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CHAPTER 9

DECK

LAME-O MOVIES WITH SUBTITLES

Lizzy was cute.

No, that wasn’t the right word, though the faint blush climbing her round cheeks was cute. Lizzy, as a total package, was smoking hot.

I’d heard a few of the guys discussing her in the locker room as I’d prepared for my shower, and I hadn’t disagreed with their assessments one bit. Tight, curvy body with muscles that only served to emphasize her appeal. I wasn’t a guy for skinny model types who looked like they might break if you touched them the wrong way. I wasn’t looking for a woman at all, but if I had been, it’d be a woman like this one.

Built for action. Built for speed. Built for… all the things I would very much like to do with her in various places and positions.

Shit.

Down, boy.

I shifted my weight and continued with my proposal.

“Let me help you.”

The eyebrow went up again. “Help me? What do you think I need help with?”

I was beginning to see that Lizzy was a very independent woman. She didn’t even like the suggestion that she might need help. How, I wondered, had she ended up in a job she was clearly not cut out for?

“With the PR. Let’s make a movie. Like a documentary, except good.”

Lizzy stared at me. “You want to help me do my job?”

I nodded. “I’ve watched a lot of American television and movies.”

She tilted her head and gave me a tiny smile as if she’d just caught me in a lie or something. “American? As opposed to…”

Shit. I hadn’t meant to say that. “Yeah. American. Like me.” I took a sip of my Scotch, which would be my last since we had a game the next day. “You know, regular stuff. Mainstream.”

“Uh huh.”

“Not lame-o foreign stuff with subtitles.”

“Yeah, got it.”

“So I think I’m prepared to help you make the Wombats documentary really awesome. We’ll keep the pacing fast, and do a bunch of shots where we move quick between a player talking and then him doing his thing on the ice. Lots of pounding music and then some deeper storyline running through the whole thing. I wonder if any of the guys has a three-legged cat or something…”

“That would help how?”

“By making him really sympathetic. Maybe someone has a sick hamster or something. I’ll ask around. What do you think?” I’d talked myself completely into it.

She shook her head. “I don’t think a sick hamster is going to be the difference between this PR campaign being good and this campaign getting me fired.” She made an adorable face as she said that, and I realized her job was probably really important to her. Or maybe she had an asshole boss. I tried to be more empathetic.

“Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. You’re really under pressure here.” We were alike in that way.

“Kind of, yeah.” She shrugged, tilting her head so her smooth dark ponytail slid over one shoulder. I forbid myself from considering what it would feel like to grip it in my hand while I guided her head to my—nope. Forbidden. Not thinking about that.

“Okay, so what ideas do you have?” I asked her.

“Well, I was going to interview everyone to start, and then go from there. Maybe kind of build on whoever has the best story. Maybe a coming up from nothing kinda thing.”

“So you want Rubio for that. Grew up in East Los Angeles, super tough neighborhood. Ended up going to some camp put on by a former Wombats player.”

She nodded and made a note in her phone. “Okay, good. Who else?”

I thought about my teammates.

“Elks might be a good one to chat with. His older brother played hockey too. He was always in the guy’s shadow. Then his brother died in a car crash, so now he says he channels him while he plays. Wears his number, plays every game in his honor.”

“Oh, that’s good too. Really sad, though.” She made another note, and I watched, wishing I could tell her my story. It was pretty compelling too, I thought, even though no one in the US had even heard of my country. But my history and my background were things I couldn’t tell anyone. The only person in the states who had any idea who I really was was my Uncle Jericho. And he’d never tell a soul.