“I can see that,” I reply. “Did you know Blakely was under twenty-one, Jeffry?”
“Unfortunately, not until this morning,” he returns.
Lips pursed, Erika shifts in her chair across from me. Apparently, she doesn’t like Jeffry’s answer any more than I do.
“So what do we do?” I demand.
“Honestly, I’m not sure.” Jeffry’s frown deepens. “Colt’s history with the paparazzi is problematic at best, and how the article spins Blakely into a faceless, underage puck bunny is––”
“What is the damage?” I seethe.
Jeffry looks down at his iPad again and runs his hand over his head, deep in thought. “It’s a little too early to tell, but as of right now, preseason ticket sales have dropped by forty percent.”
“Forty percent?” I nearly choke.
He gulps and looks up at me again. “If we can’t start spinning these stories into something positive, I’m afraid this will only continue to hurt ticket sales in the long run.”
“So, no more stunts like this,” I say, stating the obvious. I lean back in my chair and stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me. This is a problem. A big problem. I need to find a solution. Soon. With a deep breath, I order, “Erika, have the legal department create a contract stating if Colt or Theo become involved in anything like this again, they will be terminated from the team.”
Erika gasps. “But they’re two of our best players.”
“And now, they will know I mean business,” I tell her. “Perception is everything. This organization needs players who don’t look like they beat women, cheat on their girlfriends, or promote underage drinking, don’t you think?”
“Well, yes, but––”
“Get it done. I have them coming to the office in an hour.”
Erika scribbles something on her iPad, and Jeffry does the same as his head bobs up and down in agreement.
Once they finish, they look up at me again, waiting for my next order.
“Tell me your ideas for pushing more positive content?” I demand.
Jeffry pauses, scratches his temple, and tugs at the collar of his not-so-crisp plaid button-up shirt. “I’m not exactly sure how, but we need to counteract all of this…less than desirable publicity as soon as possible.”
Duh.
I don’t bother to hide my annoyance as I stare back at him blandly. “As the head of public relations, I would like to think we pay you enough money to bring a few ideas to the table.”
“What if we invite a few influencers to the first game next month?” Erika interrupts.
“Most influencers aren’t interested in hockey,” Jeffry argues. “Besides, I can handle the team’s PR. We don’t need––”
“Erika might be onto something,” I announce, scratching my jaw as the thought takes hold.
Yes. This could work.
It might be the death of me, but it could work.
“I’ll take care of it,” I add.
Confused, they turn to me. “You will?”
“Yes. Put out as many fires as you can. Both of you.” I give Jeffry a hard stare. “I will be hiring a social media manager with experience in positive branding.”
Surprised, Erika preens and leans back in her chair, crossing one plaid-covered leg over the other. “I think it’s a brilliant idea. Do you already have someone in mind?”
“I’d be happy to find someone, sir,” Jeffry offers. “Why don’t we take a day or two and––”
“I said I will be the one to take care of it,” I snap.
With his tail tucked between his legs, Jeffry stands and dips his chin. He beelines it to the exit like his ass is on fire.
Good.
He should be ashamed he didn’t know Theo’s fiancée’s age when Theo suggested the entire organization celebrate their engagement in a twenty-one and older bar. He should have also been the one to see the article this morning and called me instead of the other way around. A tiny voice in the back of my mind, sounding a hell of a lot like my mother’s, reminds me everyone makes mistakes, and I force myself to reel in my temper. For now.
Jeffry better hope his mistakes are few and far between for the foreseeable future, or I will be forced to make some changes. Er, more changes. And he won’t like those any more than he likes the idea of me hiring someone to handle our social media presence.
“Okay. I guess that’s it then,” Erika says. Balancing her iPad in one hand, she runs her opposite one along the chain of her gold necklace, toying with the crescent moon encrusted with diamonds as she stands and smoothes down her black blouse tucked into plaid slacks.
“Good day, Dr. Buchanan.” She clears her throat, turns on her black Jimmy Choo heels, and gets the hell out of my office.
It’s just as well.
She might be relatively young, but we have worked with each other long enough for her to know when I’m close to snapping, and she does not want to be around when it happens.
Smart lady.
My phone buzzes for the tenth time, but I send the call to voicemail, knowing it’s either someone from the team’s board of directors or another horny asshat hoping to score with Mia.
If she wanted to prove her point, she succeeded.
Satisfied by my phone’s silence, I dial Gordy’s number.
He picks up on the first ring. “Hello, sir.”
“I need you to find me Mia Rutherford’s contact information,” I order.
“Sure thing.” The familiar tap-tap of the keyboard grates on me before Gordy adds, “555.346.4459.”
“Thank you.” I hang up and jab Mia’s number into my cell.
But I don’t call it.
Not yet.
Not when I’m already wound this tight.
Instead, I save the contact information, promising to call her as soon as I finish my meeting with Colt and Theo.
7
MIA
A familiar buzzing wakes me, and I roll onto my side.
“Noooo,” I groan. “It’s too early.”
Shoving my hot pink sleep mask on top of my head, I check the number. I don’t recognize it. Too curious for my own good, despite my lack of sleep, I slide my thumb across the screen and answer the call.
“Hello?” I croak.
“I told you it was a private number,” a low voice growls.
My eyes pop as I place the voice, and a laugh bubbles out of me. Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling, not even bothering to hide my triumphant grin. “Dude, we both know you deserved it.”
“Oh, we do?”
“Yup. You were being a condescending ass, remember?”
“I had a shit day, am still having a shit day,” he clarifies, “and my phone hasn’t stopped ringing since I handed you my card, but I’m the ass?”
“If the potential sugar daddies bother you so much, I’m sure your assistant can change your precious private number for you,” I suggest.
“Brat.”
“Ass,” I volley back at him. “And you’re the one who woke me up, so you’ll have to forgive me for not being very sympathetic to your situation.”