Page 9 of Brooklynaire
“Employment forms?” Her mind is bounding along, trying to keep up. “W-4? And I-9?” Had he really just hired her?Seriously?
“Right.” He stands up. “Good stuff. Stew? Can you make that happen?” He’s about to wander away, she can feelit.
But it doesn’t matter. His disinterest in doing a thorough interview is working to heradvantage.
“Dude,” Stew says, steering him away. “Hold up. There’s a few details you skippedover.”
Shit. Our girl holds herbreath.
“Salary,” Stew mutters, and Nate makes a reply. Stew nods. “What about stockoptions?”
Nate’s nose wrinkles. “Nah. Not for clericalstaff.”
Whatever, Rebecca thinks. She isn’t really sure what stock options are, but what she needs right now is a real paycheck,anyway.
Both men turn around again in a minute. Nate gives her one more quick smile. “Okay. I have to get back to work. But your first job is to order yourself a computer. Matty will give you our vendor login.” He waves toward one of the Ping-Pong players. “And fill out those forms. Welcome aboard, RebeccaRowley.”
3
Nate
April 22, Brooklyn
As I approachthe locker-room door, I can hear the hum of conversation within. Someone’s phone is blaring a hip-hop tune, so my hockey players have to shout their jokes and challenges over the music to beheard.
“This is as far as I go,” my assistant Lauren grumbles beside me. She stops in the hallway about ten paces from the door, crossing her arms against the body of her designer dress and shooting me a pissy glare. Just in case I missed the fact that the Brooklyn Bruisers’ training facility is her least favorite place on theplanet.
“Fair enough,” I say lightly. “I’ll only be a couple ofminutes.”
She makes a shooing motion with her hand.Get on with italready.
I give her a wink, and her scowl deepens. Then I push open the locker-room door, leaving her there tostew.
All conversation ceases within seconds, and the music stops, too. One by one, two dozen of the world’s most talented hockey players fall into a respectful silence, giving me their fullattention.
And isn’t that just a kick in the pants? This math nerd from the Midwest owns a hockey team, one that’s tied 2-2 in the first round of theplayoffs.
I let the moment of quiet linger as I pace slowly across the carpet of the oval-shaped room. I walk up to—but notover, because my players are superstitious—the Brooklyn Bruisers logo in the middle of the carpet. I look down at those purple Bs and grin. The pundits said it couldn’t be done. That I couldn’t turn the team around. We had coaching problems and salary-cap issues and ticket sales were circling thedrain.
Notanymore.
Lifting my gaze, I meet each player’s eyes as I take them in. Their hair is damp from the showers they needed after my coach gave them their morning ass-kicking. But they look powerful. They lookready. Beacon, my goalie, leans against the wall looking healthy and confident. O’Doul, my captain, looks strong and lively. “You guys,” I say, smiling, because I can’t help myself. “You’re killing it, and I’m soimpressed.”
I get a few smiles for thiscompliment.
“I’m not going to stand here and tell you how much the next three games matter, because you already know. I’m a cocky guy, but I’m not arrogant enough to tell you how to play hockey. That’s your coach’sjob.”
The smiles getwider.
“But I will say this—you’re headed back into enemy territory tomorrow. You’re facing the team with the best record in the division. They’re pretty sure they can knock you out of the playoffs in the next two games. And with twenty-thousand of their fans screaming at you in the stadium, it would be tempting to believe them. But you’re not goingto.”
I take a breath in all that silence. We’re standing in the world-class training facility I built for this team on the edge of the Brooklyn Navy Yards development. My players enjoy a state-of-the-art rink and the best medical care that money can buy. But that’s not why they made the playoffs. And I want to make sure they knowit.
“You beat DC three times already this season, and all because you believed you could. Faith is the difference between the winner and the loser in every contest. I can’t do what you do. My slapshot is just a little less impressive than yours. But I’ve had plenty of experience with people telling me I can’t do the shit I wantto.”
Trevi, my rookie forward, nods. And his friend Castro regards me with serious eyes. These men know that we’re more alike than different. At the exclusion of all else, we’ve all dedicated thousands of hours of our time to ourcraft.
“There are smarter guys than me still working grunt jobs in Cupertino or Palo Alto. They have the brains, but not the guts to risk everything on their own ideas. I meet these guys all the time. Ihirethese guys to work 60 hours a week for me. They get a nice salary and benefits. But they don’t ever get to say,I built thismyself.”
