pretty. Who the hell is she?”
“You don’t know?” Jack asked. He shook his head and chuckled. “Probably for the best.”
“No, really. Who is she?”
“She’s Malin Pedersen. Davis Pedersen’s only daughter.”
“I thought his daughter was still in high school.”
“She was. When you were drafted. She’s grown up.”
“She’s pretty,” Thom said. “What did you say her name was?”
“Malin.”
“Kind of a weird name,” he murmured.
“I believe it’s Swedish,” Jack replied.
“Malin,” Thom whispered to himself.
A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. He drew a deep breath and scolded himself inwardly.
“Exercise some self-control!”
His boss’s command echoed in his head. Yes, it was definitely a bad idea to imagine the boss’s daughter naked and lying in his bed...
* * *
“THIS IS YOUR FAULT,” Davis Pedersen said, scowling at his daughter from across his desk as she and Steve McCrory followed him into his office.
“How is this my fault?” Malin asked.
“I hired you to contain all this Flitter business. We never had these kinds of problems in the past. Now the moment one of our players steps out of line, there’s someone there to take a photo and blast it all over the internet.”
“It’s Twitter,” Malin said. “And I can only control our players and what they post. I can’t control the whole world.”
“Then what good are you? I don’t understand how something as ridiculous as that damn Flitter—”
“Twitter,” Malin corrected him again.
“What?”
“It’s called Twitter. Instagram. Snapchat. Skype. Tinder. Didn’t you read the handbook I wrote for the players?”
“I don’t need a damn handbook to tell me what’s happening to the reputation of my team, and this man is dragging it into the gutter with him. I want him watched 24/7. Until we work out a trade, I want Thom Quinn on complete lockdown, and I’m putting you in charge of that. If there is even a hint of trouble—if a single photo of him is put on Twitter—this job you created for yourself is done and you can head back to your fashion designer friends in New York.”
Malin gasped. “You’re the one who begged me to come home and handle this problem for you. You said if I wanted a role in the organization, I’d have to prove myself.”
“And so you will,” her father said. “Protect my investment.”
Malin turned to Steve McCrory. “Are you really planning to trade him? He’s one of our best players. And the fans love him. I’m sure I can smooth this over. Just give me a little time.”
“We can’t continue to let his off-ice behavior bring negative publicity to the club,” McCrory said. “He’s gone from drunken brawls to teenage hookers. What’s next? I don’t want to wait to find out. It was my decision to trade him, and your father backs me on that.”
“I don’t agree,” she said. “If you want to see a social media firestorm, wait until you announce this trade.”
“Once we trade him, he’ll be someone else’s problem. Until then, he needs a watcher.”
It was useless to argue. When it came to decisions about the team, McCrory was an immovable force. He was backed by her father, and there was no hope of changing his mind.
She couldn’t blame her father. When he bought the franchise seventeen years before, it was a failing enterprise with the lowest attendance figures in the league. Now the club led the league in season ticket sales, merchandising and number of playoff appearances. Though they’d fallen short in the championship series last month, they were poised to make another run next year.
“I can turn him around,” Malin said. “I’ve got two months before training camp starts. Give me a chance. Maybe I can find a way to redeem him.”
“My mind is made up,” McCrory said.
“Mine, too,” her father added. “Why don’t you go explain what we expect of him these next few weeks?”
“Me?”
“I said he needs a watcher. That’s you. Or are you not up for the challenge?”
“Of course. You won’t regret putting this faith in me.”
Malin walked out of her father’s office, her spirits deflated. She’d never really believed that her father wanted her to work for the team. It had always been an old boys’ club, not an atmosphere welcoming to women. But women made up 45 percent of their audience, a figure that was growing with every year that passed. Sooner or later, the old guys would need to admit that they needed a woman in the executive offices. And she was determined that woman would be her.
She found Thom Quinn where she’d left him in the conference room. She glanced over her shoulder as she entered. “Did your agent leave?”
Quinn shook his head. “No. He had to take a call.”
Malin pulled out a chair at the end of the table and grabbed a phone, punching in the number of her assistant. “Leah, I’m in the conference room. Can you find Jason and have him come in here? He’s probably in the mail room, working on the convention mailing.”
She hung up the phone and met Thom Quinn’s gaze, holding it for a moment longer than seemed proper under the circumstances. Malin swallowed hard. What were the circumstances? She wasn’t his boss. She didn’t have any power over him, at least none that didn’t come directly from her father. What if he refused to do as she said? In one quick stroke, she’d lose the last of her credibility with her father and any shot at a management job with the team.
“So, they sent you to give me more bad news?”
“Bad news?”
“Yeah, that they’ve decided to trade me to the worst team in the league?”
“Yes,” she murmured, her gaze still locked on his. “I—I mean, no.”
He was an incredibly handsome man. That had always been part of his appeal to the female fans. The shaggy dark hair. The scruffy beard. The impossibly blue eyes. Added to that was a collection of imperfections that made him irresistible—the scar on his lip, the slightly crooked nose.
Dragging her eyes from his face, she reached out and straightened her pen sitting beside her notepad.
“Which is it?” he asked. “Trade or no?”
Malin
