Power Play [Published]

Chapter One × Arrogant Bad Boy

When I landed this internship with the Portland Pirates, I thought things would be a little different. No, I didn't expect to trip over my feet on the first day, land into the arms of some six-foot hockey player, and quit my job to become his Instagram model girlfriend. But I also didn't think I would be spending my days digitizing old marketing contracts and listening to my bosses' bitch about each other.

Did the hopeless romantic in me dream of being one of those girls from a romance novel - where I meet some arrogant bad boy, have him hit on me endlessly with sexual innuendos until I finally cave and go on a date with him? I plead the fifth.

But let's face it, I'm not the type of girl that those guys go for. Do I look hot as fuck when I throw on some makeup and squeeze my ass into a tight dress? You bet I do. The issue isn't in my physical beauty; but in my resting bitch face, lack of experience in the sack, and refusal to settle for anything less than extraordinary.

I want passion, I want romance, I want to be swept off my feet and taken in an elevator. I want a man that knows how fucking lucky he is to have me and spends the rest of his life doing everything he can to make me happy. Anything less than that, and I may as well just settle for a dildo that vibrates.

"Big press conference today." Danielle - one of my bosses, informs me as she hovers beside my desk. Even when standing, she's barely a few inches taller than me. With an intense desire for perfection, a little controlling, and always worried about my safety; she's like the mother I never had.

"Unless he changes his mind again." The manager of social media - Oscar, calls over. He's in his mid forties, and is already starting to bald in the middle. He usually has a smile on his face; but when he doesn't, he looks like your dad when you crashed his 1998 Mustang.

Part of me thinks he would've put his talents to better use being an interrogator for the FBI - where he would get promoted for scaring the shit out of people on a daily basis.

Danielle looks in the direction of his office. "Right?"

They're talking about the owner of the team - a businessman who made his money in the oil industry, only to lose half of it overnight. Unfortunately, he's a stubborn fuck; and refuses to sell the team.

So now, we have monthly budget cuts, broken elevators, and long-term employees leaving left and right. When rumors started going around that Scrooge was toying with the idea of selling the team, people were jumping for joy - both fans and employees. Not because he's a broke millionaire, because he's an egomaniac.

But as the weeks went by, hope started to fade when he turned down the offers which where already few and far between. The lack of interest isn't exactly surprising; our arena is in the middle of Timbuctoo and our roster resembles one of a farm team - and not even a good one.

We used to have some household names; but then money got tight and Scrooge started unloading them faster than Wal-Mart changes the merchandise in their seasonal department.

"He's gonna go through with this one." The director of marketing - Brent, chimes in from his office. He's also in his mid-forties; with a love of talking down to people and the inexplicable need to announce whenever he's going to the gym.

Danielle waddles over and stands in the doorframe of his office. "Source?"

"The new owner is already flying out some players for contract negotiations. I'm friends with the Kings' dad and one of his sons is coming out." Although Brent is a dick, his intel is usually the most accurate out of everyone's.

"Which one?" Oscar calls over, coming out to grab his lunch from the fridge beside me. Yes, my desk is right in-between the department fridge and one of our filing cabinets. Prime real estate space like this doesn't come cheap.

"The one that plays for Toronto." Brent responds, clearly not being able to recall the man's actual name.

The Kings' - not from the monarch and not the NHL team, are three brothers who all made it to the big leagues. The oldest one is a goaltender for Chicago; married with four kids. The second King is an alternate captain in Toronto; single and a major fan favorite. And the final King is a defenseman for the Rangers; and is the definition of wild.

"Erik, that's his name; Erik King." Brent shouts, finally remembering - or Googling it.

I'm not gonna lie, I'm slightly disappointed. If it was the youngest one getting courted by our future potential owner, I would think maybe it's a sign that I'm finally about to have my epic romance novel love story. He's the same age as me, easy on the eyes, and let's be honest - who doesn't love an arrogant bad boy?

Either way, with Brent's revelation, I am reminded that my life is not a romance novel. I'm not going to be the object of affection for some handsome hockey player. And given my track record with men, I really need to stop believing in fairy tales.