Page 4 of A Major Puck Up

As the general manager for the Boston Bolts, I should feel challenged at work, but the opposite is true, really. Work is easy. I go into an office, make deals, talk to my friends about advertising spots, hang out with my brothers. I love it. I couldn’t ask for more. But it’s not challenging.

I’m not sure a woman or a job has ever challenged me.

“Sir, would you like to go home?” my driver asks.

I cringe. Jacob has been working for me for the last year. He’s young, and I hate that he calls me sir.

“Gavin. Please call me Gavin.” While I’m almost forty, I’m most definitely not a sir.

Jacob laughs. “Right. Gavin. You going into the bar or…?”

With a sigh, I button my jacket and reach for the door.

“I’ll get that.” He scrambles for the door handle, but before he can get out, I grasp his shoulder, pulling him against his seat.

“I’m not an old man. I won’t melt in the rain or slip and break a hip. Go home. I’ll call you when I’m finished or, ya know, walk across the street.” My apartment is literally one block over. And maybe a walk in the rain will get me out of the funk I’m in.

This mood, this bitter taste in my mouth, is it jealousy? God, I’ve never been jealous of a thing in my life. I have more money than I could ever spend, a body cut from stone that I don’t particularly need to work hard for—even at my age—and my face, fuck, my face is beautiful.

And I’m the funny one. I make everyone laugh. Everyone loves me.

I’m just not so sure I love me.

Ignoring that familiar pang in my chest, I push the door open and rush out into the cold rain, reminding myself that it could be worse. It’s March in Boston; I’m lucky it’s not snowing. As I enter the warm bar, music from the piano filters into the night air, instantly draining the tension from my body. I recognize the tune immediately, “Witchcraft” by Frank Sinatra, though the voice is female—alluring, raspy, and somehow magical.

Just inside the doorway, I zero in on the piano in the corner. Where Benny usually sits behind the keys is a woman whose dark hair falls like a curtain, obscuring her face. It’s a deep auburn color and wavy like it was styled for an old Hollywood film, though it spills over her shoulders. Her dress is low cut, and with the way she’s bent over and playing, I get an eyeful of her cleavage.

Utterly mesmerized, I freeze at the door, dripping onto the mat, until the song ends. She stands, and like a magnet, I feel a tug toward her. But before I can approach her, the hostess steps in front of me. “Mr. Langfield, may I take your jacket? I’ve got a spot available near the fire.”

I nod and shrug off my jacket, all the while scanning the bar for the piano player who seems to have disappeared into thin air.

“The piano player—” I say, scratching at my jaw. “She’s new?”

The hostess frowns. “No, Benny’s playing tonight.”

“A woman. There was just a woman playing.”

She tilts her head and hums. “Was there? Sorry, it’s been so busy I didn’t even notice. Maybe he allowed a friend to play. He does that every once in a while.”

Behind her, Benny settles on the bench and strings chords together. Damn, where’d that witchy girl go?

The hostess is right. It seems half of Boston is seeking refuge in my favorite bar tonight. Luckily, my family name and reputation mean that wherever I go, no matter how busy the place, I’ll have a table. And tonight, it’s the best one in the house. A spot at the end of the bar near the fireplace. The perfect spot to settle and warm up. The perfect spot to search for that piano player. She couldn’t have gone far.

As soon as I settle at the bar, the bartender sets a whiskey in front of me—Hanson, of course. A couple of my best friends own the company. I take a sip, and then I pull out my phone and tap on my other best friend’s contact.

I met Ford Hall a decade ago at a concert at my family’s arena. The headliner was one of his artists, though the singer has since fizzled out. Back then, before he signed Lake Paige, the artists Ford worked with at his label weren’t the kind who packed stadiums. These days, his label is the hottest in the industry.

When we met, Ford was divorced, and for years, he stuck to one-night stands and casual hookups like I have. He’s got three kids who he’s totally devoted to.

I just recently convinced Ford to let me offer his younger son, Daniel, a spot on my hockey team. For now, he’s our third-string left winger, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s starting by next season. The kid is a beast on skates and one of my proudest drafts.

That’s the part I love most about my job. Scouting. Looking for talent.

I’m a bit more hands-on than most owners. I attend practices often so I can keep an eye on the guys as they hone their skills. And there’s nothing I love more than the actual game. Watching my team fight it out on the ice. Watching them win.

It’s the best feeling in the world.

Ford’s other son, though? God, that’s going to be awkward. Wonder if he’ll actually show up to the wedding. Maybe he’ll bring his boyfriend.

---