Page 1 of Break the Ice

1. Marisse

“Let me hear it. Tell me loud and proud!” cries out Jasper Hawk in a rasp borne of heavy cigar smoking. His face bears the deep lines to match, crinkles etched around the corners of his eyes. He cups a hand to his ear and uses the other to goad me on.

I bite away a smile with a good-natured roll of my eyes and humor him. It’s in my best interest to do so considering he’s my new boss.

“Once a part of the pack, always a part of the pack,” I recite.

“And…?” he prompts.

The lounge area of men dressed as equally drab as they are old, watch on. Each one wearing a polo shirt in cornflower blue or a button up in off-white. Boring and basic for being worth seven figures.

My cheeks flush. “Awooooo!”

The room full of men twice my age busts up in thunderous laughter.

“Marisse March, you’re hired!” Mr. Hawk says with an entertained clap of his hands. “That’s got to be the cutest, sexiest little howl I’ve ever heard! Welcome to the Wolf Pack!”

The man seated closest to Hawk leans forward to pick up his can of Diet Coke, raising it toward me. Daniel Beringer, number two in charge. “Here, here. Hopefully you can do a better job than our last PR consultant, Jerry.”

“Jerry? How about the last five or six! They don’t last long around here!” Mr. Hawk hacks out another throaty laugh.

The other men follow his lead. A bunch of chickens clucking to please their master and prove they belong. That they deserve a seat at the table.

Then again, I’m no better. Five seconds ago, I howled like a wolf.

But I got the job, and that’s all that matters.

“You’ll do great, Marisse,” says Mr. Hawk. He tosses the portfolio that’s my extensive resume onto the coffee table for the rest of the men to pick through. “You have quite the rep in sports PR circles.”

“NFL, NBA, some WNBA,” lists a monotoned executive to my left. He happens to be the one in the off-white button up. Which is fitting. “I don’t see any NHL, Hawk.”

Mr. Hawk pierces him with a stern look that gives meaning to the animal he’s named after. “This girl has turned shit around enough times for enough teams. I don’t give a damn if it was for the fucking National League of Professional Pickle Ball—results are results!”

His retort’s enough to shut up Mr. Monotone, but I’m not quite satisfied. I keep my expression neutral, my tone of voice even, my hands folded neatly in my lap, and I advocate for myself the way I’ve promised myself I would.

“Actually,” I say, “I may not have National Hockey League experience, but I understand the dynamics of the winter sports world. I am a former athlete myself.”

Mr. Beringer jumps in this time, winking at me. “What were you, darling? A figure skater? I’ve always been a fan of those little sparkly dresses you gals wear.”

A few of the others chortle and break off in small sidebars to voice their agreement.

“No,” I answer. “I wasn’t a figure skater.”

“That’s right, I keep forgetting! We have to give her some credit—Marisse here was a speed skater, Danny Boy! She was slated to compete in the 2018 Winter Olympics!” Mr. Hawk reaches over to give my shoulder a proud squeeze as if he knew me at the time of my sports career.

“Before her hamstring injury that prematurely ended her career,” says Mr. Monotone. He blinks so dryly, I wouldn’t be surprised if his thoughts have wandered to his dinner plans for the night.

“A blessing in disguise,” I say, chin tilted with confidence. “Sports public relations is much more my speed. It’s my true calling in life.”

“And that’s why this girl will turn shit around. Do you hear me, fellas? I’ve got a feeling about this one,” Mr. Hawk says. His hand hasn’t left my shoulder, cupping the slender tip of it as if invited.

Mr. Beringer sighs. “Good luck. The Wolves need it. We were voted most hated team for a second year in a row by the fans. That’s not even touching on performance last season.”

“Me and Ms. March will have a full meeting about the shitstorm that’s the state of the team, Danny Boy. No need to worry—none of you. This upcoming season’s going to be ours!” he shouts to eager nods from the other men. “How about Prime Cut for dinner to celebrate, fellas?”

I make my exit from the team office as the room descends into more raucous chatter. After declining Mr. Hawk’s generous offer to join them for dinner at the upscale steakhouse.

“Did everything go well?” Jerry, his personal assistant, asks once I’ve walked out of his office. She slips into step with me, clutching a clipboard with Mr. Hawk’s agenda for the day to her chiffon blouse. “Did he extend the job offer, Ms. March?”