Three months later

 

Winners never quit and quitters never win.

The old adage ran through Charles Dawson's mind, over and over, picking up speed and threatening to split his skull wide open. Would anyone notice?

Considering six sets of eyes were trained on him—yeah, probably.

Not for the first time, he asked himself what the hell he'd gotten into this time. Yes, he was good at marketing. Damn good. But he wasn't a miracle worker and he was pretty sure that's what the Chesapeake Blades needed: a miracle worker.

Not just the Blades—the whole damn league. But the league wasn't his problem. Thank God. He was going to have enough of a problem marketing the fledgling team. Let someone else worry about the league, that one wasn't on him.

Not yet, anyway.

And not that it mattered. The two went hand-in-hand, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself otherwise.

Quitters never win.

No, they didn't. But was running for the lifeboats to escape a sinking ship really the same as quitting? Some would say it was simply a question of semantics.

And he wasn't about to split hairs with the group gathered in front of him, watching him like he was their last hope. Like he was their lifeboat.

God help them all.

James Murphy, the majority owner of the Chesapeake Blades, glanced down at the colorful presentation folder resting on the shiny desk in front of him. Bushy gray brows pulled low over steely eyes and the thin chest puffed out in importance. Charles knew he was judging the man harshly—Murphy really did have good intentions as far as the team was concerned. Although why in the hell he thought buying into the Blades was a sound investment was anyone's guess.

Money to burn, maybe? A tax write-off? Or maybe the man wanted to be part of something bigger. Hell, maybe he was just living out a childhood fantasy and nurturing dreams of the imagined glitz and glamor of owning a sports team. Charles didn't know and he didn't really care. He didn't deal with dreams and fantasies. He was here to do a job, nothing more.

Damn shame that this job was turning into a major headache that just might signal the end of an otherwise prosperous career.

"Did you have any of the girls in mind, Chuck?"

Charles inwardly winced at the nickname. Christ, he hated that name. It brought back memories of his awkward childhood, reminding him of those times when he'd been a young bumbling teenager who was a little too round and a little too clumsy to really fit in. A late-bloomer, his mother always said—usually as she was ushering him from one sport or activity to another, anxious for him to find a place to fit in and make friends.

Charles had finally grown out of the baby fat and the awkwardness and found his own footing, one that had nothing to do with sports. At least, not the way his mother had hoped.

The irony of his new position as Director of Marketing and Public Relations for the Chesapeake Blades wasn't lost on him. He would have laughed if anyone had told him a year ago that he'd be trying to market a women's hockey team.

A women's hockey team. It boggled the mind. But here he was, trying to do the impossible in a market that had a real hockey team—the Baltimore Banners—playing fifteen minutes away. It was doomed for failure before it even started.

But if he could make it successful? Well now, wouldn't that be something? And that's what excited him—the challenge. That was why he'd agreed to this job, in spite of the lower salary and its dismal chance of success.

Because sometimes the challenge was everything.

Charles grabbed the last few remaining sheets and placed them in a tidy pile before putting them back in the worn leather bag he always carried. His gaze wandered around the table, knowing the faces looking back at him were still waiting for an answer.

Knowing they were all looking to him for a miracle.

He hoisted the bag over his shoulder then reached up to straighten the silk tie before turning back to Murphy. "No, I don't have any of the women in mind. I'd like to see them on the ice first. Get a feel for their presence and personality."

"I'd think that reading their bios would have helped with that."

"I didn't read their bios."

Stark silence greeted his announcement, just as he knew it would. Murphy glanced around the table then pinned Charles with his steely gaze, his eyebrows lowering even more. "You haven't read their bios?"

"No. I don't want to be swayed by words on paper. There's too much riding on this."

"I'm sorry, Chuck, but I'm a little confused. And I know I'm not alone. We made sure you had those bios two weeks ago so you could come up with a comprehensive plan. We've already lost valuable time. Do you mean to tell me you don't have any idea of which of the girls you even want to use for this marketing plan of yours?"

"You lost valuable time by bringing in someone who had no idea what they were doing. And while I might be late to the party, I can assure you—I know what I'm doing." Charles shifted the strap against his shoulder then leaned forward, meeting Murphy's stare with an intent one of his own.

"These women can have the most spectacular bio in the world. They could have a list of world cups and trophies and medals and awards by their name. None of it means anything if they don't have that spark and enthusiasm that's going to draw in the crowds you want and need. I don't want the words, James. I want the excitement. The enthusiasm. The spark."

Had he pushed too far? Charles held his breath, waiting for Murphy's reaction. The man wasn't a fool, even if his investment in a women's hockey team was questionable at best. Would he bluster at being questioned? Or would he let Charles do the job he had hired him to do?

Murphy pulled his gaze away and sat back in the leather chair, a thoughtful frown on his face. A tense minute stretched into two, then three and four, before the older man finally nodded. "Fair enough. We brought you in to do the job because you're damn good at it. We'll let you do things your way."

Charles didn't miss the silent for now tacked at the end of the sentence. Fair enough, just like Murphy had said. They both had jobs to do, jobs with the same end goal: winning.

"It's my understanding that the team is still downstairs practicing?"

Murphy glanced at his watch then nodded. "For another half hour, yes."

"I'd like to watch, if you don't mind."

"I'm sure that won't be a problem." Murphy pushed out of the chair, signaling an end to the meeting. He clapped his hand around Charles' shoulder then motioned toward the door. "Let's go introduce you to the girls, Chuck."

"James, do yourself a favor—stop calling them girls."

"But that's what they are. Every single one of them is young enough to be my granddaughter."

"That may be, but you need to stop. They're women. And it's a women's hockey team and a women's hockey league. I'm going to have a hard enough time getting the market to take them seriously—I don't need you making my job harder."

Charles thought maybe he had gone too far this time because Murphy straightened his lean form and leveled another stare at him. In the end, he said nothing, just clamped his mouth into a thin line and nodded before leading Charles out into the carpeted hallway.

The superficial opulence of the conference room and office came to an abrupt halt as soon as they entered the hallway leading back to the rink. The front office had been designed to impress. To scream success and assure visitors—what few there were—that the team was much more than a passing fancy. But it was nothing more than an image, one that disappeared as soon as you pushed through the second set of doors leading to the ice.

The smell of sweat and stagnant water hit him as soon as they pushed through doors. The air was damp and cold, from both the inside temperature and the large sheet of ice encased by the faded boards and scratched sheets of plexiglass. Charles halted, his eyes adjusting to the dim light as childhood memories assaulted him.

He'd played hockey for three years, mostly because his mother had been convinced he needed to play sports. Football, basketball. Soccer. Baseball. He'd done them all. But none of them had been his thing, not when he had been more interested in analyzing and studying. In trying to figure out ways to create something better out of something that was already there. In dreaming of ways to make things bigger and better. It was something his mother had never understood, not until his first job out of college.

Maybe not even then.

But out of all the sports he'd been forced to play, hockey held the most memories. The scratch of blades against ice. The burn of muscles rarely used. The rush of wind as he raced for a puck that he was never quite fast enough to get. The smell—God, just the smell was enough to send him hurtling back in time.

He brushed off the memories and followed Murphy along the boards, the leather bag slapping against his hip with each step. Shouts and grunts echoed in the chilled air around them. Two players crashed against the boards with a hollow thud, each fighting for the puck. Charles paused, watching them. The masks of their helmets hid most of their faces, but they couldn't hide the intensity, the desire, that burned through them.

It was the same intensity and desire he'd seen on the face of every professional player in every professional game he'd ever watched, no matter what the sport. That had to be a good sign, right?

"Fuck."

One of the girls—no, women, he was just as bad as Murphy—muttered the curse as the puck shot free. Both women tore off after it, sweaty ponytails swinging against their backs. Charles bit back a grin then wondered if he'd have to give a lecture on appropriate language before the season started. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that. And if it did…well, then he'd let the coach handle it.

Murphy paused at the end of the bleachers. "Did you want Coach Reynolds to call them over?"

"No, not yet. I just want to watch. Make a few notes." Charles headed to the top of the bleachers then took a seat and grabbed a pen and small notebook from his bag. No decisions would be made today—it was too early. But he wanted this time just to watch. To study. To see if any of the women stood out. To see if any of them had that certain spark, that little bit of magic that would pop and make them stand out.

That little extra something that he could build on and use to promote the team.

He knew exactly what he was looking for: charisma. Charm. And yes, even a little bit of sex appeal. It was sexist—he'd be the first to admit it. But physical looks would go a long way in helping to market the team, at least to start. Attractive and athletic, attributes that would entice the market's demographic. Something to hook their initial interest then keep the crowd coming back.

He hoped. A lot of it would depend on the team itself, as a whole, and whether or not they were any good.

He had a few backup plans, just in case. But he could worry about that later. Right now, he needed to get the crowd in the door. This would have been so much easier if he had been called in right from the beginning, instead of joining the front office two months before the season started.

That just made it more of a challenge, and a challenge is what he hungered for. As long as he kept reminding himself of that, he'd be fine.

Maybe.

A shrill whistle split the chilled air, startling him from the hasty notes he was scribbling. The women skated toward the door, removing helmets and juggling sticks as they headed toward the coach. He noticed the sweaty faces, red from exertion, tired but still excited from what they were doing. Would the excitement last, once the season started? God, he hoped so. It would make his job that much easier.

He jotted down a few final notes then flipped to another page and jotted down five different numbers. He tore the sheet from the notebook then made his way down the bleachers over to where Murphy was standing.

The older man glanced down at the small sheet of paper then back at Charles. "What's this?"

"A start. I'd like to see these players once the coach is finished with them."

"We can take care of that now." Murphy grabbed him by the elbow and led him over to the crowd of players huddled around Coach Reynolds. Charles winced when the older man interrupted the coach, saying something to her in a low tone as he pushed the sheet of paper into her hand. The coach frowned, looked down at the paper, then nodded.

"Wiley, Riegler, Woodhouse, Baldwin, and LeBlanc. Mr. Murphy would like to see you. Everyone else, hit the showers."

Five women looked over with varying expressions of curiosity, their voices low and muted as they made their way over to where he and Murphy were standing. Charles casually studied them, his gaze moving from one to the other to the other, analyzing his initial gut reactions to each.

A tall blonde with dimples.

A petite woman with a short mop of black curls and smiling brown eyes.

Another blonde, her platinum-streaked hair pulled back into a ponytail that didn't quite contain the thick waves.

A red-head, with a full pouty mouth and sculpted brows arched over clear green eyes.

But it was the fifth player that drew his attention. Number 67. Long hair, a mix of light brown and honey blonde, hung down her back, with darker strands clinging to her flushed and damp face. Wide eyes the color of whiskey. A crooked smile that made her look like she knew a secret that you'd pay anything to learn—or that she was up to no good. There was something about her—

"Girls, this is our new PR Director, Chuck Dawson. I want you to pay attention to what he says and help him out." Murphy stepped back then waved his hand, turning things over to him.

Charles stepped forward, his gaze darting back to Number 67. Why was she studying him that way? With her head tilted to the side and those clear amber eyes so intently focused on him? He forced himself to look away, told himself it was nothing more than curiosity, and pasted a smile to his face.

"Actually, you can call me Charles, not Chuck—"

Number 67 laughed, the sound clear and musical, then stepped forward. For a split-second, Charles thought she was ready to wrap him in a big hug—one he instinctively knew he wouldn't step away from.

And then she spoke and all thoughts of hugs—and every other inappropriate thought that had been swimming around in his muddled brain—vanished.

"OhmyGod, it really is you. Chuckie-the-fart!"