2. Keke

Chapter 2

Keke

T he drive to Michael's office always seems to be too long and too short at the same time.

I've been there before but driving in downtown Atlanta is always frustrating. I hate it—too much traffic and too many stoplights—but he has a job for me, and I’m going to take it.

I have to.

It’s not like I have any other options.

Therefore, battling the Atlanta traffic is something I just have to deal with.

After crashing and burning the other two jobs he set up for me, I have to kill this one. There are only so many chances my big brother can give me.

The steel and glass building towers over me as I walk into the lobby. It’s shiny inside, chrome and marble in every direction. Michael's office is on the top floor, which means I have a full minute’s ride to contemplate what I’m going to say when I get there.

The truth is, I have no game plan. He pulled some strings to get me in with Whitney Dobson, my hero.

What do you say to someone who ran a presidential campaign?

How she went from a presidential campaign to doing PR for a professional hockey team, I still don’t quite understand. But she’s a legend in public relations. I’m not about to call into question her history when mine is so spotty.

Cindi, Michael's executive assistant, looks up and nods in acknowledgement as I approach. She’s pretty and blond and a little older than me. Although she’s on the phone, I notice a little curl in her lip when she sees me.

Maybe she’s surprised he’s giving me another chance. Truth is, I still can’t believe it either.

I tapped my fingernails on my steering wheel the entire drive over, trying to burn off my nervous energy. Michael had gotten me my first gig, at the aquarium, but I had botched it by coordinating a charity seafood dinner. I thought it was a good idea but the management staff strongly disagreed and that was that.

When I worked directly for Michael, things got worse. His restaurant chain, Beats I’m so nervous that I cut in whenever she tries to speak; Michael teases me about some childhood shit that I haven't let go of yet; there’s a huge stain on my blouse that I hadn't noticed before; as I walk in, I trip and fall face-first into her cleavage, my skirt is tucked into my underwear.

For fucks sake, get a grip, girl!

Unrealistic nightmare scenarios are my anxiety’s specialty.

Moments later, Cindi buzzes me in.

I’ve checked my image a dozen times. No stains on my shirt. I’m wearing ballet flats, so there’s a very slim chance of me tripping and falling. I practiced several times how to say her name so I am confident I won’t botch the pronunciation.

Whether Michael teases me is out of my control but I will handle it with poise and grace and show Whitney I know how to deal with an uncomfortable situation if he does. Public relations is my specialty. If anything goes wrong, it’s merely a chance to show her I know what I’m doing.

I’ve got this .

When I open the door, Michael is sitting behind his desk with Whitney in his guest chair. My brother smiles and stands as I enter the masculine space. I used to tease him that he had made his office into such a bro room that nobody could ever mistake it for a woman’s office. Dark wood furniture sat upon hardwood floors, the walls covered in sports memorabilia, a wet bar in the corner.

“Keke, come in,” he says, friendly as ever. My brother and I have our red hair and green eyes in common but that’s where the similarities end. I’m still not sure how he manages to get a golden tan. All I have to do is step outside and I turn into a lobster. He has almost a foot of height on me and a huge, muscular build like a Viking, whereas I am nothing but short softness. There’s a fourteen-year age difference between us but he’s always looked out for me.

“Michael, thanks for inviting me,” I say as I bump his offered fist.

“Of course. This is Whitney Dobson. I think you’re familiar with her work,” he casually says as if he hadn't carefully orchestrated this meeting.

It’s hard not to stammer in front of a former supermodel. Maybe it’s one of their powers. But sitting next to a person who might have been described as the perfect female specimen at one time makes me feel like a toad. Whitney is tall and thin, with perfect black hair and sparkling blue eyes. She looks as if she just stepped straight off a magazine cover, which, in her line of work, she might have.

As much as she’s a public relations guru, she’s also a popular get in the modeling world, even after semi-retiring from the industry. She still does some work for beauty products, and rumor has it she has a line of skin care coming out next year along with a catalog of mastectomy fashion. She helped her mother survive breast cancer and found there was no one making reasonably priced, attractive clothing for patients so she decided to create some.

Whitney Dobson was a force of nature.

“A pleasure to meet you.” I extend my hand.

“Likewise,” she says as she shakes it, her eyes matching her smile. “Your brother has told me so much about you.”

“Uh oh,” I reply facetiously.

That earns an even bigger smile out of her. “I'm sure you know you’re here for an interview.”

“Michael said you were looking for someone, but he never said this was a formal interview.”

She gives him a confused look. “Is that so?”

“I never like to assume,” he replies, half-smiling.

She returns her gaze to me. “Since Michael mentioned that I was looking for someone, can I assume you areprepared for the responsibilities? You know who I work for, right?”

“The Atlanta Fire.”

She nods once. “Yes. And I am currently on the market for a team member who can get one of our players in line.”

“Whipping men into shape is a specialty of mine.”

“I can only hope. This one is particularly difficult. Insufferably so, in several aspects.”

“What seems to be the trouble?”

Whitney gives me a tight-lipped smile. “The usual. Partying at all hours. Women, drinking. Your typical celebrity destroying themselves type stuff. He's a good-time guy who doesn't realize that he needs to slow it down. If anything, he's only turned it up. My team is doing everything they can, trying to get him to cool it, but he’s not listening to any of us. It's my hope that some new blood will do the trick. Someone he doesn't know and that the team doesn't know, so there's no chance of camaraderie getting in the way. Assuming the new hire isn’t a partier themselves.” Her tight-lipped smile turns expectant.

Good thing I’m not a partier anymore. “I’m the girl who brings a book to bars. I'm usually in bed by eight so I can be up before dawn for my morning workout. I am a yogurt and salad girl, despite my brother’s best efforts to convert me to chicken wings and fries.”

Michael chuckles. “That’s true. I’ll get you to eat my wings and fries eventually, though.”

I smile at her. “I have no trouble going against the grain, Ms. Dobson. It’s kind of my thing.” These days , anyway .

“That all sounds well and good, but there is one more requirement of this job and I'm not sure if you're prepared for it. The last girl wasn’t.”

“What's that?”

“The position requires you tolive with him.”

I arch a brow. “In what capacity, exactly?”

“Nothing improper . You’d essentially be like his nanny.”

“You said he’s thirty years old.”

“Thirty years old and wild and incorrigible. He needs someone to stop him from staying out all night boozing it up, from taking random girls home, from overdoing it all of the time.”

“Is it affecting his performance?” I ask.

Whitney shifts in her seat. “Worse. It’s affecting the team. He’s brilliant on the ice—truly gifted—but the team has banked on his image for the past few seasons and people like him. He’s got all-American good looks and charm thanks to his upbringing, and they’ve been using him as their poster child on their billboards. He’s the one they send out to do interviews most of the time.”

“Then how is his bad boy image affecting the team? He sounds perfect.”

She pulls out her phone, bringing up the local news on YouTube. “…and Atlanta Fire’s Lucian Smith is earning that smoking hot reputation.” The broadcast switches to footage of a sportscar parked in front of the hockey arena on fire. “Reportedly, the fire was started by his girlfriend. No word on the reason just yet, but I think we can take a guess. Phil?”

A second reporter comes on screen. “When you’re Lucian Smith, women go crazy for you. It was bound to happen. It’s a shame that poor Lamborghini took the hit, though.”

“Hell hath no fury, am I right?” the second reporter responds.

Whitney shuts it off. “That’s how it’s affecting the team. He has to stop screwing every skirt he sees, or the Atlanta Fire will continue to be a joke. It reflects badly on the team and on me, and I won’t have that.”

“If you give me the chance, I can get him back in line.”

“You’ve done this kind of thing before?”

“I have. Not at this level but getting a guy to quit his bad habits is something I am quite familiar with.”

Michael clears his throat. “I’ve seen her do it, Whit. That’s why I wanted to bring her in, to have you speak to her.”

Whitney taps a perfectly manicured nail on the arm of her chair. “This is a critical mission, Keke. No room for error.”

“Ms. Dobson, I am the woman for the job.”

“Enough with the Ms. Dobson shit. I’m not formal like that when you’re working for me.” She smiles and holds out her hand.

I reach for it. “You mean I’ve got the job?”

“It’s yours. It was before you even walked in—I checked you out after Michael mentioned you at our last game.”

Which meant she knew about my screw-ups. “And you still want me?”

“A seafood dinner for the aquarium and an animal rights protest aren’t exactly a hindrance to what I need you to do. Besides, it’s not like you’d let those things happen again, right?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Perfect. I keep an office at the arena. You’ll work out of the home office at Luke’s place?—”

“I thought the reporters said his name was Lucian.”

She shrugs as she taps on her phone. “He usually goes by Luke. I just emailed you my file on him. Look it over before you officially accept the job in case there’s something you see that you can’t work with.”

I click on my email on my phone, planning on scanning over it quickly and telling her I’ll take the job right here, right now. But as his picture appears on the screen, my breath catches in my throat. The world stops spinning, and it’s all I can do not to gasp for breath.

What did I do to deserve this?

I glance up at Michael for a moment to see if this is some kind of joke. If it is, he’s not in on it. There’s nothing but earnest hope that he’s just found a job for his screw-up little sister.

I look back down at the picture, maintaining a forced smile. It’s a hell of a challenge because the man I’d come to think of as Beer Boy is now staring back at me. I poured beer onto the head of the man who might be controlling my future employment. He’d hate working with me almost as much as I’d hate working with him, I’m sure of it.

But I need this job. I can make nice .

I think.

There’s got to be more to him than just a handsome smile. Luke has a face made for billboards—high cheek bones, a chiseled jawline, killer smile. He’s one of the beefier players on the team, built more like a football player with his broad shoulders and tall frame. His dark brown hair was tied into a man bun for the player photo and featured a streak of the team’s signature dark blue running through it. He has the kind of brown eyes that sparkle, puppy dog eyes that have likely gotten him out of a lot of trouble. The kind of eyes I used to be a sucker for.

Not anymore.

“Looks good. I’m in.”

“Excellent. Come to the arena tomorrow, and I’ll make the introductions so you can get a feel for what he does and what the team is like.”

After a few moments, Whitney says her goodbyes and heads out, leaving me alone with Michael.

“You sure you’ve got this?” he asks. “You seemed a little shaken after glancing at his file.”

“I’m fine. I’ve got this.” With any luck, I wasn’t lying. But obviously, my luck has been less than good lately.

Beer Boy is my assignment. How could this get any worse?

My brother eyes me like he doesn’t believe me. “You were nervous about meeting Whitney, eh?”

I huff a laugh, thankful he mistook my uneasiness. The truth is, my heart hadn’t stopped pounding since I realized how bad this could be. But I didn’t let it show. Instead, I nodded. “Yes. Thank you again for the intro. I never would have gotten this without you.”

“And I would never have achieved any of this without you,” he replies, gesturing to his office.

The memories come flooding back but I stuff them down. No sense in reliving the past. “How is?—”

“As much as I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Keke, I feel I need to remind you thatthis is the last time I can do this for you. The aquarium was bad enough—I’m on the board there. But the protest?” Michael takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “It took a long time to get those folks to return. The press thought it was hilarious that my public relations team were the ones who instigated?—”

“ I didn’t instigate anything!”

He holds up a hand. “I know, I know. But that’s the narrative the press pushed. It made good headlines.”

Humiliation always does. “I remember,” I mumble.

“Whitney is in my social circle. We play poker. We’re friends, and if I’m lucky, one day, it’ll be more. So you cannot, under any circumstances, embarrass me.”

Fantastic. No pressure. Why can’t I breathe in here? I clear my throat to force a breath inward.

“I won’t let you down, Michael.”

He sits back, folding his hands over his lap. “More importantly, on your end of things, you need a win. Public relations lives and dies on reputation, and right now?—”

“Believe me, I know.”

If I hadn’t landed this job, I was going to start looking at other career paths. I had to knock whatever the hockey equivalent of this was out of the park. Otherwise, I’d have to relocate to a city where no one knew me working in an entirely new career.