The chilled air seeped beneath his jacket, leeching the warmth from his skin. It didn't help that the metal bleacher under him was even colder. Charles ignored the discomfort and tried once more to focus his attention on the opened laptop carefully balanced on his knees. Paperwork was scattered on the bench beside him, the red marks of his hastily scribbled notes muted like dried blood in the dim light of the arena. A cup of coffee, barely lukewarm by now, sat on his other side next to his phone and tablet.

He had an office—if you wanted to call the cubicle that was barely larger than a closet an office. And while the temperature might be a little warmer in the cramped space, he preferred working out here in the rink, at least when the girls were practicing. He had adjusted his own schedule to coincide with theirs, so he could get a better feel for what positives to exploit, searching for little gems he could gather and use to fill his marketing plan. The team only practiced on Tuesday and Thursday nights—as well as Saturday mornings—so if the girls were out here, so was he.

Not girls—women. Christ, he was as bad as Murphy. God help him if he ever slipped and called them girls in any of the press releases he'd been sending out, or in any of the interviews he'd been doing.

Not that the press releases or interviews had been doing much good. Maybe he should slip-up once. Didn't they say that bad publicity was better than no publicity at all?

No. As tempting as that might be, it wouldn't help in the long run. Right now, he wasn't sure anything would help.

He gritted his teeth and kicked the negativity to the back of his mind. He needed to keep looking forward, needed to focus on the positive. It was there, somewhere. He just needed to find it.

Charles glanced at his watch then shifted his gaze to the girls on the ice. A local news crew was scheduled to arrive in the next twenty minutes for a human-interest piece. It was nothing more than fluff, a feel-good filler for tonight's newscast. He hoped it ran longer than the five-second mention on the late-night news another network had run the other day. The station manager had assured him it would but he knew there was no guarantee. If it was a slow news day…maybe.

Charles tapped his finger against the laptop's touchscreen and opened another file, this one an analytics program that measured hits and opens of several paid ads the team was running. Disappointment swamped him and he quickly closed the program. Ticket sales were steady—as in nearly non-existent. No spikes. No hits. No apparent interest. If the Blades—hell, even the league, for that matter—had a bigger advertising budget, things might be a little different. But the budget wasn't there, so his choices were limited.

There had to be something he could do, some small thing he was missing. Something he could capitalize on and exploit.

His gaze darted back to the ice, watching the girls give everything they had during practice. Shouts and grunts echoed back to him, followed by the occasional dull thud of a body hitting the boards, or the clang of the puck hitting the metal frame of the net.

The pipes, he mentally corrected himself.

Wisps of memory rushed through him, transporting him back to that awkward childhood he hated so much. The feel of ankles wobbling in skates that didn't quite fit. Pudgy hands jammed into bulky gloves, the tips of his fingers almost numb from gripping the long stick so hard, afraid he'd accidentally drop it. The groans and taunts of his teammates when he swung the stick at the puck and fell face-first onto the ice.

Way to go, Chuckie.

There he goes again.

You cost us the game, Chuckie.

Can't you do anything right?

He clenched his jaw and forcibly shook the memories off. Playing hockey had never been his thing. Hell, playing sports of any kind had never been his thing. But it hadn't been all bad, not really.

He just needed to really, really concentrate to remember the occasional fun times. And there must have been fun times, because he'd played for three years—longer than any other sport his mother had insisted he try.

And what was he doing, sitting here in the tangled memories of his childhood? He had more important things to do, like getting ready for the news crew. He had chosen Rachel Woodhouse for this interview, hoping the camera would pick up on her blatant sexuality. With her thick, platinum-streaked blonde hair and come-hither blue eyes, along with her lithe build, long legs, and sparkling smile, she should be a natural in front of the camera. She looked like the girl-next-door after the girl-next-door grew up into a sex kitten. Even coming off the ice all sweaty and red-faced and breathing heavy from physical exertion, the camera would love her.

He had originally considered using Shannon Wiley for this piece, knowing she'd immediately attract attention. That idea had flown out the window as soon as she opened her mouth. The woman might look like sex-on-a-stick but she was as lethal as a viper, something he certainly didn't need to come through on camera. For still shots, absolutely. Maybe even some live action footage. The woman was, after all, the team's goalie—and a talented one at that. It wouldn't hurt to showcase some of her acrobatic skills in the net. But actually talking to a news crew? Absolutely not. It wasn't a chance he could afford to take, not if he had any say in the matter.

And then there was Tay-Tay. Christ, he still couldn't believe it. He probably shouldn't be surprised that she was here, not with her connections—and her talent. But here, on the Blades? What were the chances?

Pretty damn good, considering she lived in Baltimore and her step-dad used to coach the Baltimore Banners. And then there was her uncle, who used to play for the Banners and still worked for the team as one of their analysts. No, he shouldn't be surprised at all. And he had absolutely no problems using her and her family in the team's marketing, not when it would definitely help. His plan was to use her name—to use her and her family—to tap into the existing Banners' market. And if he could use that connection to strike a relationship with the Banners' marketing team, maybe pave the way to garner some support, then all the better.

It was just a damn shame that part of him found Taylor compelling and attractive. How was that even possible, when he had been so intimidated by her as a kid? When just looking at her made him feel like that bumbling, awkward, pudgy, inept teenager?

Because part of him was obviously a masochist. That had to be it.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he might have, quite possibly, had the tiniest crush on her when he was a kid.

A shudder went through him at the morbid memory. Yes, there was definitely a bit of a masochist buried deep inside him somewhere.

He glanced at his watch then shut down the computer and started gathering up the scattered files spread next to him. The news crew would be here any minute—time for him to start doing what he was getting paid to do.

A shout went up, the words "Heads up" echoing around him loud and clear. He turned his head, saw a dark blur hurtling toward him, and tried to duck as he swiped at the object with one hand. His reaction time was too slow and the puck clipped him on the cheekbone, a stinging punch that caused him to pull his breath in with a sharp hiss. He winced as the puck dropped to his side, knocking over the nearly full cup of coffee. Dark liquid sloshed over the files he had just gathered, drenching them and his pants leg.

"Shit." Charles reached for the paperwork, shaking as much of the spilled coffee from them as he could. His cheek burned, a stinging sensation that radiated along the entire right side of his face.

"Shit." He repeated the word, slightly louder this time, knowing he could scream it at the top of his lungs and it wouldn't help. He placed the sopping files to the side then leaned down, his hand closing around the puck resting by his feet. The urge to hurl it back toward the ice was overwhelming but he controlled it—barely.

The control nearly snapped when he saw one of the players come to a stop against the glass, her whiskey-colored eyes wide and glittering with amusement. Had it been an accident? Or had Taylor deliberately shot the puck toward him?

No, it had to have been an accident. Charles knew that if it had been deliberate, his face would hurt a lot more than it did. Even as a young kid, Taylor's shot had contained one hell of a lot of power. It had probably been a loose shot, a fluke. For all he knew, Taylor wasn't even the one responsible for it. He should have been paying better attention.

Or maybe he should have just stayed in his office to work, instead of coming out here.

He climbed to the bottom of the bleachers and stopped near the glass, bouncing the puck in his hand. Once, twice. Once more. Then he looked over at Taylor, his back teeth grinding when he noticed her wide smile and the way that smile danced in those oddly-colored eyes of hers.

She pushed the helmet back on her head and leaned against the boards, so casual and sure of herself. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Fine."

She nodded toward his face, the brightness of her smile dimming for a split-second. "You probably want to get some ice. For your cheek."

"Yeah. Probably." He loosened his grip on the puck then tossed it over the glass. Taylor leaned back and deftly snagged it out of the air, loosely cradling it in her glove as she watched him.

"You're going to have a nice shiner."

"Yeah. Probably."

She nodded then glanced to the far end of the ice. His gaze followed hers, coming to a stop on the man standing there with a heavy camera resting on his shoulder. The camera was pointed in their direction. And shit, was the guy filming?

With the way his luck had been going in the last ten minutes, probably. Great. Just what he needed.

"It's a good look on you."

Charles spun around, surprised at Taylor's words—and even more surprised at the warm smile and slow wink she sent his way. She skated off before he could even close his mouth, leaving him standing there like a slack-jawed kid.

What the hell? Had Taylor been flirting with him?

He shook his head, calling himself a fool. What kind of game was she up to? Because there was no doubt in his mind that she was up to something. Was this her way of trying to get out of the photo shoot and interview he had set up with her step-dad and uncle for Saturday?

Knowing Taylor—yes.

But it wouldn't work. He wasn't that pudgy awkward kid from all those years ago, was no longer content to step to the side and let everyone else take control.

This was his game now. He was the one in charge. And the sooner Taylor LeBlanc realized that, the better things would be.