The Slot: A Rochester Riot Sports Romance (3 page)

Instead of going directly to the underground parking ramp, she took a detour to the newsstand on the corner. She flipped up the collar of her cashmere trench against the crisp February air and quickened her step. It was dark already. Eloise had never completely shaken her fear of winter nights in Minnesota and hugged her warm coat a little tighter to her body as she walked. Scanning the racks quickly, she grabbed her paper and moved to the checkout.

“That’ll be three dollars, lady,” the clerk said.

As Eloise rummaged in her leather clutch for some singles, she automatically salivated at the item sitting right next to the cash register. The one item she could never resist. Her stomach rumbled as she ogled the lone package of powdered mini-doughnuts, clearly the last one at this newsstand. She’d barely had lunch, and the lure of white sugary scrumptiousness was too powerful to ignore. “And these,” she said quickly, her hand darting out to grab her favorite, guilty pleasure.

Before she could reach it, a large gloved hand closed on the same cellophane-wrapped treasure. Startled, her irritated gaze trailed up a long arm and found it connected to a tall man wearing a hoodie and sunglasses. In the dark? Did he have some kind of visual impairment? No way. This guy was a solid mass of impenetrable muscle. His upper lip and jaw sported an untidy bit of sexy scruff. Eloise darted her gaze around the perimeter, checking for gangbangers.

“I’m sorry, ladies first,” the man said in apology when he saw her, releasing the package and indicating she should take it.

“Oh,” Eloise said. “No, I think you had it first. You take it.”

The man’s lips curled into a brilliant white smile. “Play you for it,” he said, holding up a fist. “Rock-paper-scissors?”

The clerk sighed impatiently. “You still want the newspaper, miss?”

Eloise had difficulty dragging her eyes away from mister man candy, even more mouth-watering than the treat they’d be sparring over. A doughnut war. In spite of his unshaven state, he looked no more than thirty or so, and that smile had certainly dispelled any concerns over his homeys lurking nearby, sporting pearly white teeth and a charming dimple in his right cheek. At closer glance, his distressed jeans were True Religion. She glanced over at the clerk.

“Yes, thanks. Just a sec.”

“Ready?” man candy said.

“Ready,” she answered.

“One, two, three …” their closed fists pumped the chilly air. Eloise’s gut told her to go with rock, and frowned in disappointment as his hand went flat, but her heart rate spiked as his open hand closed over her fisted one. A frisson of electricity crackled between them and traveled from his gloved hand straight up her spine. He smiled, and her knees wobbled. One platonic touch and she was already gone.

Long gone.

“Paper covers rock,” he said. “I win.”

“That’s a buck either way,” the clerk muttered.

Man candy fished a dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it to the clerk. He pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose with one gloved finger, and with his other hand slid the doughnuts toward Eloise. She stared. Eloise shook her head to try and knock some sense back into her numbed out brain. She’d never felt this way in a man’s presence. Ever. And she didn’t like it. Eloise Robertson did not fawn over the hot guy. She didn’t fawn over
any
guy.

“My gift to you, pretty doughnut-lady. I like a woman who can handle processed carbs and sugar. Makes me think there are other things she could handle just as well.”

Eloise felt her cheeks flush in spite of the temperature. She could see their breath floating in the cold air between them.

Say something witty. Flirt with him. Say anything, you dolt.

“Thank you,” she said, gave him her rigid back and handed over her money for the paper. Grabbing the newspaper and the doughnuts, she searched for him through her peripheral vision, eager for one more hit of adrenaline, but man candy had already stepped away toward the curb. On a whim, Eloise peeled away a corner of the cellophane and plucked out one sugary little ring.

“Consolation prize,” she said, offering it to him. “I can never get enough of these things,” she conceded. “My one guilty pleasure.”

“Only one?” he said with a smirk. “Guilty pleasure, I mean?” He popped the hole into his mouth and moaned, the sound better than Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Heat crawled up her legs to pool in her panties. God, she wanted to hear him groan for the rest of her life. Or just one night.

Did I just say that? Even in my own mind? How unlike Eloise Robertson of me.

A car cruised up in front of where they stood. “Thanks for the bite. This is me,” he said, reaching for the door handle of the sleek vehicle, a Lincoln Town Car.

Eloise couldn’t help but notice his lean and powerful legs clad in ripped blue jeans as he slid into the waiting back seat. Kylie’s words popped into her head. “Hey, you aren’t by any chance a poet, are you?” she blurted.

He paused, took his glasses off, and tossed them in the open door. Turning back, he speared her with a knowing look and her heart skipped a beat. His eyes. The orbs were so blue they could have been Hawaiian lagoons. She felt naked in front of him. She felt exposed and vulnerable like never before.

She felt
something
.

“Nope. But I have been told I have a way with words. Dirty words. Have a great night, doughnut-lady.”

Eloise hissed in a breath and spun on her stiletto to hurry back to the ramp. Poets didn’t usually get escorted in Lincoln Town Cars. Judging by his looks and age, he was more likely some spoiled rich boy hitching a ride in daddy’s limo or a rock star, neither choice being acceptable for Eloise Robertson to date. She laughed at herself all the way to her car.

Date. Who was she kidding? Man candy hadn’t been interested in her at all.

Chapter Three

“You’ve been summoned,” Kylie said as Eloise arrived at the office Monday morning.

Kylie stood at the coffee machine, brewing El’s favorite half coffee, half steamed milk concoction that no-one else seemed able to replicate quite the same way. Just one more reason why El loved her indispensable PA.

“Summoned?” Eloise asked. “Pray tell, who doth summoned such a lowly wench as I?”

Kylie giggled as she walked alongside Eloise, ferrying her coffee as they entered her private office. “Are you practicing for the Renaissance Festival again? Okay. I’ll play along. Why, King Murphy of course. Don’t forget to address him as ‘Sire’ when you get there,” she said. “And tighten your corset. You have a great rack. That might help win his favor.”

“Ick. That’ll be a frosty day in the Kingdom when that happens,” Eloise said. “Where exactly am I supposed to be, and when?” She began to unbutton her coat and shrug out of it so she could hang it on the oak clothes tree.

“Leave your coat on. He wants you at the building site for a walk-through. Nine sharp.” Kylie handed Eloise her coffee. “If I had any of
Murphy’s Finest,
I’d have put a shot in your cup. Fortification and all that.”

Eloise stuck out her tongue. “Gross. Irish whiskey in coffee… no thanks.” She took a sip from the steaming mug. The taste of any kind of whiskey turned her stomach, truth be told, but the success of Murphy’s empire certainly proved that enough people disagreed with her opinion. “Not that Irish whiskey doesn’t have its place,” she mused. “Like at a toga party for Alpha Psi. But this,” she hoisted her cup in the air, “is perfect the way it is. You should never mess with a good thing.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Kylie said, throwing up two fingers in an oath. “What’d you do this weekend, El?”

“Not much. Had one of my Netflix binges,” she said, wrapping her coat around her again. “I’m really digging
Orange Is The New Black
. Did you know that the actress that plays Yoga Jones was the voice of Patty Mayonnaise? Small world. You?”

“Oh, I went shopping with my girlfriends. Then to a party on Saturday. Sunday I spent at the spa getting hot rocks stacked up on my spine…it was awesome. You should come with me some time, El. Beats Netflix in your yoga pants with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.”

“Don’t knock it til you try it, zen queen. Gotta run, King Murphy awaits my presence to prostrate at his throne of douchedom,” Eloise said, grabbing her iPad and making an exit before Kylie could comment further on her lifestyle. She meant well, but some days Kylie’s constant efforts to jazz up Eloise’s private life got on her nerves. “That guy’s puffed up with so much arrogance he could give Donald Trump a boner.”

It took about ten minutes to walk from the corporate offices through the arena and access the site for
Murphy’s Finest Whiskey Pub and Event Center
at the east end of the complex. Ten minutes for her feet to start aching on top of her four-inch platforms. Had she known she was going on a field trip, she’d have brought some flats to change into for the trek.

The Zamboni hummed its way across the ice surface as she passed through, readying the slick surface for morning practice. If her boss hadn’t been expecting her, she’d have stopped to catch a glimpse of the elusive Cole Fiorino. A curtain of heavy vinyl covered the connecting breezeway into the construction zone. Eloise parted the split in the plastic drape and stepped through to the cavern of concrete that would soon change the face of the arena district.

Workers, tools, and building materials filled the space, the hubbub of noise echoing against the empty walls. Steps led up to a second level, and Eloise clomped in that direction assuming Sheehan would be up there, her heels clicking on the raw cement.

As she crossed the floor, she again glimpsed a small gathering of citizens outside the main entrance where glass doors had just been installed. She did a double take when she saw two or three players standing among them, their Rochester Riot equipment bags slung over their shoulders.

They were signing autographs. Cool beans. She loved it when the players took some time out to engage with the fans. It made her job that much easier. Eloise smiled at the great PR move; no better way to indulge the fans than to get up close and personal with their hometown heroes. Rochester loved their hockey team. No. That word wasn’t strong enough. This town worshiped their badass men on the ice. One by one, the players waved goodbye to the small crowd and entered through the partially-finished entrance, clearly deciding to take a shortcut to the dressing rooms before the fan club grew any bigger.

As the players trooped in, the tallest one caught Eloise’s eye.
Holy shit!
Man candy walked toward her, causing her heart to race and her palms to sweat. What in the hell was a spoiled rich kid doing in the arena at practice time? Today, he didn’t look so scruffy with his beard trimmed up and a Riot baseball cap covering black, spiky hair.

Minus the sunglasses, her rock-paper-scissors competitor had been none other than Cole Fiorino, their star centerman. A wave of horror washed over her, and she felt like puking all over his expensive Italian loafers. How humiliating. How could she not have recognized him? His azure eyes sparkled in greeting, and his smile lit up the dim and dusty space around them.

“Hey, pretty doughnut-lady,” he asked as he broke out the killer dimple again. “What are you doing here?”

Eloise felt her face grow hot, certain her cheeks must be aflame with color. “Hi,” she said. “I’d ask you the same thing, except the bag gives it away. Guess we should start over – I’m Eloise Robertson, Director of Communications and Community Relations for the Riot. You’re Cole Fiorino.”

“So my mom tells me,” he said. “Unless she’s pissed. Then, she calls me Coleman Arthur Fiorino in this waspish tone so she sounds like half Marge Simpson and half Kathleen Turner. You’d swear she smokes a pack a day, but she’d never touched a cancer stick in her life.”

Eloise laughed, grateful for his attempt to put her at ease. “Welcome to the team. I’m sorry for not recognizing you yesterday.”

“No worries,” he said as he waved it off with a sculpted hand. His fingers were long and graceful. Eloise stared at them, imagining those perfect digits running down the length of her thigh. “Guess the hoodie and shades did the trick.”

“Sure did.” Eloise willed her telling blush to recede and nodded in the direction of the street. “A little fan interaction?”

Cole glanced outside where the group of onlookers had ramped up. “Well, it didn’t start out that way, but they calmed down when we started talking and signing autographs. They’re not too happy about Sheehan’s new whiskey bar going up in their neighborhood. A lot of rumbling about drunks and degenerates.”

Eloise nodded. “They were here last week causing a ruckus, harassing some of the workers. I can see their point; the addition to the building will cut off significant access to the surrounding streets.”

“Yeah, not to mention taking business away. Some of the shops have sold out to Murphy and are shutting down completely. My friend owns a place not far from here, and I know he’s pissed about the whole thing.”

“Oh? What’s it called?”

“Blues & Brews
, about two blocks down that way,” Cole answered, pointing sharply out the entrance doors to the north.

“
Blues & Brews?
Sounds like a music venue.”

“It is, some of the time. Kind of a retro coffee-house. Small live acts perform there on Friday nights. The rest of the week he serves coffee and beer, in that order. It’s got a kick-ass vibe. Unique. Kind of like a pretty lady with a lust for powdered sugar. You should check it out sometime.”

Eloise grinned at his not-so-subtle come-on. Men of the NHL were used to getting anything they wanted. Women included so flirting became second nature. “I’ll do that,” she said. A series of loud shouts cut off her voice.

“Goddamn yokels, get them the hell away from my building!” Sheehan Murphy thundered down the steps from the upper level, yelling all the way. Eloise visibly cringed. The supercilious blowhard was the only thing she didn’t love about her career with The Riot.

“Uh, that’s my cue,” Cole said, adjusting his hat and taking a step back. “Late for practice. Have a great day, pretty doughnut-lady.”

“It’s Eloise. Call me El.”

Cole nodded as he turned toward the arena. “Eloise,” he mouthed silently, then winked. “I think I like pretty doughnut-lady better.”

An amused smile crossed her face but faded immediately as Murphy blustered up behind her.

“Can’t you get rid of these losers hanging around out there?” he shouted.

Eloise swiveled to face the man, his potted face red with anger. Back in the day, he might have been considered passably attractive. Heir to the
Murphy’s Finest
Irish whiskey empire, he certainly had enough money to dress well and take care of himself, in addition to having the means to buy an NHL franchise. At fifty-something, he still kept a reasonably trim figure, though his short stature likely had him watching calories in order to do so. His steel-gray hair formed a stylish brush cut atop his head.

“Good morning, Mr. Murphy,” Eloise said in her calmest, polished PR voice.

Murphy slowed his tirade just long enough to pierce her with his famous annoyed-and-I’m-going-to-pout face.

“Morning,” he said gruffly. “I’m trying to build a high-class establishment here, and those morons,” he pointed to the growing crowd outside, “don’t know enough to get out of the way. They’re costing me money.”

Like any high-powered, billionaire businessman, Murphy only cared about the bottom line. Eloise wondered if one shred of empathy ever coursed through his beefy body.

“I’ll speak to the foreman,” Eloise said. “There should be more barricades and safety measures put in place to keep bystanders out of the danger zone.”

“Oh, you’re a construction expert now, are you?” he asked. “I really don’t give a shit about their safety, Eloise. I want work to be done on time and within budget. It’s called a cost/benefit analysis. Didn’t they teach you about that basic business concept during your time at the prestigious Carlson School of Management?”

Eloise smiled patiently. “Yes, they certainly did. And I have family in the construction trades. My dad was a union pipefitter for thirty years, so I learned a few things along the way.”

“Union!” Murphy scoffed. “Another barrier to progress just like these idiots,” he thumbed toward the crowd again. “If the union had their way, this bar wouldn’t be opening until next year, costing me an extra million. I have kids in college, Eloise. Ivy League colleges. This shit needs to get done and get done on time!”

Unwilling to enter the polarizing territory of unions after her conversation with Ryder, Eloise changed the subject. “Shall we proceed with the walk-through, Sheehan? We both have a busy day ahead of us. I’m sure once we’re done, both our minds will be set at ease with the progress.”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “But make sure you clear that street before going back to your desk.”

“I said I would talk to the foreman,” Eloise answered. “But I can’t deny people their right to free assembly, and they are taxpayers, after all. They have a stake in how their neighborhood is developed.”

“Fuck free assembly.” Murphy waved his hand. “Make it go away, Eloise, because it’s what I pay you to do. You clean up messes. Let’s start upstairs.”

The design for the upper level included a massive viewing deck, a circular wall of windows that overlooked the city’s downtown on one side, and a premium view of the ice surface on the other. Seats on that side would sell for thousands, as would the cost for private event rentals. Prices would be completely out of reach for the regular fans like those lining the street right now, and this thought weighed on Eloise. It was her job to put a positive spin on this venture, and Sheehan wasn’t making it easy with his elitist bullshit.

As they made their way around the project, Sheehan continued to complain about the protesters, the “piddly mom-and-pop shops” that dotted the surrounding streets, and the speed of his workforce, or rather, the lack of it. He made rude comments to the carpenters and electricians they passed by and barked at Barbara, his assistant, when she approached him with questions about his schedule. At this rate, Eloise wouldn’t be surprised if some overly offended blue-collar worker popped him in the jaw.

Eloise made notes and edits to the checklist on her iPad. By the time they’d finished the tour, she’d decided that Sheehan Murphy was not a particularly nice man and represented everything people disliked about big corporations; greedy, uncaring and able to call the shots only by virtue of their deep pockets. She’d never really liked him, but he’d stayed out of her way up to now, so she’d been able to keep her distance and get her job done. Once the restaurant was completed, his focus would return to other projects, and she could breathe a sigh of relief.

As she’d promised, she sought out Stan Walters before returning to her office, urging him to widen the radius of the safety barriers and put up extra “No Trespassing” signs as soon as possible. Looking at the growing group of demonstrators outside, Eloise decided to go right to the heart of the matter and pushed through the door.

“Good morning,” she said, mustering her calmest public speaking voice. “I’m Eloise Robertson. I work for the Rochester Riot. For your safety, I ask that all of you move back to the opposite side of the street. The Riot would be devastated if something happened to one of you during this project.”