Page 12 of Pucking One Night Stand
“Good morning, can I help you?”
I reach over, digging through my tote bag, thank God I shoved my temporary ID in there. “Oh, hi,” I slide the card toward him. “I’m starting this morning. Cassy McCullum. New Media and Communications Manager.”
His eyes dart from the ID to my face, then back to the ID like it’s suddenly turned into a live grenade.
“M... McCullum?” he stammers, already sweating. “Not head coach McCullum’s...”
“Yes.” I cut him off before he starts quoting my father’s stats.
He freezes for a moment, blinking like I just confessed to being Queen of England. Then, there it is, his gaze starts drifting south.
Nope. Don’t even think about it, buddy.
I don’t say it, but my glare is loud. He snaps to attention and drops his cigarette like I’ve just issued a direct order. The barrier lifts with a mechanical groan.
“Please drive to the left and park in the staff parking area, then at the main entrance, just swipe your temporary ID, Ms. McCullum.” His mouth is still parted as he hands my ID back. Still staring.
I don’t respond. I'm used to it. I take my ID, roll the window up, and drive straight through the gap, wondering how that guy manages to walk and breathe at the same time.
The lot to the left is quite full, but I swing into a spot, kill the engine, and sit back for a second. Deep breath. Shoulders back.
You’ve got this, Cass.
Grabbing my laptop case and tote, I step out into the warm Vegas morning and head for the arena entrance. Flagpoles line the walkway outside, NHL logos flapping beside the Aces team colors.
A faint hum vibrates from inside, steady and low. The scent hits me before the door does, rubber flooring, synthetic ice, and a mix of industrial cleaning products.
I reach the main doors and swipe my ID at the scanner. Beep. Green light. Soft click. I’m in.
Okay. From what I remember, Media and Communications is down on the right.
The cold air smacks against my skin as I step in, and the building pulses with activity.
To the right, the hallway stretches out long and bright. Staff are everywhere, trainers wheel massive equipment carts, people in polos and headsets zip past, and everyone moves like they’ve got three deadlines and no patience.
The arena itself is massive, every inch buzzing with energy. Behind glass windows to the left, I catch a glimpse of the rink where the ice is already being prepped. A Zamboni glides across it like it owns the place. Overhead, banners from past wins hang like trophies.
I keep walking.
After a few minutes, I reach it.
The Media and Communications Department sits behind a sleek, glass-fronted entrance, with bold red, silver and black branding stretched across the panels. The gleaming Vegas Aces logo takes up an entire section of the wall, mounted just to the side of the doorway.
Digital banners above flash through a loop, upcoming games, major sponsorships, and photo ops. Below that are giant posters of the team’s star players. One of them may or may not have had his dick in my mouth last night.
Come on, stop it!
The media entrance is busy, staff flowing in and out, arms full of press kits, phones glued to ears as they bark out interview schedules. I step inside.
Easy. This job is going to be a walk in the park.
I keep going past the press briefing room. The department vibrates with energy, open workspaces are cluttered with coffee cups, monitors flash game highlights from Saturday’s win against the Anaheim Titans, and someone mutters about engagement stats while someone else yells about embargo times.
Emails are flying, and social posts are probably being drafted in real time. It’s like a war room, if the war were for likes, clicks, and post-game quotes.
Then—
“Ms. McCullum.”
