Page 13

Chapter Thirteen

Cam

We won on the road, but this—our first home win, even if it’s only pre-season—feels different. We’re riding high and the locker room is boisterous.

Coach comes in and we pipe down a bit, but his victory speech praising us for finding our jam and working together so soon only makes us more raucous.

We head to Chasers, a new bar that’s opened a few blocks away from the arena. With the tornado- and drink-related name, the owner’s intention of being the after-party location is clear.

Saylet has a poll going on Instagram for fans to choose our team song. As we walk in, the one with the most votes to date plays. The poll will close before the season starts and the players will get to vote on their favorite of the top three. I can’t see anything wrong with picking Winner by Jamie Foxx with T.I. and Justin Timberlake, even if we have to adapt the basketball reference for ourselves.

The front-line guys’ hands are over their heads and they’re yelling along with the song as they enter. I shake my head. There’s no need to be flashy. When the hostess extends a hand to direct me, I beeline to the corner roped off for us. Jack will buy me a beer and I’ll return the favor before I go, although my limit is still one and will be until hopefully June when we win the Stanley Cup Finals.

Emil Bergstrom, the young rookie, trails me. Third line in Saint’s position, he’s been quiet and doesn’t strike me as the rowdy bar celebration guy, but at least he came out with us. His performance in training camp was solid if unexciting, but tonight he looked shaky. On the other hand, it had been my second game at the NHL level, and I was hyper-focused on making a good impression, so maybe my perception is skewed. Or worse, I looked shaky to others.

Nah. I know my stats. I had a strong game. As a goalie, I take a degree more pride in our wins and a degree more guilt about our losses. Hockey is one hundred percent a team sport and we need every player on the ice to be their best, but the puck stops with me.

I ask the youngster, “Do you want a drink? I can get Jack’s attention. I think.”

“Buzz is getting me one, thanks.”

“What’s the drinking age in Sweden?” I ask, as much to make conversation as from curiosity.

“Our rules are complicated, so sort of eighteen to twenty-one. I don’t drink much, though. I prefer to stay focused on hockey.”

“Me, too. One beer’s my limit, even when I was in the AHL.”

Other players join us, trickling in from the arena. A few had caught rides with their teammates, leaving their cars at the arena to be safe, which I respect.

The guys at the bar come over as they receive their drinks and in no time, we fill the tables saved for us.

Jack makes sure he’s facing the rest of the bar, as does Drew.

Drew starts counting Tornadoes jerseys. “This is awesome. Look at the support for us even before the regular season. And the arena was sold out.”

Drew’s name and number is already on jerseys. The team had identified several seasoned players they were investing in with big contracts and had ordered jerseys with their names printed, knowing they were going to be popular.

Others, like me and Bergstrom, who are new to the league, have to earn our place in the team store. My personal goal is to have my name hanging in that store by Halloween.

Jack’s focus is on counting puck bunnies. He nudges me. “Whatdya think? Shall we take down the ropes?”

“No. We have practice tomorrow afternoon and a game the following day. And management is still making decisions about the season. Pace yourself.”

“Overrated. I have no doubt Austin can keep me entertained throughout the season. Now’s as good a time to start as any.” He gestures me up. “Come on. I need a wingman.”

“No.”

“Emil? I’ll show you how it’s done, just like I do on the ice.” He winks at the younger guy.

Emil gives a good-natured smile but shakes his head. “I, uh, I have someone back home, thank you.”

He sounds unsure, which is odd. With someone older or who he knew better, Jack would joke around about keeping his bed warm when Sweden is so far away. But the kid is so serious and so reserved, he leaves it alone, grabbing Buzz to go chat up the women lingering along the ropes pseudo-casually sipping their drinks with their arms squeezing their cleavage higher.

None of them can compare to Christina. I can’t stop thinking what she’s doing right now. She’s probably in bed. I picture her in various sleepwear—a tank and shorts, a slinky nightgown, naked…my jersey. My cock hardens in my suit pants and I’m glad I’m sitting at a table rather than standing at the bar.

My need to pursue her is starting to override my worries about the organization’s rules. After all, she said that as the person in the position of power, the fault would fall to her. On the other hand, she’s an owner. There is only one person who would leave the team if Greg or management has an issue, and that’s me.

However, our dance practices give us cover and no one’s thought anything of our meetings so far. Ok, well maybe Jack and du Près. But if we keep it on the down low, perhaps I can talk her into a fling. She tasted of vanilla and coconut. My mouth waters at the memory. I’d love to find out if that’s her shampoo or bodywash. All I know is that I need to taste her again.

* * * *

Several members of the team have met with Christina to discuss their “financial health.” The few married guys like Saint were impressed and happy with the meeting. He even said privately to Jack and Buzz and me that he was relieved, knowing his rudimentary plan for the future was now being shepherded by a pro.

I glowed with pride in Christina at that, then reminded myself that not only did I have nothing to do with her skill, but I also wasn’t even in a position to associate myself with her publicly.

It’s my turn now. She already knows I have a plan in place, so I expect the finance part of this will be quick and perhaps we can sneak in a snog. Snog. I love that word. My mom used it and I’ve adopted it as my own in her memory. It’s more fun than “kiss,” and encompasses some fooling around, which I’d love to do.

I get to her office doorway and she looks up. Fuck, she’s gorgeous. All serious now, with a silky printed top with cap sleeves. I should ask if we can walk and talk so I can check out her dancer legs again. Then again, that could be distracting. I can’t help picturing them on either side of my hips on the studio floor.

“Hi.” Her voice is breathy. Hopefully that means she’s as affected as I am. “Have a seat. Thank you for meeting with me.”

“I thought it was mandatory?” I joke, but immediately shake my head. “I like spending time with you, Chris. I’m happy to have this additional lesson.”

She waves me to a chair then folds her hands in front of her laptop.

“Here’s what I like to do. Everyone has a different comfort level with how much information they want to share about their expense burdens. So I’ll ask you a few questions, but feel free to decline to answer. Then I can talk about saving options and investment choices.” She stands. “But first, let me close the door for your privacy. My certifications and the fact that I’m not actively involved in Tornadoes management, nor using Tornado equipment”—she gestures at the sleek laptop—“means any details we discuss here remain between you and me. Also, you will be responsible for making all transactions on your account, although I can help you today and at any time going forward, or we can set them up to be automatic after each paycheck. I won’t earn any income from any choices you make.”

“Why are you doing this then?”

She shrugs. “To help my brother attract and retain the best players he can. And because I hate to see people hobble themselves by mismanaging money.”

She stands and comes around the desk. Damn, she’s in a pencil skirt. My cock tries to get to her through my joggers. I’m surprised she doesn’t hear the rustle of cloth as it springs to attention.

My mouth goes dry as her luscious peach of an ass passes my head. I want to bite it. Then I want to lay her on the desk and worship her with my lips and tongue. Or play teacher and naughty student who she takes to his knees. Or—

She’s back around the desk and tilting her head. “You seem flushed. Are you warm? This office gets some sun in the afternoons, and we’re still getting the A/C right for everyone.”

“I’m fine, thanks. If I can’t handle a little sweat, I’m in the wrong business.” I dismiss her concerns with a smile. “Hit me with your questions.”

We go through my expenses. She’s amazed at how little I spend and how much of my previous salary I had saved.

She asks, “What are your plans now you’re making NHL money?”

“I’ll continue to live on the same amount and funnel everything else into savings.”

“Wow. Not a single splurge?” She raises her brows.

“No. I was serious at dinner when I said I want to save as much as possible. I hate debt and I want to buy a house.”

“You mean you want to buy it for cash?” She’s aghast.

“Yeah.”

She starts to say something and swallows it back, instead stating, “We should talk about that before you make that decision. For now, though, how did you invest what you’ve saved?”

“It’s mostly in savings, but once I had a year’s worth of expenses, I started putting amounts in high yield money market accounts for a higher return.”

“That is an excellent start, Cam. You’re more financially savvy than many. So let’s talk about increasing your return even further. Did you know that the stock market outperforms savings accounts by about three times?”

I’ve looked at the stock market, but there have been some huge downturns. Recessions can last years and the prospect of losing much of what I’ve saved makes me ill. “I prefer to avoid risk. Doesn’t that depend on the years?”

“Yes. But reviewing the last twenty years, which are arguably the most relevant, if you invested $10,000 in a high-yield savings account you’d end up with about $16,000. If you had put it into a diversified mutual fund—the stock market, but a collection of stocks rather than an individual company—you’d have $65,000 right now.” She pushes two charts toward me.

I peer down at the curve with the sharp upturn in the last five years and point to an earlier period. “But look at these market dips. That’s over a decade of negative returns. What if I wanted to buy a house during that time?”

“Well, yes. I wouldn’t recommend putting all your savings into one security, even when it’s a fund holding many positions.”

I push the charts back to her. “I want to focus on—what’s the term I read?—‘capital preservation.’”

Her eyes flare a little at my use of the word “capital,” investor jargon. I’ll have to remember that if I ever get her in bed.

I guess some good can come out of having told her about my sucky childhood, as she’ll understand my reasoning. “I never want to have to worry about money again. That last year of high school and college sucked. Besides, I think you have short-term memory bias.” I’ve done my homework. “You talk about the last twenty years, but I only see ten that are positive on that graph you showed me, and even the last five show a drop with a two-year recovery period.”

“I agree. I’m happy to look at further diversification. Given your low risk tolerance, I’d propose a blend. My point is, you’re young, you have many years ahead so you don’t have to time the market—you’re not likely to have to sell your positions urgently. That’s what that year’s worth of expenses in a bank account is for.”

“I don’t know.” I shake my head. That’s way outside my comfort zone, even with my new salary.

She presses her lips together, then inhales and tries again. “Cam, you’re young, but this career is shorter than most. You want your money to work for you. I’m not suggesting high risk investments—”

“Isn’t that defined in the eye of the beholder?” I ask gently. I don’t want to argue with her. And geez, even her use of financial terms makes me want to kiss her.

“Yyeess.” She sighs, then brightens. “Can we make a deal? Please?”

My brain is still focused on kissing her. Maybe she wants a kiss for every dollar earned. Or a new position. Hey, a guy can hope. I manage to keep my tone neutral when I ask, “Like what?”

“You give me control over $25,000. I’ll show you what I can do with it between now and the end of the season.”

I start to shake my head even as I smile at the passion in her voice.

She holds up a hand. “Wait, I’m not finished. I won’t do anything overly risky to try to earn more, I’ll avoid as much risk as possible without being too conservative. And…” she pauses for effect. “I’ll reimburse you out of my own pocket for any losses. Off the record.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I believe in this. This is my area of expertise, like goaltending is for you. If I wanted to improve my skating or hockey playing, I’d come to you as an authority on the subject. Will you trust me to help make your dreams come true while minimizing your risk?” Her voice rings with passion.

My fingers tap against my side underneath my crossed arms. She’s watching me pleadingly. I can’t imagine the Donovans’ wealth, but if the family trusts her with their entire portfolio, then I can too. Besides, this is Christina. I’m already knee deep and I don’t want to disappoint her. But twenty-five thousand is still a huge chunk of money. Finally, I compromise. “Fifteen.”

“Done.” She grins at me, making me suspect she expected me to counter. Either way, I’m locked in at this point. Fifteen-k won’t kill me I guess, now that my salary has an extra zero on the end.