Page 10 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “When’s the meeting?”
Jessa cringes. “Right now.”
“Right now?” My voice comes out as a shriek. “Jessa!”
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! But you have to go. Please? I talked about your plan like it was going to happen… and now, it might be.”
“Girrrrrrl.” I glare at her. “You’re lucky you’re adorable, you know that?”
Jessa gives me a guilty grin. “Thank you, Juliet. You’re saving my ass.”
I have exactly twenty minutes to get dressed and drive to the arena. I race to my closet and pull out my usual conservative armor. Black blazer, black slacks, white blouse buttoned to my throat. I make sure that there’s not even a hint of sexuality; this is the outfit that I want the team managers to meet me in. I want my qualifications to speak for themselves and have absolutely nothing to do with my tits or my ass.
It’ll be the opposite of my interview to work at Foxies, which was less than a minute long. The manager took one look at me and practically threw a uniform at my head.
As I’m plotting revenge, Jessa intercepts me at the bedroom door.
“Wait. That makes you look like you’re going to a funeral. What about this?” She holds up a black dress that actually shows some shape, with a neckline that hints at cleavage without being inappropriate.
“Absolutely not.” I cross my arms.
“Juliet, you’re supposed to be convincing them you could be someone’s fiancée. At least look like you’ve heard of romance. You've gotta sell it a little.”
I heave a sigh. Against my better judgment, I put on the dress and top it with the blazer for safety. I tell myself I can take the blazer off if I need to look more approachable. More wifely.
The drive to the arena is a blur of panic and half-formed strategies. When we arrive, I’m thrilled to be walking through the team offices. It feels like being close to magic, like I’m finally where I belong instead of serving wings in a glorified bikini.
That feeling lasts about thirty seconds.
When we walk into the conference room, Hunter Huxley is already there. He’s sitting at the far end of the table looking like I kicked his puppy and then set his truck on fire. His stormy gray eyes lock onto mine with an expression that clearly says this is all my fault somehow.
I’m introduced to a room full of powerful people. Jimbo Greene, the team owner, is a paunchy man who looks like he eats smaller businesses for breakfast. Ivy Prescott, an icy blonde who introduces herself as the crisis communications director, and who’s eyeing me like I’m an interesting specimen.
The tall, blond-but-balding general manager Jared Duke shakes my hand, whose once-white polo shirt has almost certainly seen better days. Coach Damian Cross towers in his black Havoc windbreaker, tall, Black, and built like he could still drop gloves if he had to. He obviously won some old fight that broke his nose.
The room carries a restless energy. Every man here knows last season was a disaster. Half the roster is gone, management burned the place down to the studs, and nobody is sure if what’s left will hold together.
Cross crosses his arms and glares at the table. “We are not repeating last year. I don’t care who’s still shell-shocked about the roster cuts. We fix this now or we’re all out of jobs.”
Jared leans back in his chair, expression carved from stone. “The locker room is thin. Guys are second-guessing every shift.”
Ivy clears her throat. “The rookies look terrified. It seems like everyone has serious whiplash from half the team being let go last year.”
“We had to clean house.” Jimbo looks around the room. “The Havoc was on a losing streak for the last four years. Jared and I made the hard decision to fire most of the vets and bring in a bunch of rookies. We also replaced all the assistant coaches. That’s why Coach Ryan Haart is here with us now. Not only does having a clean slate free up a lot of room in our budget to make moves, but it lets Coach Cross rebuild the team essentially from scratch.”
Ryan Haart, the dark-haired assistant coach, looks way too amused by this whole situation. He has a hockey build too, like all the men in this room aside from Jimbo, and is probably younger than thirty-five.
I recognize Haart’s name from somewhere. He undoubtedly used to play professional hockey. It seems like the team management brought out the big guns for this meeting.
Coach Cross fidgets. “We kept Huxley because he has a proven track record of winning games. But damn it, Huxley, you can’t be fighting fans. We have to figure something out, stat.”
Am I the something? I wait for Jimbo to address me, anxiety creeping in.
Hunter doesn’t say a word. He sits in the corner like a coiled spring, jaw tight, every inch of him daring someone to tell him he’s the problem. More than anyone else, people have blamed him for the team’s collapse and rebirth.
I open my mouth to explain that this is all a misunderstanding, that I never actually volunteered for anything, but Jimbo cuts me off before I can get a word out.
“Now, Ms. Monroe. The hockey league is already calling, talking about a ten-game suspension for Hunter. Sponsors are calling, complaining,” he says, showing the people in the room. “So we all had a meeting about last night’s incident. And when Ivy told us your idea…”
