Boss Girl (Minnesota Ice #2) Read online

  There’s one more phone call I need to make before I head out to grab a salad from down the road. Sitting back in my chair, I choose my cell phone as opposed to the landline. It’s more personal to have my private number appearing than a corporate one.

  If I’ve learned anything about Boxer, it’s that he’s not signing himself away to the highest bidder—he’s looking for personality. I can give him personality.

  “Hello?” He sounds a bit confused as he answers. “Who is this?”

  “Hey, Boxer,” I say, a smile spreading across my face. The image brought to my mind by his voice—the wide grin, sturdy jaw, handsome blue eyes—is entirely pleasant. “It’s Jocelyn. I hope you don’t mind I called from my personal line—I just wanted you to have my cell phone number in case of emergency. You can reach me all hours of the day.”

  “Fine,” he says. “I’d offer you the same, but it seems you already have my number and aren’t afraid to use it.”

  “I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”

  “Actually, it is. I’m at my daughter’s school for her pajama day pancake lunch. Can we talk later?”

  “Sure, um... of course.” I’m rarely ever speechless, but this one has me at a loss for words. “Sorry to bother you. When should I call?”

  “Later,” he says, sounding vague and distracted. “Talk to you later.”

  When I hang up the phone, I’m mystified. I need a breath of fresh air, a latte, and a nice, crisp salad with some chicken. I grab my purse and stop by the lobby.

  “Am I rude?” I ask Lindsay. “Be honest.”

  “Um...” She looks up and winces. “Not usually?”

  “I can’t figure out Boxer.”

  Lindsay shrugs. “He seems pretty straightforward. That little girl of his is cute. There was a picture of them in the paper.”

  “Curious. Very curious.”

  “Remember what I said,” Lindsay calls as I head toward the doors. “Just be yourself!”

  “Nope, myself isn’t good enough.” I stop in the doorway. “Andy Rumpert is going to steal Boxer right out from underneath me, just like he did with Donovan.”

  “This isn’t a repeat of Donovan.”

  “Sure as hell feels like it,” I tell Lindsay. “Do me a favor and try to think of something that’ll impress Boxer. I’m going to need a leg up on this one.”

  Chapter 7

  Boxer

  I’m getting quite a few stares, and I think it’s because of my pants.

  Not a single parent heard the news it was pajama day. Either that, or my daughter made it up.

  I look around, and not one other person—parent, child, or teacher—is wearing anything other than their normal clothes. Jeans, t-shirts, dresses, that sort of thing. In fact, all of the students are in their normal, private school uniforms of plaid skirts or navy pants and white collared shirts.

  “So, honey,” I say, squatting next to Charli just as we’re about to step into the auditorium. “Why aren’t any of your classmates dressed in pajamas?”

  She shrugs. “They forgot.”

  “Really?” I struggle to hold back a smile. “Every last one of them?”

  Her baby blues watch me, mischief in them, and I see the exact moment she realizes I know the truth. Even so, she sticks to her story. “I forgot.”

  “You didn’t forget, did you?” I say softly. “Why’d you tell me it was pajama day if it’s not? You could get in trouble for not wearing your uniform.”

  “I don’t like my uniform.”

  “Why not?”

  She gives a two shoulder shrug, as if it’s not worth the explanation to a grownup like me. “You wouldn’t understand,” she says on a sigh that’s ten years older than her. “You get to wear whatever you want every day.”

  “You’ll get to do that, too, when you’re as old as me.”

  She squints. “I don’t want to be old like you.”

  “Thanks, hon.”

  She giggles. “Those are the rules. I’m little; you’re big.”

  “That’s right. So if you promise to stay little, I promise to stay old.”

  Holding out a pinky, a solemn expression on her face, she makes me swear on it. “Deal.”

  “You have to tell the truth though, okay? I trust you.” I ruffle her hair. “If you tell me it’s pajama day, I’m going to believe you. But you can’t lie about it or we’ll both get in trouble. Why’d you tell me it’s pajama day?”

  “Because I like my pajamas. And I like your pajamas.” She reaches out, her fingers toying gently with the fabric around my knees. “And we’re a team like you always say. Teams wear matching clothes.”

  She’s wearing an old Minnesota Stars sweatshirt that goes down to her knees over her pajamas. She wears that thing like other kids hold onto a blanket—with unrivaled ferociousness, especially considering its current state of disrepair. The thing is so thin I can see sunlight pouring through it.

  “We are a team,” I tell her. “Me and you. We’ll always be a team.”

  “So how come we can’t wear matching clothes? I don’t want them to be on our team.” She nods toward the rest of her classmates. “I want it to be just me and you, daddy.”

  “I know, sweetheart, but it’s important to make friends, too.” I grasp my daughter’s hand in mine, swallowing it with the size of my fingers. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s make friends together.”

  “You’ll sit with me?” Her lips are leaning toward a pout, as if she’s unsure of this whole sharing thing.

  “Of course I will. Let’s grab some pancakes.” If I could keep her home with me all day, I’d do it, but that’s not what the parent book says to do. “You can do the syrup pouring, just like at home.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Because you’re not strong enough to lift it up like me.”

  “That’s right. Let’s see those guns.”

  With a grimace worthy of a tiger, she bares her teeth and raises her hands above her head, eeking out every last centimeter of muscle that she calls a bicep.

  I reach out and give the pea-sized bump a squeeze. “Mashed potatoes.”

  “They’re not mashed potatoes!”

  “Then go show me how strong you are and load up the pancakes.”

  As she scurries off, I follow her progress with a smile creeping onto my face. I can’t help it. If someone had told me how much joy fifty pounds of pure energy would give me, I wouldn’t have believed them six years ago. Now, I don’t know how I could live without her.

  “Hey there, Mr. Boxer,” Charli’s teacher greets me as I step into the cafeteria. “Thanks for joining us today.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Orman,” I say, greeting the thirty-something-year-old brunette. “Sorry about the, uh... dress code violations. I was under false pretenses that it was pajama day.”

  Her eyes flick ever so quickly over my pants, her cheeks flushing red before she pulls her eyes up to meet mine. “No problem at all. I chatted with Charli about it, and... well, you look great.”

  “Um, thanks,” I say, shifting awkwardly as I glance around the room.

  She’s not the only one giving me funny glances. Some of the other dads hanging out here look downright stupefied at my getup. A handful of teachers give me a disapproving frown, and then there are the other mothers—the younger ones, some of them single—who are staring with unabashed amusement. I’m not a self-conscious person, but I can feel my heart pumping a little faster than normal.

  “I discussed this with Charli,” I tell her teacher. “It won’t happen again. I don’t know what she was thinking making up stories.”

  “It’s clear she enjoys spending time with you, doing things together. I think she just wanted a little attention.”

  “I give her plenty of attention.”

  “You do a wonderful job, and Charli’s an amazing kid. But, she’s also very smart and attentive, and...”

  “And what?” I press, suddenly less interested in pancakes. “Did something happen in class?”


  “No, not so much, but—”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “Look, Mr. Boxer, I don’t have to tell you that you are a very talented hockey player and have made a great career for yourself. There’s a lot of speculation that you’re going to help lead the Lightning to a big victory this year.”

  “What does this have to do with Charli?” I growl. “Did someone say something?”

  I vowed a long time ago that my career wouldn’t interfere with Charli’s life—at least, not as much as I could help it. I have zero tolerance for paparazzi, media, reporters, or anyone else who’ll try to rope my daughter into the spotlight. I’d rather give up hockey than put her in the public eye. She’s a child, and she deserves to have her childhood.

  “It’s more the general population of the school,” Mrs. Orman says, wringing her fingers together in front of her body. “And nothing bad, I promise you. We are very sensitive to that sort of thing here at Westwood Prep.”

  “That’s why I’m paying a shitload of money for her to come here,” I tell Mrs. Orman. “Sorry about the language, but I thought this was a private school that’d help guard her from some of that.”

  “It’s impossible to ignore. You—your team, at least—make an appearance on the news three times a week. Kids, the boys in particular, enjoy watching you. You’re a hero, Mr. Boxer, and a great role model. Please don’t take this the wrong way—they look up to you, wear your jersey, beg their parents to stay up late to watch the end of your games.”

  I don’t have anything to say to this. I’m partly flattered, partly embarrassed, and mostly flustered.

  “I think Charli feels a little possessive over you,” Mrs. Orman explains, her thick eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. “All the kids here love you. Some of the teachers do, too. You’re a popular man, Mr. Boxer. The way I see it, Charli wants to know you’re hers, and hers alone. I don’t blame her for not wanting to share.”

  I can’t help the frown creeping onto my lips. Surely many men would find Mrs. Orman attractive. To me, she’s just Charli’s teacher, and I prefer to keep things that way.

  I haven’t looked romantically at a woman since Charli was born—at least, not with the intent to let anything happen. Until another image flashes through my memory—Jocelyn Jones sitting in the front seat of my car, her lips pouted with curiosity, just begging for a kiss.

  I clear my throat and shake my head to get rid of the image, but Mrs. Orman takes it the wrong way.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” She clasps a hand over her mouth. “I just meant that you and Charli share a special bond, and she’s protective of it. Her mother isn’t in the picture, from what you’ve told me, so your daughter’s likely going to grab onto the bond you two share and hold it for dear life. She cherishes it.”

  “I understand,” I say, my voice still sounding gruff. “Thanks again for looking out for Charli. You do a great job with her.”

  “Good luck with your season.” She gives me a smile. “Everything will be just fine, I promise.”

  “I’m going to grab some pancakes,” I say, since the conversation is wandering into uncomfortable territory. “Thank you.”

  “Here, dad.” Charli dumps syrup onto my plate once I’ve joined her at the table. “Let me dress your pancakes.”

  I don’t tell her that she hasn’t dressed my pancakes, she’s drowned them. There’s enough syrup on my plate for an entire tribe of pancakes. Still, her teacher’s words are fresh in my mind, and instead of giving her a lecture about not wasting syrup, I pull her in close and wrap my arm around her.

  “That’s perfect,” I say, pressing a kiss into her unruly curls. One of the ‘Mom’ things I haven’t figured out is hair. On a good day, Charli’s curls are a wild mess. On a bad day, she looks like Michael Jackson with an afro. “I love you.”

  “Love you too, daddy.”

  She happily chomps on her pancakes, and I follow suit, mostly drinking mine since the ‘cakes’ have disintegrated into mush. We’re almost through with the meal when I feel a shadow arrive behind me, a large figure that I recognize the second I turn around.

  “Boxer.” Andy Rumpert has a huge grin on his face. He sticks out a hand as if we’re old buddies. “Fancy seeing you here, man.”

  “Andy.” I turn halfway in my seat. Charli’s head swivels too, and she gives the stranger a look that’s none too excited. “What brings you here?”

  “Couldn’t miss a chance to talk with my favorite defender in the league.”

  “I’m in the middle of something.”

  “Oh, right, sorry.” Andy offers a smile that anybody can see isn’t nearly sincere enough. “My niece goes here, and I just stopped by to eat lunch with her.”

  “Who’s your niece?” Charli asks.

  She’s young, but she’s smart. Smarter than me. I turn to watch Andy’s reaction, but he slides smoothly into the real reason he’s here. “I know Duke’s retiring. I want you, Boxer. I want to work together.”

  “Sorry, I don’t discuss business at my daughter’s school.”

  “Let me buy you a drink later.”

  I turn back to my pancakes. “No, thank you.”

  “I’ve got tickets to the premier of the Fast & the Fury. A pair of them. Come with me, and we can talk. Tomorrow night.”

  “I said—”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt.” Andy slides onto the stool next to me at the cafeteria table, and the entire thing sags under our combined weight. We are two big men on child sized seats. “I know this is some special father daughter time, but I need to get some reservations made. I’d love to buy you drinks; we can talk some business and then have a little fun.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  I fork my pancake, swirl it around in a bath of syrup, and keep my arm snug around Charli’s back. Her pout lines are growing deeper, and if I don’t get rid of Andy soon, I have a feeling she’ll do it herself. God, I love this kid. She’s got the taste of a princess and the temper of a grown man with road rage.

  “What sort of fun are you into?” Andy asks. “I’m up for anything.”

  “Ice cream,” Charli finishes for me. “He loves sprinkles.”

  “I’ll bet he does,” Andy says. “Ice cream, huh?”

  Andy winks at me, but he’s in for a surprise if he thinks that’s code word for something. I gave up drinking and life at the bars when Charli made her appearance, and I haven’t regretted it for a day.

  “How about we grab some ice cream and then hit the premier? Get you out of the house for a night?”

  “I like my house just fine,” I tell him. “And I don’t discuss business at my kid’s school. Bye, Rumpert.”

  “Tell me you’ll come to the event, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

  I hesitate and glance at Charli. The reason I don’t go out isn’t for lack of invites—it’s because I’ve got all I need at home.

  “Look, buddy. You’re going to need a new agent. I don’t want to be hanging around your daughter’s school trying to win you over. Give me a fair shot and, if you don’t like what you hear, I’ll call it quits and leave you alone.”

  “One night out?”

  “Movie premier. Drink—er, ice cream. A little business talk and then a little fun. We’ll have everything sorted by the end of the night, and I won’t pull you out on a weekday again.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine?” He sounds surprised. “Great. I’ll send a car for you at seven. Look sharp, my friend.”

  I’m surprised, too, as he stands to leave. I’ve heard about Andy Rumpert, even talked to him on occasion. He’s a cross between a shark and a weasel—he does well by his clients, but it comes at a cost.

  The sad truth is that Duke’s retiring, and I can’t blame the old asshole. He’s got a beautiful wife, and he wants to spend time with her. I’d be a jerk if I asked him to stay for me. So, I need to find a new agent, and until now, I’d been considering Jocelyn Jones.

  But if images of her ke
ep popping into my head and making my pants incredibly tight, that’s just not going to work out. At least I’m in no danger from getting a boner after spending time with Andy.

  Charli watches him walk out of the room. “He’s weird.”

  “Yep,” I agree.

  “You work with him?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Charli reaches over, her big blue eyes somber as she offers an encouraging pat on my shoulder with her chubby little fingers. “Sorry, dad.”

  “Me too, honey. Me too.”

  Chapter 8

  Jocelyn

  “More wine, ma’am?”

  I glance up at the waiter and smile, then shake my head no. The last three times he’s asked, I’ve gestured for him to top off my glass. But I know my limits, and if I have one more glass, I’m going to tell Mr. Hot Shot CEO across from me exactly where he can shove his cell phone.

  He’s been yammering into that thing for the last forty minutes. Our date was supposed to start an hour ago. I showed up seventy minutes ago. He arrived forty-two minutes later, and in our remaining time together, he’s pulled the phone away from his ear just long enough to call me Jamie.

  Why am I still here? I swirl the wine in my glass and stare into the deep-red tornado spiraling in circles. It’s probably not worth the effort of splashing it on his shirt. I can’t waste good wine on his tie.

  I glance at him, picturing the stain creeping over his white shirt, but he’s oblivious, staring at the ceiling and yelling about some deal that needed to be done five minutes ago. Definitely not worth the wine spillage. Also not worth the cleanup headache for the staff. Instead, I take another sip, flex my fingers, and try to remain calm. Deep breathing.

  It’s not as if I had other plans, anyway. Heating up a Lean Cuisine and watching re-runs of Boxer’s games doesn’t count as work, no matter how much I pretend. The man can skate though, and I’d been enjoying my marathon of Boxer highlights pretending it’s research.

  Once I start thinking about Boxer, however, it snowballs. Suddenly, I can’t get him out of my mind. Mr. Hot Shot’s grating voice drones on and on in the background while I sink back into the memory of our ice cream date.