Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
CHAPTER TWO
Jules
This was a bad idea. Silas Alexander isn’t giving me anything to work with, and I’m relying on the video I’m taking of him for my early afternoon post on the team’s social media accounts.
“Okay, that was good,” I lie, lowering the camera. “Now let’s try something different. Be more ... energetic. And don’t shrug when I ask you a question. I’m going to edit out the parts where I’m talking and it’ll just be you talking.”
He nods, sighing softly. “More energetic. Okay.”
We’re standing in the concrete-floored tunnel outside the locker room, and it’s almost time for practice to start. I need to move quickly. I start recording again, giving him an encouraging look.
“Which teammate would you call to bail you out of jail?”
“Uh...” He blows out a breath, not even cracking a smile. “I don’t know, Carter Stanton I guess?”
Fail. I try again.
“If you were back in high school and you needed help studying for a math test, which teammate would you ask?”
“I was good at math. I wouldn’t need help.”
The locker room door swings open and players start flowing out. I stop recording and give Silas a grateful look.
“Thanks for your time. Have a good practice.”
He practically races away, and I mentally check him off my list of players who can give me fun, engaging content viewers will like. Not everyone is comfortable on camera.
I pack up my tripod and camera, about to turn and head back to my office, when someone calls my name.
“Hey, Jules.” It’s Isaac, the goaltender, padded up in his practice gear. “Did that stuff I sent work out?”
“It was perfect. Thanks again for doing that.”
“No problem. Anytime.”
He smiles and returns to the group heading onto the ice. I get a brainstorm. I can film them practicing. That’ll be my early afternoon post.
I’m only a week into my job as social media coordinator for the Cleveland Crush, and I love it. I worked at a graphic design firm right out of college and ended up staying there for seven years. I liked the work but didn’t love it. When I saw the opening posted to work in the Crush’s public relations department, I jumped at the chance and applied.
The director of the department, Deb, was impressed by my own social media pages, where lots of people follow me for style tips. She created a new job for someone to focus entirely on growing the team’s social media presence and there were hundreds of applicants, so I was excited to be chosen.
“Excuse me, are you the new PR girl?”
A deep voice makes me look up, and I’m momentarily speechless. The man standing in front of me is tall and well built, dressed in track pants and a Crush hoodie. His salt-and-pepper hair is cut neatly, with stubble to match. It’s the good stubble. Not patchy, and just long enough for a toe-curling inner thigh graze.
It’s his eyes that mesmerize me, though. Their faded-denim color doesn’t match his stern expression. Those are eyes I could get lost in.
Get it together, Jules.
I clear my throat and hold out my hand, suppressing my urge to tell him I’m a twenty-nine-year-old woman, far from a girl. “I’m Jules Barlow, the new social media coordinator. And I recognize you from team photos. Great to meet you, Coach Turner.”
As he shakes my hand, I force myself to hold his gaze. Coworkers have told me the team’s head coach intimidates some people, so I was prepared for the pounding heart I have right now.
What I wasn’t prepared for is how hot he is. Team photos, where he’s always standing in the back, don’t do him justice. His stare is like fingertips lightly trailing over my skin, sparking hyperawareness and a hope for more.
“You, too.” He crosses his arms, a clipboard in one hand. “Can I come by your office later?”
His gravelly voice saying can I come is on repeat in my head. I stare stupidly at him for a few seconds before I mentally slap myself across the face.
“Yes, um ... of course.”
He nods, about to walk away, when nervous chatter pours out of me unbidden. I’ve been talking to a guy named Mark for two weeks, but I can’t think about anyone but the sexy-as-hell coach who seems to dislike me.
Being disliked is hard for me. I grew up in Ohio, and the midwestern propensity for niceness and likability runs deep in me.
“I’m going to film practice,” I say, tucking my hair behind one ear.
Coach Turner has a first name—Noel—but I get the feeling no one in this arena calls him that. I’ve been told to call him “Coach” or “Coach Turner”.
He turns back to face me. “No filming during drills,” he says briskly, his brows pinched together. “This is why we should’ve talked before you started filming my players. You can film during warm-ups, but that’s it.”