Cocky Score (The Hawkeyes Hockey Series)
Cocky Score: Chapter 2

“I don’t get it. They look like a bunch of overstuffed teddy bears on a pair of thin-ass skates. It defies physics. But also… why in the hell are they wearing shorts?” Erika, the owner of the public relations firm I work for, asks, standing across the conference table from me and opening up her box of pork potstickers from the lunch she paid to have delivered for this meeting.

I chuckle while pulling up a delicious bite of yaki soba noodles with a pair of chopsticks up to my mouth. It’s lunch time in our office, but I’m overjoyed to have been asked to work through my lunch, barricaded in the conference room with my boss Derek and the firm’s owner, Erika. She is resolved that we don’t leave this office until we replace a solution for the new client she got yesterday.

The flutters of excitement fill my stomach at the chance for a second time to show my skill set at the PR firm that hired me right out of college five years ago. As a Junior Public Affairs Associate for Elite PR and Associates, it’s not often someone with my limited time here is given the opportunity to brainstorm with the owner of the company. But after I came up with the last solution to link a well-known A-lister actor, who had a bad boy image that was keeping him out of the roles he wanted, and paired him with a squeaky clean up-and-coming star actress who was trying to break out from her childhood star rolls, it shot both of their careers into overdrive. The actor got the lead role in a high-grossing rom-com movie that he would never have gotten booked for if the director hadn’t thought that his new actress girlfriend hadn’t softened his edges, and she got booked in for an action-hero movie that her fluffy kid’s network image would have never landed her.

They faked an amicable breakup after the right amount of time as a couple and are now both getting booked in huge movies. Agents started booking up with us when they saw what we could do, and we gained several big-name clients, putting Elite PR and Associates on the map, although it was doing well before that.

With my big success, Erika is giving me another chance to prove that my idea wasn’t a lucky fluke and that I have what it takes to be in this business.

“Okay, I agree, the uniforms don’t make a ton of sense, but it’s not as if they hired a world-renowned designer like Christian Dior to design a standardized uniform for hockey players. And for the purpose of accuracy, I think it’s important to set the record straight that those aren’t shorts. They’re called ‘pants’, but they’re actually pads,” I tell her, placing my half-eaten box of noodles down on the large, lacquered cherry wood stain table and reaching across Derek, who’s sitting to my right, for bottled water just barely out of reach.

His charming smile lights up at my failed attempt to ascertain the H₂O, and his green eyes sparkle back at mine. His jet-black hair is combed back and to perfection, like always. He’s always put together, and he eludes confidence that is incredibly attractive in a man.

His muscular, tanned forearm peeks out from underneath his rolled-up button-down sleeve as he reaches for one of the fancy bottles that Erika likes to keep in the conference rooms for clients. The bottle label showcases a tropical backdrop that hints to the fact that they’re overpriced… and they are, but the water is quite refreshing.

It’s probably the placebo effect, but I swear the water does taste better than the bottled waters I buy in the coffee shop downstairs in the building’s lobby.

I unscrew the bottled water and take a sip.

“Pads for what?” she asks, her chopsticks frozen in her hand.

“Their junk, for one,” I tell her.

Erika snickers as she takes another bite of her food, but Derek grimaces, looking away from me. That was weird. Does he not like the word junk?

I turn back toward Erika. “The pads are there to protect from puck hits. And also, I assume, from slicing open their femoral vein with one swift kick from an opposing player’s skate blade.”

Erika’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my God… could you image if the blade sliced a little higher and sliced off his—”

“Can we stop talking about hockey players’ dicks, please?” Derek interrupts, flashing a quick glance my way, then rubs his forehead, messing up his perfectly styled hair just a little, and stares down at the blank notepad he uses in meetings for client notes. Does it make him uncomfortable to hear me speak about hockey players’ ‘equipment’? It wasn’t as if I was referring to it in a sexual context. After only a handful of dates with Derek, we still haven’t gotten to the part where I see his ‘equipment’, but since we work for the same firm and he’s my direct supervisor, we agreed not to rush anything. Or rather, I strongly suggested it, and he reluctantly agreed.

Whatever. We’re working, and I don’t need my concentration focused on office romance issues while my career aspirations are on the line. This over-analyzation of whether or not Derek is bothered by me discussing pro players’ dicks would be better served in my bathtub, filled to the brim with bubbles, and my next smutty book read on my TBR all queued up.

I shake my thoughts, putting a bookmark in my brain to make sure I remember where I left off so I can revisit this thought process later tonight.

“Okay, Erika, hit us with it. What are we looking at here?” Derek asks, his eyebrows slightly downturned, his usual indicator that he’s ready for business.

He takes a drink of his own overpriced bottle of water he grabbed earlier, his expensive designer watch catching the light of the new globe chandeliers Erika had installed last year to replace the ones that came with the building originally but were probably designed for a police station interrogation room, not a multi-million-dollar public relations conference room where big contract deals are made.

He quickly scarfs down the rest of his spicy tuna roll and then starts jotting down notes.

“Well,” Erika says, sifting through the folder she collected from the client yesterday, “the client is none other than The Hawkeyes.”

“The hockey team here in Seattle?” I ask my eyes widening in surprise and excitement.

Work and play all in one? Oh yeah, I’m going to rock this one. I cross my fingers under the table. Please let this project come with home game tickets.

For research… obviously.

“Yes, why? Are you familiar with them?” she asks.

You could say that. My brother’s best friend plays for them.

“I’ve gone to a few games,” I admit, shying away from following the team religiously. After all, my family eats, breathes, and sleeps hockey. And not only that, but Briggs’s parents still only live one block from my parents in Walla Walla, Washington. They watch most games at my parents’ house.

Even though the last time I saw Briggs in person was over five years ago, I see his parents at least once a month during the hockey season when I can make the four-hour drive to Walla Walla. His parents don’t seem to come home much for home games, and I’m always putting in extra hours for work to prove myself, so I haven’t been to a home game since before I graduated from college.

“Perfect! Then I’ll have an inside track on the player,” she gleams.

“The player?” I ask.

“Yep.”

She slides a picture toward the middle of the table where Derek and I can see it.

“Meet our thorn in the side. Briggs Conley.”

My heart jumps at the mention of his name. I hate that my throat instantly clogs. I glance back up at both of them to see if they noticed my reaction, but they’re both analyzing the picture.

Briggs Conley, my brother’s best friend since t-ball days and practically the boy-next-door. He’s 100 percent off-limits but also 100 percent out of my league, and he’d never see me as anything more than the gap-toothed little nuisance that used to follow him and my brother around when we were kids.

Is it hot in here, or is it just me?

I unscrew my bottled water again and take a large gulp to clear my throat.

You’re a goddamn professional, Autumn. Get it together. He’s only a childhood crush.

“Briggs Conley? As in their right-wing?” I ask, willing her to say, “No, it’s a Briggs Conley that plays for The Hawkeyes that you’ve never met, nor accidentally saw his impressive penis one day when your brother pantsed him in front of you and a few of their high school buddies while you were still just a sweet little sixth grader,” but I doubt I’ll get that lucky. My brother later berated me about being around when it happened, but the damage was already done, and I couldn’t unsee that. Let’s just say every penis I’ve ever seen since has fallen short.

“That’s the one. Turns out Briggy boy is the bad boy of their franchise, and he’s gotten himself in his last sticky pickle.”

I hope she actually meant the phrase ‘sticky wicket’ because I’m cringing at her wording. Is she referring to him being in a pickle, or is she actually calling his pickle sticky?

Yuck!

And why in God’s name is it sticky? Do I want to know? Unfortunately, these are the reasons why PR teams get called in, so likely, once Erika briefs us on everything, I will know exactly why his pickle is sticky… and with great detail.

“Tell us more,” Derek says, pulling the picture a little closer to him and thus, closer to me. It seems he’s left the grimacing behind now that we are on to real work.

I look down at Briggs’s team picture and see the familiar dirty blonde, blue-eyed dream with a cocky smirk. Only now, he’s not a boy from my past. He’s a man whose sex appeal has grown exponentially since the last time I saw him.

I take in each feature from top to bottom as if I’m looking over a fine piece of art in a museum, appreciating each brush stroke and each feature. The slight wave to his blonde hair that has always made me wonder if it would be curly if he grew it out, those mischievous eyebrows that seem as though he’s about to tell you a dirty joke, those piercingly beautiful blue eyes that have you melting with just a glance.

My eyes travel down further to his broad shoulders and barrel chest, that sharp jaw line that seems even more pronounced now in his older age.

He’s the boy-next-door that I’m not supposed to crush on, mostly because, like I said before, he’d never go for me with all the drop-dead gorgeous models likely steaming up his DMs, but also because my older brother would disassemble him limb from limb and drop his body in Puget Sound if Briggs ever so much as has a passing thought about me.

As far as I’m concerned, this crush is far too old to fight at this point, and unless I’m watching a hockey game at my parents’ house with Mrs. Conley covering her eyes whenever Briggs gets slammed against the plexiglass, I mostly forget about the boy I grew up with.

This crush is like an old familiar ratted blanket that I’ve had since childhood, stashed in a box on the top shelf of my closet. If I don’t see it, I don’t think about it, but something about knowing it’s still there, neatly folded and tucked away somewhere close, is comforting in some unexplainable way. No sense in parting with it now. And anyway, even if I were a stick-thin model with fake boobs and a bum you could bounce a quarter off, which I have none of, Briggs would still never see me for more than his best friend’s little sister.

I’ve been friend-zoned for a lifetime.

No, wait!

Worse.

I’m ‘little-sister-zoned’… for life. That zone is in a realm so far off this galaxy no one comes to visit.

When Erika’s voice cuts through my thoughts, I abandon the image of the starting right-wing hero, whose stats I could list off by heart.

Okay… that sounds a little obsessive… I can actually list all of the players on the roster and their stats. I’ve never met any of them, but hockey runs deep in my veins.

“The owner of the franchise called me yesterday. They heard about our success with our last account.” Erika smiles over at me.

Derek gives me a little elbow nudge. I can feel myself practically blush.

“They want us to pull a rabbit out of a hat with this one.” She sighs while pulling another picture from the folder and slides it toward us.

My stomach turns, and I almost audibly gasp at the photo in front of me. I think I’m going to be sick when the picture comes into full focus, and I’m staring down at a grainy photo taken in a dark club with an exotic dancer straddling Briggs’s lap. A quick wave of jealousy swirls through my belly. It’s been a while since I’ve felt any type of emotion like that toward any woman in proximity to Briggs because I don’t bother to google him or follow his life in any way anymore. Why keep something in my sight when it will always be too far out of my grasp?

Derek places his index finger on the photo that Erika slid over to us and pulls it closer as he studies the photo. “I see a man at a strip club… I fail to see the shock factor here,” Derek says, looking across the table at Erika and then back over at me sitting to the left of him.

He’s waiting for one of us to correct him as if we know something he doesn’t, but I have no capacity for speaking as my stomach is lodged in my throat.

Erika nods.

“I don’t follow sports that closely, but yes, I believe players have a penance for partying.” I frown at her agreement, but it’s not untrue. “And you’re right. This isn’t newsworthy.”

Phew! Not newsworthy is a good start.

I exhale the breath I was holding in with Erika’s assurance.

“Okay, so what am I looking at here?” Derek asks, pulling the picture up in his hand and holding it closer to his face as if he’s looking for Where’s Waldo?

“The dancer in that photo claims that Briggs and two other players took advantage of her without consent in one of the private rooms during a private dance that Mr. Conley paid for.”

“Oh my God! Please tell me that’s not true,” I spit out without thinking.

Erika gives a tight-lipped nod. “I’m afraid that it is…”

I look over at the conference room door. There is an instant need to run out of the room, lock myself in the ladies’ bathroom stall, dial up my brother Isaac, demand he flies home from Vegas, and slap the sanity back into his oldest friend.

I feel like I might lose my lunch with how my stomach is turning with this news.

Erika continues, “But the accusations are the only true portion of this story.”

My head spins away from the conference room door and back up at her so fast I just about give myself whiplash. “What?”

Now I’m more confused than ever.

Derek shoots at look at Erika. “She’s claiming they gang—”

Erika raises her hand to stop him, “We are not uttering those words and putting that into the universe.” She huffs. “One of the players she calls into question wasn’t even there that night. He was at a dance recital for his two-year-old daughter with over a hundred guests in attendance, along with his nanny, who could all provide an alibi and social media timestamps that make his involvement impossible. And we have surveillance photos of the second player leaving the club over an hour before the supposed event occurred.”

“So, it’s just Conley?” he asks.

“Yes. The Hawkeyes’s legal team received an anonymous package last week with surveillance pictures that the club owner originally refused to hand over. It’s images of inside the main room of the club. That’s where that photo came from.” She points to the photo of the dancer on Brigg’s lap. “And it also shows an incapacitated, heavily inebriated Conley passed out on a couch in the main portion of the club over an hour before she claimed he ordered a private lap dance for him and his friends.” She pulls out the picture of Briggs, alone, passed out, face down on the pleather couch.

I can’t even let myself wonder how many years of bodily fluids were attached to that section of couch that Briggs has plastered on the right side of his face. “His general manager later dragged him out.” She looks down at her notes. “A Sam Roberts of The Hawkeyes, when the bartender called him to come get Briggs from the club.”

“How does the bartender have the phone number for the GM?” I ask, not that this is even close to the most important question of the day.

“Evidently this isn’t the first time that Briggs has been dragged out of the club this season. The bartender has the GM on speed dial. Sam also said that he asked the bartender about Briggs’s behavior before whisking him off, and the bartender said he had been passed out for hours. However, the bartender has since quit, and The Hawkeyes can’t replace his whereabouts to corroborate Sam Roberts’s story.”

“Oh God,” I whisper, shutting my eyes and rubbing my forehead, deciphering if I should call my brother and replace out if he knows that Briggs is back to his sophomore year of college, drinking too much and partying, narrowing losing his full-ride scholarship, all because his college girlfriend broke up with him… or at least, that’s what I assume since she disappeared off his social media account around the same time. But I can’t call and warn my brother because this information is all in confidence. Erika has already signed a Do Not Disclose contract, and therefore, I can’t share any information I receive in these meetings. However, Briggs’s reputation precedes him, and I myself have been seeing more and more tabloid pics of Briggs being the party animal he was in college. Isaac confronted him years ago, and it seemed like it straightened him out. Maybe Isaac needs to come back in again.

“You seem to be taking this unusually hard. You okay?” Derek asks, rubbing my back. I glance up to see if Erika notices his affectionate concern, but she’s looking through more items she wants to pass on to us. Not that I think she would care. Office romance isn’t all that frowned upon at this firm. There are a few married couples that work here and one or two couples that have been dating for years. Although a few dates hardly seem as though I could consider Derek and I dating, since I report directly to him, he’s more than just a coworker. Not sure how she’ll feel about it.

“Yeah, I mean no, I’m fine. It’s just that… well, I kind of know him.”

“Kind of know him how?” Derek turns to look at me as if not believing that I know a pro sports athlete.

“We grew up together. His parents still live right down the road from mine.”

Derek’s facial expression changes from questioning the likelihood of my claim to now looking a little uneasy with this new information.

Erika’s head perks up from the folder that she’s rifling through. “Oh. Do you need to be taken off this project? I can replace someone to take your spot,” Erika asks, looking at me with compassion as if this project might actually cause me distress.

“Definitely not,” I say, straightening my spine and looking as professional as I can be. I’m not going to let Briggs’s binders be the reason I get taken off a case. “I’m up for this.”

“Okay.” She nods, a little hesitant.

Derek eyes me for a little longer, and I swear I see the corner of his eye twitch, but I can’t be sure. He glances away from me, looking down at his notepad and then his hand slides off my back and picks up his pen, immediately jumping back into writing notes. He dives into professional mode, and I barely have time to process if something just happened that bothered him. I’ll have to wait to replace out if the fact that I know Briggs is a problem for him. Not that it matters. I can’t unknow Briggs.

Unless that little light thingy they had in Men In Black is real, and you can erase unsavory memories.

“The stripper’s lying, then. Sounds like there’s no story here. What do they need us for?” Derek asks, looking down at his notes as if he’s making sure he isn’t missing anything and then looks back up at Erika.

Erika pulls more documents from the folder and then pulls a photocopy of something and slides it across the table to us.

Derek and I both lean in to look over more documents that she starts passing our way as she speaks.

“The dancer is suing the franchise for the alleged attack. And although I’m usually all for believing the woman in this type of situation, the evidence clearly shows that neither Briggs nor the men she claims were in that private room with her were anywhere near it during the time she claims the attack took place.”

“So?” Derek says. “It’s a wrongful suit. It’ll get thrown out immediately.”

Erika looks over at us, “Likely, yes. But since the evidence came out, she has backtracked and is now claiming only Briggs was involved. This makes probability a lot harder to deny considering he was in the building at the time.”

“But the picture shows he was passed out on camera until the GM pulled him out of the club,” Derek says.

“Yes, but that picture is of one moment in time. It doesn’t mean that she got the time wrong, and it happened after this picture was taken,” Erika says.

She slides over the smoking gun. A receipt tab showing that Briggs did, in fact, pay for a lap dance that night, but wow, is it just me, or are lap dances expensive? You could practically pay for a first-class plane ticket to the Maldives for that kind of money.

“Holy shit! Prices have gone up,” Derek blurts out.

Erika and I both look at him with surprised looks on our faces. It’s not as if I’m surprised he’s gotten a lap dance before, only that he just blurted it out at work… in front of his female boss.

He looks at me first, his eyes locking on mine. “It was once at a bachelor party.”

Sure… once.

“Okay,” I reassured him with a nod and a small smile.

Because it is fine. I’m not judging him for a consenting lap dance that he paid for. We’re not even officially together. It was only a few dates.

The lap dance that has me concerned has nothing to do with Derek.

My mind is reeling. On the one hand, the pictures prove Briggs didn’t do it, and paying for a lap dance isn’t illegal even if the price seems astronomical, but how he got himself in this position… I’m not so sure that my lifelong crush will survive this.

“There still isn’t enough evidence that she would win her case since it clearly shows Briggs never received the lap dance while passed out, but what our client is concerned about now is the damage that will be done by just the mere mention of any foul play by a large jock of their organization against a vulnerable woman.”

Derek nods. “Understandably so. The media will have the public burning that stadium down to rubble if they think this occurred.”

Erika has finally finished taking out the documents, and at least I know there are no more surprises left in her Mary Poppins folder of horror.

“Exactly. Their lawyer has advised them to settle out of court and pay her off instead of dragging the franchise’s name through the mud… and Conley’s,” she adds, “but they are still concerned that she might leak the story anyway.”

“Which they could sue her for; defamation of character,” I chime in, becoming more and more defensive over the team I spend my weekends screaming over in front of my parents’ eighty-inch TV screen and a stack of hot wings, mozzarella sticks and Mrs. Conley’s killer margaritas.

If this lie comes out, the pain it will cost his parents will be immeasurable.

“True. But again, their image is the thing they care about more than money. A good opinion is hard to get back once it’s lost. And they feel they can recover the cost if they can keep butts in the seats.”

“Where do we come in?” I ask, already chomping at the bit to protect my beloved team… and maybe Briggs. He’s been reckless, though, and maybe this is the wake-up call he needs.

“That’s the question they’re paying us a lot of money to answer. Conley is one of their biggest stars and one of their best players. They want his image protected. How do we get ahead of this?” She walks over to the whiteboard. “Throw out whatever comes to mind. No idea is a bad idea. Let’s get them all out on the board.”

Derek jumps in first. “We could throw out several different rumors. So that if the stripper decides to drop her own, it drowns in a sea of them.”

Erika writes it on the board as she’s thinking through it.

“That’s worked for other clients in the past, and it’s a good suggestion. I’m not sure it works here since they are trying to save face, and more rumors could start to build a fire, but we’ll keep it on the list for now.”

She looks over at me. “What do you have for me, Autumn?”

I think quickly through the possibilities out loud.

“Protecting image… improving image… keeping the public in your favor…”

I drum my fingers against the table as I think.

“Oh! How about a charity event… or better yet, several.”

“Like what? Give me specifics,” Erika asks, facing the whiteboard, ready to write down whatever I call out.

“Doggy adoption at the local pound.”

“Okay…” Erika says, jotting it down quickly.

“Car wash to raise funds for underprivileged kids’ school supplies,” Derek calls out, looking at me for confirmation.

I smile and nod, but I suddenly can’t stop comparing Derek to Briggs.

Where Derek is tall, Briggs is taller by several inches.

Where Derek is muscular, Briggs is so much bigger, his presence demanding.

And where Derek is confident… well, all I have to do is watch Briggs skate out on the ice at the beginning of the game, and I can tell that Derek was nothing on cocky-confident Briggs Conley.

Is any of that relevant to me?

Absolutely not, because I’m the best friend’s little sister.

Erika is nodding, too, as she writes it down on the board.

“Open rink days for kids to come to skate with their favorite players,” I call out.

“Oooh, I like that,” Erika says. “I’m going to suggest that one to them even if we don’t go this route. A great way to strengthen The Hawkeyes’s presence in the community and introduce more kids to the sport. Future players or future fans, either way, a win.”

“Okay, good, good. I like all of these, but these suggestions focus more on the team than the player. And although I’m going to suggest they implement these during the negotiations with the dancer’s lawyer to keep a positive image out there, they came to us to ask for help on how to improve the party image of their player. Give me something for that.”

Derek and I both stare back at each other for a minute.

“Well…” I start thinking out loud. “He’s a notorious party boy, right?”

“Right,” Erika says, even though I know the man well enough to have seen it firsthand through the years.

“And the reason people will be keen to believe the dancer’s claim is because Briggs is known as the wild one of The Hawkeyes.”

“Exactly. He needs to be tamed,” Erika agrees.

I think about her words for a second, and then it clicks, “Yes! Tamed. Precisely.”

“Great,” Derek says with zero excitement, his eyes void of interest in this line of thinking. “How do you tame a multi-millionaire playboy who has women throwing themselves at him and people inviting him to party every week, hoping he gets drunk and makes a scene?”

“You make him settle down,” Erika adds.

“I’m sure he’ll go for that,” Derek says sarcastically.

“Not make him settle down… create an illusion that he has,” I counter.

“Genius!” Erika beams and writes it on the board.

FAKE GIRLFRIEND, the lettering reads up on the board. I gulp down the thought of seeing Briggs in picture after picture with some bleach-blonde beauty, day after day, whether it’s real or fake.

“With who?” Derek asks.

“It can’t be the usual types he’s seen with,” Erika reasons.

My ears perk up. Erika’s right. Another buxom blonde with nudes out for any dude to purchase won’t work. It will only add to the image that he’s a playboy and the relationship is temporary.

“Agreed. She needs to be sweet… wholesome,” I add.

“Girl next door vibes…” Erika continues the line of thought.

“Kind of girl he would take home to Mom,” I say.

“You mean you?” Derek asks, looking down at his phone as if he had already clocked out on our conversation. He smiles to himself and then looks up, a little surprised when he realizes he said that out loud.

I smile at the thought that maybe he said that out loud because he’s already thought I’m the kind of girl he’d take home to meet his mom, but this thing with us is still new, and I’m not sure how I feel about where this is going. Then I hear Erika practically screech with excitement.

“You! Of course! You’re perfect.”

My eyes flash over to her to replace the biggest smile I think I’ve ever seen on Erika’s face.

“Wait, hold on, what?” My eyelids flutter rapidly as I’m sure I misunderstood her.

Me? Fake date Briggs?

Derek stands up immediately. “Now wait a second, I didn’t mean her,” he says to Erika while pointing at me.

“No! You’re absolutely right. She’s the ideal candidate. Plus, she’s the only one we can trust to keep quiet about it being fake!”

My eyes widen to the size of saucers. She can’t be serious.

“How am I the ideal candidate?” I ask, my eyebrows knitting together.

This is a bad idea. My brother will kill him, assuming Briggs will even agree to fake date me, which he won’t.

“No way. This won’t work. We need to replace someone else,” Derek demands, still standing and leaning inward, taking the stance of someone ready to stand their ground and battle it out.

Erika glances at him briefly but then ignores his demands and looks back at me to answer my question, “He already knows you. You have history to build on. You know the team and what we’re trying to accomplish, plus… you already told me that you grew up on the same street. You are the girl next door.”

“I can’t, Erika.”

“Why? Are you dating someone?”

My eyes shift to Derek, and he’s looking at me too, but the look of panic on his face has me not sure how to answer.

I look at her. “It’s not serious.”

I feel him tense beside me, but I wasn’t sure how to answer the question because he and I aren’t serious. It was a few dates with no agreement or understanding. We have no relationship titles; we’ve never agreed not to see other people… and we haven’t had sex.

“Good, because your job is serious, and this client could mean a lot of money for this firm if we get this right and they keep us on retainer. If you land this client… I’ll give you the client relations manager promotion and the sparkly new corner office to go with it.” She wiggles her eyebrows a little in an attempt to entice me, and it’s working.

My heart races at the idea, and a surge of energy rushes through me.

I knew Erika was creating this new client relations manager position because Elite PR and Associates is growing so rapidly that she can’t handle onboarding and caring for each client at the level she wants to. She needs help, but I never thought to throw my hat in the ring for it. It’s several years still out of my reach. I have so much yet to learn and to prove.

How this is going to fly with Briggs and my brother… I don’t know. But right now, that isn’t my problem.

“I’ll do it.”