Page 15 of Crossing the Top Line

I know enough about Logan McQueen from the research my department did for the press package. He was a first overall draft pick for the Mystic a little over a decade ago, and his first year with the team, they won the championship. Everyone was expecting him to get better with age, and for a while, he did. That is, until he was checked into the boards and suffered a career-ending spinal injury. He disappeared from the public eye for a long time, popping up again to coach college hockey for University of Michigan. I went to the games while I attended, and he taught his same intense style to the kids playing under him. He churned out first-round draft picks like the Duggars popped out kids, which is how he ended up here as the youngest coach in the league’s history.

My thoughts are interrupted as Coach finally notices me and comes skating over to the bench. I’m elevated slightly from the surface of the ice, but even with that assist, McQueen is almost a full six inches taller than me. I’ve seen his pictures, but this is the first time I’ve been close enough to really look at him. He’s half a dozen years older than me, but there’s a wisdom in his dark green eyes that extends beyond his years. Gray dusts his brown hair at the temples, adding to the distinguished air of authority that surrounds him like a second skin.

“We haven’t been introduced, but I’m Tori Strauss. I work for Demetrius in the Public Engagement department,” I say, slapping on an extra charming smile as I extend the hand not clutching my equipment bag for him to shake.

He sheds a glove and takes my offered hand, his skin warm and calloused against mine. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand stays in contact with mine for a moment longer than would be considered polite. It’s then that I catch a whiff of his scent. It’s strong with spices, allspice, lemon peel, clove, with an undercurrent of apples, like the perfect glass of warm apple cider on a crisp fall afternoon.

I swallow the sudden moisture in my mouth and clear my throat. I’m on the clock, and even if I can’t hear them, I know there are people lining the press tables who could see everything happening right now.

“A few of my coworkers have approached you about putting a mic on one of the players last week,” I start.

“Three of them,” Logan cuts in.

I blink, taken aback. His words are accented. Boston, by the sound of it. And it only serves to make him sound even more annoyed than his low brow and frown would indicate.

I clear my throat again. “Yes, well. I’m here to actually do it,” I say, locking my weak knees and lifting my chin.

“Oh, you are? See, that’s funny. Because I thought I told your coworkers that I won’t have any mics on my guys. It’s a distraction,” he goes on, a sardonic smirk pulling on his lips.

I take a deep breath and regret it instantly. His apple cider scent makes my head spin, and I need to focus. This isn’t the first man, or first alpha, who’s told me what I can’t do in this field. And just like the others, I won’t let him stop me.

“The fans want to be engaged with the team. Hearing the chatter on the ice—”

“The fans can come to games if they want to be engaged with the team,” Logan interjects, face still reading like he’s joking, but his tone dead serious.

He cares about hockey,I remind myself. He loved this team when he played.

“But they haven’t been. Not like when you were here. We have to give them a reason to put their asses in these seats,” I reply, thankful my voice is steady.

Logan pauses at that, giving me another assessing look. He quirks his head to the side, looking me up and down. I don’t flinch, don’t back down.

“Strauss…that name’s familiar,” Logan says thoughtfully.

“I’m Jack Strauss’s daughter.”

I fucking hate this part. Every time I meet a hockey fan, it’s always“Strauss? Wait, you’re not related to Jack Strauss, are you?”And then when I tell them I am, it’s all they ever want to talk about. I rock my weight backward, sighing.

“I’m going to get asses in the seats with the action on the ice,” Logan says after another long pause.

“And I’m going to get people to pay for the seat by making them care about our boys,” I reply, not missing a beat.

Logan pauses again, and I can feel the shift in his attitude like a physical thing. He adjusts forward, really looking at my face for something. He must find it, because he sighs and shakes his head.

“Yous guys aren’t going to give me a minute’s peace until I let you do this, are you?” he says, equal parts amused and defeated.

I grin. “Probably not. I won’t ask for this kind of stuff often, though.”

Logan looks at me again, a flash in his eyes. “All right, but you owe me one,” he relents, pushing off from the bench to skate toward center ice.

I celebrate in my head, sending a prayer of thanks to who or whatever might be listening. I trade in favors all the time, within the organization and with interested parties outside of it. I’ll just add this one to my mental list. But for now, I have to find the right player for today’s activity.

Thankfully, I don’t have to wait long before players start spilling out of the locker room and onto the ice. I smile and wave at familiar faces, inclining my head at the unfamiliar ones. Oliver and Elijah exit the tunnel at about the same time, the shorter man doing a full-on double take before his face splits into a wide grin. Before I can stop him, he’s skating over to me, pulling out his mouth guard.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Did you miss me?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows shamelessly.

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help but laugh. We’re about the same height now, between my position behind the bench and his skates, so I can look him in the eye without having to tilt my head. He’s dressed in one of the purple practice sweaters, his stick wrapped in bright pink tape as he leans on it toward me.

“No, I’m here for work,” I say simply, adjusting the heavy bag of recording equipment on my shoulder.

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