Pucking Sweet: An MMF Workplace Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 3)
Pucking Sweet: Chapter 55

Squaring my shoulders, I march into Mark Talbot’s executive suite. I haven’t stopped to look in a mirror, so I have no idea what I look like, but I know I’m still dripping water on the floor. “Is Mark in? I need to speak to him.”

His personal assistant takes me in with wide eyes. “Did you fall in the fountain?”

“Is that seriously the most plausible explanation you could come up with for why the director of public relations is standing at your desk dripping wet?” I retort. “You think I tripped and fell ass-over-tits into a fountain?”

Slowly, she glances over her shoulder.

“It’s not raining outside,” I shout, making her jump. “Is Mark available, yes or no?”

“Poppy?” Mark pushes his own door open. “I thought I heard you out here—whoa.” He chuckles. “You got caught in the little sprinkler mishap too? I just got off the phone with—”

“Mark, we need to talk,” I say over him. “In private, if you please.”

He steps back, gesturing for me to enter. “Hold my calls, Nadine.”

I sweep past him, my toes squelching in my shoes as I cross from tile to a nice carpet. The far wall of his office is windows looking out over the Jacksonville skyline. I take in his cluttered walls of sports memorabilia—a pair of boxing gloves signed by Muhammad Ali, signed baseballs, pictures of Mark with quarterbacks and golf pros.

I spin around, hands on my hips, and take in the man himself. Mark is tall, late forties, with a head of salt and pepper hair. He looks like he’s a better fit for a Silicon Valley tech presentation than a Hockey Hall of Fame dinner.

“Well, it looks like your office is bone dry,” I say.

He steps around to sit behind his desk. “Yeah. You know, these little hiccups are to be expected when—”

“Let me stop you right there,” I say, holding up a hand. “If you don’t mind, Mark, I’m gonna go ahead and speak, and I’d like for you to listen. And if I cry, please know it’s not because I’m too weak or too emotional to be a working professional capable of running your PR department. It’s just that crying is a stress response to the amount of anger currently coursing through my body.”

I pause, eyes wide. Standing here, soaking wet, in the middle of Mark’s swanky office, a truth hits me. Oh my god, it’s so obvious. It’s been floating right in front of my face for days, weeks. All the signs were there, and I completely freaking missed it? I blink back tears as I look to Mark. “Also, I may be realizing in this exact moment that I’m pregnant, and you’re the first person I’m telling, and I’m definitely feeling pretty emotional about that too.”

Mark clears his throat. “Um…congratu—”

“Don’t you dare,” I say with a shake of my head. “And I’m still speaking.”

“Fine. The floor is all yours, Poppy.”

I take a deep breath. “Right then. Mark Talbot, I accepted this job because you promised to roll out a golden carpet for me. ‘State of the art,’ you said. ‘Top of the line,’ you said. Virtually unlimited expenses, the power to hire in my own team, control over the direction of philanthropy efforts. Do you know what I’ve received so far? A tiny little cupboard of an office with no window, no phones, no internet, and a lingering smell of Funyuns.”

“Okay, well I can address a few of those—”

“Still talking,” I say, raising my voice. “You have lights that flicker, elevators that break, generators that stall out, and sprinklers on the fritz. The house is crumbling, Mark. Fix the freaking house! And I am at least three people short to run my department effectively. I’ve put in the requests to hire, and they’re still languishing in HR. Because of my lack of a functioning office space, and my short-handed staff, I am dropping plates left and right and center. I am missing calls. I’m getting information late. I’m chasing my freaking tail for you, Mark. All of this leaves me feeling completely incompetent when we both know I am anything but. I’m tired, I’m stressed…and I deserve better.”

He watches me, waiting.

“And I’m done,” I say. “Talking, I mean. Not, like, with the job. I’m not quitting…yet.”

Slowly, he nods again. “Right, well I get the feeling an apology at this moment would be—”

“I don’t want you to say you’re sorry, I want you to show you’re sorry,” I say over him.

He’s quiet for another minute, processing. “What exactly do you want, Poppy? Be specific.”

I cross my arms. “Well, for starters, I want a better office, with a proper suite, where I can actually entertain sponsors and donors and members of the press. I want to be able to have a meeting with more than four people without having to reserve the conference room.”

“Done. What else?”

“I want to hire three more people—”

“Done. What else?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I want a fifteen percent raise, effective immediately. And I want an extension on my one-year contract. I want three years minimum, with an option to renegotiate salary based on performance, to include yearly scheduled raises.”

He smirks. “Done. Anything else?”

I consider for a moment. “Yes. I want the night off. There’s a shitstorm brewing between ticketing and VIP services, and they’re trying to make it my problem. But there’s a monsoon in my office, and I need to go take a pregnancy test, and I haven’t sat down to watch the Rays play a game once this entire season. So, I would like to make the ticketing issue your problem…just for tonight. I’ll be back at work tomorrow.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Slowly, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash.

I glare down at it. “What’s that for?”

“For the concession stand,” he replies. “We overcharge the hotdogs. Makes us a killing, but it’s reason two-thousand four-hundred and sixteen why I’m definitely going to hell.”

My frown deepens.

“Take the cash, Poppy. Go home. Dry off. Go to the game tonight, and just have fun. And please know your work is appreciated. I hear you, and I value you. Give me a chance to do better before you take one of the dozens of offers I’m sure you’re already fielding for a new job.”

“Fine.” Stepping forward, I pluck the cash from his hand. I pretend to count it, flicking through the hundred-dollar bills. “I wanted popcorn too.”

Smirking, he fishes in his wallet, pulling out a few more bills. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“I know my worth,” I say, taking five hundred more dollars from his hand.

“That’s good, Poppy. I wish that was a lesson I’d learned at your age. Took me a bit longer, I’m sorry to say.”

“And I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I say, stepping back.

“Don’t be,” he replies with a shrug. “You’ll get everything you asked for. Now, get out of here. Go have fun tonight, I mean it.”

I move over to the door.

“And Poppy,” he calls as I reach for the handle.

I glance over my shoulder.

“Can I say, ‘congratulations’ now?”

I smile, nodding. “Thanks, Mark. Fix the sprinklers.”

He nods. “Will do.”

Thirty minutes later, I’m standing at the sink in a Walgreens bathroom, staring down at a pregnancy test. I was too anxious to make it all the way back to my apartment. I have to know. I mean, I feel like I already know…but I need to know know.

The signs have been everywhere if I was bothering to look. My irregular cycle should’ve clued me in. But, as a former D1 cross country runner, I’ve always struggled in that department. There was a solid two years at the peak of my running when I don’t think I had a single cycle. I thought it was just stress and poor diet making me miss a period this month.

Then there’s all the other little signs: nausea at the bachelorette party, tender breasts too sensitive to touch, getting sick on sushi, these high/low mood swings. Each of these things separately could mean anything. But when you add them up together, they form one big, blue plus sign.

The timer on my phone goes off and I reach for the test. Slowly, I turn it over, glancing down. Of course it’s positive. I’m pregnant. How far along I am, I can’t be sure.

Tears in my eyes, I place a hand over my belly, a calming sense of rightness filling me. I should be freaking out, right? As a chronic overthinker, replaceing out you’re pregnant in a Walgreens bathroom while you’re still wearing a damp business suit should be cause for at least a little panic.

I glance up at my reflection, still holding the test. My makeup is smudged around my eyes, hair slicked back. “I’m in love with two men that I’m secretly dating. Now I’m having their baby, and I don’t know which one of them is the father.”

I wait…

Come on, Poppy, really? No freak out? Not even a little one?

I take a deep breath, trying again. “I have to tell my mother that I’m pregnant out of wedlock.”

Okay, now I’m just grinning…and I’m craving peanut butter. Maybe I’ll get a king-sized Reese’s Cup when I pay for this test I just peed on.

And now I’m laughing, tears of happiness rimming my eyes. I rub my hand over my flat stomach. “Well, you’re just a little chaos monster, aren’t you?” I say at the surprising little life growing inside me. “Should you tell your daddies, or should I?”