My boss, Ezra, pokes his head out of his office on my way past. “Remy, I need you for a moment.”
I know that tone of voice. Something is amiss. I stick out my bottom lip and brandish my empty mug at him. “Can I top up first?”
Ezra’s a fairly unflappable guy, but his usually impeccable hair is mussed, almost as if he grabbed it in both fists and tugged.Yikes.“Alright,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation.“That might be wise, all things considered. Every little bit helps.”
Double yikes.
“On second thought, this sounds urgent.” I step forward, prompting Ezra to move aside and make room for me. If this is as serious as his expression suggests, the last thing I need is caffeine jitters.
Ezra closes the door behind me, which is unassailable proof that we’re about to cover something serious that he doesn’t want anyone else in the office to overhear. With a mounting sense of dread, I settle into one of the chairs on this side of the desk.
Great. Closed door, serious tone, no coffee. This is either a promotion… or a disaster. Given my luck, I’m not betting on the promotion.
“You grew up in Boston, correct?” he asks.
Seems like an odd segue, but I bite. “North Shore, born and raised.”
“Mm.” Ezra lowers himself into his chair, adjusting his blazer as he does so. “Hockey country.”
There’s nothing in his tone to give away what he’s thinking, but I wince. “That’s… one thing we’re known for, yes.” It’s true that I grew up around the sport, whether I wanted to or not.
Hockey players, especially. Loud, cocky, and convinced the world owes them something because they can skate fast and throw punches.
“Good.” Ezra adjusts his computer screen so that I can see. There’s a YouTube clip already pulled up, with a freeze frame of a handful of hockey players in two different team jerseys.
One click of his mouse brings the scene to life. His speakers are set to a low volume, but I don’t need to hear each player’s shout to understand what happens next. One of the guys says something to the goalie in purple and green, then makes a rude gesture. It’s hardly polite, but in a sport where people’s teethend up scattered around the rink on a semi-regular basis, it’s nothing to write home about.
The goalie doesn’t seem to agree. He snaps. It’s not just the hit. It’s the look on his face right before it happens—when something flips behind his eyes. When whatever control he had just… disappears.
He skates out of position and slams into the other player, sending them both down on the ice. I lose track of their movements in the ensuing whirl of limbs as the other players converge to separate them. The video is being filmed from somewhere in the stands, and they must be getting jostled, because the players are reduced to a blur of color for a moment. Just before the video cuts out, the players part. The screen freezes on a still of the goalie’s contorted face, which hovers there for about five seconds before the video rolls into an ad.
I close my eyes and stifle a groan. “Let me guess why you called me in.”
“As I’m sure you can imagine, this um… angle… is a PR crisis for the team.” Ezra’s chair creaks, and I don’t have to open my eyes to know that he’s watching me. “There are multiple videos in circulation, as you can imagine.”
“How badly was the other player hurt?”
If I mishandle this, it’s a PR crisis for me, too. One wrong move, one client who spirals anyway, and suddenly I’m the fixer who couldn’t fix it.
“As I understand it, he’ll only be out two games while he recovers. If he were more seriously injured, we’d have an even bigger problem on our hands.”
That’s a relief, both from a personal perspective and a PR angle. Still, the expression on that goalie’s face was one of pure fury. I’m not one to complain about a project, but doing PR triage on a loose cannon is an uphill battle.
Been there, done that.
I consider my empty mug. “I have one question before we start talking strategy. Are you sure I’m the right person for this assignment?”
Ezra rests his chin on his interlaced palms. “I’m sure you’re more than capable, Remy. Your reputation for managing difficult personalities is the reason I hired you, and I’ve seen that firsthand since you joined the firm.”
I hold up a hand to stop his praise, which is nice enough to hear but doesn’t really answer my question. “It’s not that I doubt myself. The thing is, I know hockey players. I grew up around them. A lot of them… Well, let’s just say, they don’t respect women.”
“Ah.” Ezra squares his shoulders. “You think he might respond better to someone more physically imposing.”
Actually, I think he might respond better to someone who can whip it out and measure.Over the years, I’ve heard all the names men use when confronted with assertive women. “Something like that.”
Ezra drags his thumb over his bottom lip, gaze fixed on me. “If Owen Rourke had a history of this sort of behavior, I might agree with you. But based on the conversation I just had with the Venom’s PR rep, I have reason to believe that he’s more likely to have a problem with male authority figures. I know you, Remy. You’ll find the right angle, and you’ll keep a cool head while doing it.”
I drum my fingers on the side of my empty mug. “My cool head isn’t the one I’m worried about.”
