop him before he can jump my shit about the way I conducted myself yesterday after they told me that not only are they going to reward fucked behavior by paying off the woman who’s blackmailing me, but they are also punishing me with this fake girlfriend shit. They’re forcing me to date a total stranger in order to keep my job.
Okay, maybe we’re only faking it, and maybe she isn’t an actual stranger. Still, he didn’t know that, so I feel as though my reaction was reasonable.
However, I shouldn’t have walked out on Sam or Phil. Especially since Phil pays my paychecks, and Sam could trade me in a heartbeat and rid himself of the headache of this whole blackmail debacle. Possible Stanley Cup win or not.
“I know that The Hawkeyes are trying to do what they think is best…”
“That’s right, we are.” He holds my eye contact, challenging me to give a but…
He knows me too well.
“But there has to be another way than making me date a woman that I haven’t talked to since I was eighteen years old. She can’t be thrilled about this idea either.”
Not to mention that her brother’s about the only friend I have left from my youth, and he won’t take this well. They’d better start looking for a replacement offensive player when Isaac breaks both my kneecaps. I still have enough pride left in me that I’m not going to openly admit to my general manager, and a man I have a lot of respect for, that Autumn’s brother could easily beat my ass.
“Do you have an alternative? If you have a woman that you’ve known for a while and could trust more than Autumn, that might be an option.”
“Hell no,” I blurt out.
I don’t even have to think about it. The list of women I would trust to understand that the assignment would be short-term with no chance of turning permanent is a list of zero. There’s not a single woman I’ve dated over the last few years, and I use ‘dated’ loosely, that hasn’t tried to push for a full-blown relationship with me. And there sure as hell isn’t a single one of them that I’d ever consider dating again in an attempt to clean up my image. I’d take early retirement over that mess.
“We could hire an escort, or an actress.”
“We’d have to pay someone to date me? That’s too fucking depressing.”
He sighs. “Just as well. If we did that, we would need a nondisclosure agreement and contract. All it would take is the wrong person to see the paperwork, and this story would hit the news for a whole new reason. Autumn is the best fit for the job because she won’t require any of that.” He shifts his weight and takes a seat back in his chair, as if the decision has been made.
“Wow, hold on,” I say, taking a step closer to his desk.
But he doesn’t “hold on”.
“You know her. You have pictures together when you were kids which Tessa Tomlin told me is social media liquid gold.” He places his elbow on his desk from his seated position and holds up his index finger. “Autumn knows the deal.” He holds up a second finger. “She’s not asking for additional compensation because she wants to help. Which is evidently a pro on the pro/cons list for you and your fragile ego.” He lifts a third finger. “And she’s the goddamn girl next door, which I am told is exactly the kind of image change you need.” He throws up his hands. “There isn’t a better fit.”
He stops and waits for me to object, but I don’t because there is nothing I can say. He backed me into a corner with only one way out.
“Autumn has everyone else’s vote except yours.”
“Who’s everyone else?” I ask.
“The PR company, Tessa, Penelope, mine, and most importantly… the man fronting the bill for all of this, Phil Carlton,” he says, reclining back in his chair. “And Phil liked her when he met her. Said ‘she’s a real peach’ and asked Penelope to send Autumn a stadium pass to the owner’s box so she can watch the games with the rest of us instead of alone in your seats.”
“My seats? She’s coming to the games now?”
“As your girlfriend, yes. The media needs to see her. They need to see you two together as often as possible, Ideally, looking like a real couple.”
I don’t care about the seats. The only people I’ve ever given them to are my parents or the Daughtrys. I’ve never had a long enough relationship to warrant giving them to a girlfriend, and I’ve tried giving them out to friends in the past, but the type of friends I meet these days have a tendency to get a little entitled or drunk and mistreat other fans around them. I don’t need that kind of publicity, I have a good enough time creating it for myself, if you ask my boss. Not to mention that all of the player’s seats are usually filled with wives and family members of my teammates. People I have to see and deal with regularly. So, we all try to be respectful of one another and not put assholes in those seats.
“Giving her your seats shouldn’t be anything compared to living with her.”
“Hold the fuck on! What?” I say, stepping up and pressing my fists against his desk as I lean in with adrenaline coursing through my veins. I could not have heard him right.
“You’re moving in together,” he clarifies, turning away and shaking his computer mouse to wake up his hibernating computer screen, as if this conversation is coming to a close and he’ll be back to checking his emails soon.
I shake my head, and my eyebrows furrow with his words. I take a deep breath and try to calm my breathing as he goes on.
“Penelope found a large, fully furnished apartment available in The Commons across the street.”
I know The Commons. It’s the apartment building that all of the rookies and most of the players who don’t live here year-round live at during the season. It’s only a couple blocks from the stadium, and Penelope negotiated a good rate for our players to rent. I’m there every week during the season for poker at Lake Powers penthouse at the top of the building.
It’s a nice place. It’s a newer build with much larger apartment sizes than you usually find downtown, along with expensive finishes. It has a doorman, 24/7 security on duty, secure underground parking and every apartment has a large balcony.
I lived in the building the first year as a rookie, but once I got signed on for several seasons, I bought a condo a little further away. My accountant thought it would be a good investment to own, and The Commons only lets you rent.
My mind flashes to all the mornings when I leave for practice and catch women sneaking out of The Commons with smudged makeup and an oversized shirt after a one night stand with one of the players on the team. I shake my head, trying not to imagine Autumn in an oversized t-shirt, slipping out of my bed.
“I’m supposed to sleep with her now? I think you all are taking this a little over the damn top. This isn’t method fucking acting.”
Sam pushes out of his chair and slams his fists on the desk.
Now I’ve done it.
“Jesus Christ, Briggs, I didn’t say sleep with the woman. It’s a two-bedroom apartment with separate ensuites. I don’t give a shit what you two do or don’t do in the privacy of that apartment as long as it’s consensual and isn’t going to end up in the news.”
I glare into Sam’s eyes under the bill of that hat he always wears. “You think I did it, don’t you? You think I took advantage of the stripper during a fucking lap dance,” I say, fuming.
“Holy hell, Briggs. No! Of course, I don’t. I picked your drunk ass up off the fucking couch that night. With how plastered you were, there’s no way you would have gotten your cock to do shit that night, but I’m getting really goddamn tired of chasing your ass around town, getting calls from bartenders so often asking me to come to pick you up that I just received a wedding invitation from one of them last week.” He huffs, and that takes some wind out of my sails. I have been a real shit to deal with for Sam. “I’ve been on your damn side for the last year while you handle whatever shit crawled up your ass and died without making you talk it out with me because, on the ice, you’re still as sharp as ever, so you’ve earned blowing off a little steam, but so help me, Briggs, if you don’t get the drinking under control…”
A queasy feeling hits me at the hint of a warning.
“What? You’re going to let me go?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
I take a step back, crossing my arms and leaning against the wall behind me.
Sam plants his hands on his hips and hangs his head as he sighs. Now his face is completely hidden behind his hat. The black hand with bright turquoise Hawkeyes letters taunts me. The only team colors I ever want to wear.
“I care about you, Briggs, just like every other player out there on my ice. And I will do anything and everything in my power to help and encourage you to be the best player on the ice and the best man you can be off it, but I’m not sure how much I can cover for you anymore. Phil is starting to hear the constant gossip, and you know he likes a ‘clean’ franchise. No riff-raff, no scandals, and no players showing up for morning skate with bloodshot eyes and a hangover from the night before.’
“I know,” I say, remembering that I do owe this team a lot.
This was my home team as a kid. The place my father used to bring me when I was little to watch men like, Sam Roberts and Bex Townsend, our coach, play the greatest sport on earth. This stadium is where I fell in love with hockey and told my dad at the young age of four years old that I would be a pro hockey player one day.
Then eighteen years later, Phil signed me as a rookie, and I’ve gotten to play my entire career in my home state with my home team. It just doesn’t get better than that as a pro athlete. I like to think that this will be the team and the stadium where I’ll retire. My number being retired by the organization, and my jersey hung up in the stadium right next to Bex Townsend’s, a Hawkeyes alumnus and now our coach.
But if Dixie leaks this false information, and the public decides to believe her, then my dreams will be ripped from me, and the franchise will have no choice but to drop me in hopes that they can still save themselves by cutting association with me. No other team will want to touch me, and I’ll be forced into early retirement.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. “Fine.”
“So, you’ll do it with a smile on your face and do everything that the PR team and Tessa tell you to do. No drinking until this thing is over, and no seeing other women. No more scandals, Briggs.”
Jesus, what in the hell am I signing up for?
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’ll treat Autumn with the respect she deserves since she’s saving all of our asses and giving up her life for months to pretend to be your girlfriend.”
Seems like she’s giving up more than her fair share, but why…? What’s in it for her?
Does she pity me?
Does she feel obliged since our parents are close and I’m her brother’s best friend?
Or… fuck. Does she believe the Dixie and thinks that our fake relationship is the only way to protect me?
“I will, sir,” I say.
“All right. Get out of here,” he says, giving a flick of his wrist. “And stop off at Penelope’s desk. She has those apartment keys for you.”
“Yes, sir,” I groan, turning and walking out of his office.
Penelope stops typing as she sees me walk out of her dad’s office. I close his door behind me and then turn to my left and walk over to her desk.
“He lives,” Penelope jokes.
“Barely,” I mumble.
“Here you go.” She hands me a large envelope.
I look inside to find a packet of information that looks to be the instructions for entering the building, contact information for the on-sight maintenance dept., things like that, and a lanyard to scan in for the private gated underground parking lot and a key to the apartment.
“Where’s Autumn’s key?”
Penelope smiles and looks over at the envelope sitting at the end of her desk in an “Outbound Mail” basket and gives it a little pat.
“The courier service should be here anytime to pick it up and take it to her office today.”
“Oh.”
Why did I care that Penelope was having it delivered to Autumn instead of me having to be the one to make arrangements to meet up with Autumn to get her things? I have no idea. But it was a fleeting thought, and now my concern moved on to how in the hell Autumn and I are going to pull this off when we don’t know the adult versions of each other. And damn, did I ever really know the kid version of her anyway? It’s been so long since we were all kids running around the neighborhood, and although I don’t remember everything, I’m sure I wasn’t all that accommodating to her. Not like she’s being to me.
My number one concern, though, is still the same. When will Isaac show up to beat my face in, how bad will he beat it in, and will our friendship survive this?
