Breakaway, page 3
part #5 of Northbrook Hockey Elite Series
Thanks, Jax, Declan wrote.
Maybe the movers can bring the cat, Clint McCarthy said, joining in. Clint was the newest addition to the pro-hockey world with his recent offer by the St. Louis Hawks. Clint was also the younger brother to Grizz McCarthy, legendary pro-baseball catcher. Athletic talent abounded in their family.
That’s not a bad idea, Declan wrote. I guess I’ll google it.
Ooo, Diesel wrote. Declan is going to get on the computer. Do you even have one?
Ha. Ha.
What are you talking about? Clint wrote. He can google from his phone.
We’re talking about the most technologically backwards guy in the world here, Rocco chimed in. Declan doesn’t even know what an app is.
Declan scoffed. I’ll have you punks know that I’m officially on social media. You all should be following me. You know, give me some likes or something.
Jax sent another GIF. One of a guy falling over in surprise.
What was up with Jax’s GIFs?
Found you! Diesel wrote. Wow. Two whole posts. Dude, you’re going to set a world record if you’re not careful.
Declan’s phone dinged several times in succession. Alerts from Twitter and Instagram that he had new followers. How do I turn off the alerts? he texted.
Google it, Diesel wrote.
Declan ignored the next few texts since they were getting way off topic anyway. He clicked onto the social media apps, and in return, he followed his former teammates. Something that Camila Brandon had shown him how to do. He needed to get the dang alerts silenced, though.
Oh, I think I found something, Clint wrote. There’s a moving company in the Chicago area that specializes in moving pets as well. Here’s the link.
A link popped up, and Declan clicked on it. So . . . maybe he wouldn’t have to be driving his mom’s cat across the country after all. Thanks, man, he wrote. That’s actually helpful, unlike the rest of you. I’ll check it out and see what I can talk my mom into.
Hold up, Rocco wrote. You didn’t answer my question, Dice.
Declan frowned and scrolled back through the texts. Rocco had asked: Why the sudden change of heart about social media?
Apparently, Declan hadn’t kept quiet about his dislike for it. Team’s going all out. Social media is now mandatory, and even I couldn’t get out of it. They hired a social media director, and she’s kicking all of our butts.
Various emojis peppered the screen.
She? Rocco’s one word was what Declan had wanted to avoid.
Then the texts piled in. Who is she . . . What’s her name? . . . A butt-kicker, I like it . . .
Declan ignored them all. He had a bunch of coordinating to do if he was going to get to Chicago to help his mom.
Dude, better not go silent on us, Rocco wrote. We can ask in the comments on Instagram.
Jax sent a GIF of fingers impatiently tapping.
Declan groaned. He didn’t doubt that a couple of the guys would wreak some havoc. Probably not Clint—he was too much of a greenie in the pro world—but the others always followed through on threats.
Okay, he wrote. Ron Brandon, owner of my team, sent his daughter to get tickets sold. She graduated in communications or something, so I guess she’s legit, but I don’t dare open any of her emails. The first one she sent was like a mile long, and I’m pretty sure it was written in Greek.
Crickets. For a full thirty seconds.
Then the screenshots piled in. Of Camila Brandon.
Followed by a dozen texts.
Is this her?
Wow.
Dude.
Is she single? Not that I’m asking for myself . . .
You’re in trouble, bro.
GIF: Tom Cruise giving a thumbs-up.
Sure, Declan had seen Camila Brandon in person. Once. With a baseball cap on and a giant sweatshirt. But he’d never googled for pictures before. The ones coming in on his phone told him three things. First of all, his initial impression had been right. She was beautiful. Stunning, really. Second, her eyes were a light green. Third, she was way, way out of his league. Not that he had a league, and not that he wasn’t able to hold his own financially, but it was clear that the daughter of the Chargers’s owner was used to the lifestyle of the wealthy.
Seeing the handful of pictures sat like a rock in his stomach, and it made him more curious at the same time. In the team meeting last week, she certainly hadn’t acted the part of a spoiled princess. But the picture of her standing in front of a Learjet, wearing a dark-red evening gown, arm in arm with a guy in a tux, pretty much said it all. And another picture, likely from her Instagram since there was text below it, showed her wearing a turquoise bikini top and a white wraparound skirt . . . on a yacht. Got bored. Backup plan turned out fun. #kiss
Who talked like that? Who lived like that?
Not him. Not ever.
Hey, what do you know? Diesel wrote. We play you in two weeks. How about an introduction?
Nope, Declan wrote, feeling more irritated than he should. Women had been the topic of discussion between them before. And he knew they were all giving him a hard time—like usual. He’d seen how Camila had faced a room of type A hockey players and held her own. But she’d been grateful when Hammer had left her alone.
Declan’s small training session with her had been the last time he’d seen her. And that was fine, more than fine. He didn’t need the distractions of a beautiful woman who may or may not be around the team a lot. Besides being clearly off-limits, due to the fact that she was the big boss’s daughter, Camila Brandon was exactly the type of woman he didn’t interact with. High-maintenance was practically against his religion.
Another message came in.
Dice. Where are you? Cam’s freaking.
Declan frowned at the text message from Runt. What are you talking about?
Don’t tell me you didn’t read her emails, Runt wrote.
Cam? As in Camila Brandon? Declan’s temperature went up a notch. No. What’s going on?
The parade. We’re on a float.
Declan stared at the screen, then wrote: You’re kidding.
I’ll tell her you’re caught in traffic, but our float leaves in 20. Oh, and wear your jersey. Cam has the green Leprechaun hats.
To say that the St. Patrick’s Day parade went off without a hitch was an overstatement. But that’s what Camila reported to her father. Not that he couldn’t watch it on TV, but really, who in their right minds watched parades on TV?
“Send me the report tomorrow, Cam,” her father said into the phone, his tone clipped as usual. Businesslike and formal. With none of the warmth one might expect between a father and his daughter.
Their relationship had been like this for two years, since his new marriage to the beauty queen. Well, Angela was no longer a beauty queen, but she still seemed to believe it.
“Will do,” Camila said, equally brief.
“One more thing,” her dad said. “Hammer still needs to take down his party photos. Angela says they’re still there.”
And of course Angela would know. Even though the woman was thirty-five, much too young for her father yet too old for the party scene, she seemed a bit stalkerish over the hockey team.
But Camila’s dad didn’t seem bothered. In fact, he’d acted annoyed with her when she’d brought it up at their monthly “family” dinner. Which was pretty much a forty-five-minute meeting at some posh restaurant, followed by her dad needing to take a phone call and Angela following him out.
“I’ll make sure it happens,” Camila said, although she dreaded issuing Hammer another reminder. He’d been flirtatious again as they were getting ready for the parade. Not that Camila couldn’t deal with his type, but it got old. Fast.
A text buzzed her phone, and she saw that it was from Paige. Still at the parade? Isn’t today your day off?
Camila smiled. Paige, her former roommate from college, had been ecstatic when Camila had announced she was moving back to Denver. They had yet to hang out, though. Their schedules were complete opposites.
Camila called Paige’s number.
“It’s about time!” Paige practically yelled.
Camila laughed. “Seriously? You need to get a life if you’re that excited to hear from me.”
“Oh, I have a life,” Paige said, “but a girl needs a break from her hot fiancé once in a while. Know what I mean?”
Camila laughed again, although she wasn’t exactly relating to Paige right now. “So what are our plans?”
“Um, something downtown?” Paige said.
“It’s packed with all the parade festivities,” Camila said.
“Yeah, that’s the point, Cam,” Paige said. “Go where the people are. The men, to be more specific.”
Camila sighed. “Like I told you, I’m on a dating hiatus. Especially with hockey players.”
“Well, I’m engaged, honey, and looking never hurt.”
Oh, but it did hurt. That was how her last relationship had ended. Looking. Lots of it, with Stephen looking at other women when her dad had refused to pick up Stephen’s pro-hockey contract.
“Besides,” Paige continued, “I looked up the Chargers profiles last night, and let me say . . . yum.”
“Wow,” Camila said. “Are you eighteen or something?”
Paige’s laughter burst out. She was obviously in a really good mood, and Camila was pretty certain it was because of the giant engagement ring on her finger.
“Name a place, and I’ll be there,” Paige said after catching her breath.
Camila held back her sigh of resignation. She and Paige could have a late lunch, then surely she’d want to get back to her fiancé, and Camila could have the evening to herself to run the stats for her dad. Alone in her condo. Which she was looking forward to. She’d turn on the latest Hallmark movie—as sappy as they were, they were a nice escape.
“How about Back West Grill?” she said, spotting it across the street. That way she wouldn’t have to try to repark her car in the mess of the parade goers.
“Okay, great,” Paige said. “See you in a few.”
Camila hung up with her friend. She wasn’t about to go inside the restaurant and wait, so she found a bench near the craft fair that dominated a nearby park. She scrolled through Hammer’s Instagram first. Yep. There were pictures of him holding up a beer, with two women hanging on him. More followed. She screenshotted eight pictures, then composed an email to him, attached the pictures, and asked him to please take them down.
Overall, though, the hockey guys were doing a decent job at social media. She’d sent Runt a couple of suggestions about how to hashtag better. She looked up his recent posts. He’d posted one about ten minutes ago of the float, as well as a selfie with him and Declan.
Camila released a sigh. Declan’s expression was barely pleasant. It was more of a scowl, actually. Still, he looked handsome as always, if one liked the dark-eyes, dark-hair, and olive-skin type. Which she supposed a lot of women did. Just not her. Oh, she could appreciate a man’s good looks, but her appreciation stopped short of further interactions.
Yet she found herself expanding the picture and focusing more on Declan. Zooming in, she realized he wasn’t even looking at the camera, but something just off to the side. She wondered what it had been. Declan had been late to the parade and barely made it to the float as it was literally rolling to the front of the route.
It wasn’t like her position was on the line. She’d sent plenty of instructions to the players, so if they didn’t follow her advice, then they could deal with the coaches or her dad. Her research in college had pointed to the fact that frequency of social media use only increased traffic all the way around.
So whether or not Hammer took down his pictures or Declan was late to a promo event, that didn’t reflect badly on her. At least she hoped not. She’d been reluctant to take this job and return to Denver, the place she’d last lived when her mom was alive.
For a moment, she wondered how Declan had handled the loss of his dad. Had they been close? Had his mom remarried? Camila absently went over to his Instagram posts. He’d posted exactly one time since the initial post she’d set up for him. She read the caption. He’d posted two days ago, and it was a picture of the outside of the stadium at dusk. Heading into the game. Who’s coming tonight?
Huh. The text was good, and there were seventeen comments below, and sixty-four likes. He’d gained a bit of traction. But only posting once in a week wasn’t enough. And he hadn’t replied to or even hearted any of the comments—something she’d been very specific about in her emails. Interacting with fans on social media was crucial. Even if the players spent fifteen minutes a day replying to comments, it would make a big difference.
She composed a quick email to Declan. He hadn’t ever replied to any of her emails or asked questions like the other team members. The email was short, reminding him to interact with the comments, please. Then she pulled up a couple of the other players and emailed out a few more suggestions.
“You’re looking lost in thought,” a male voice said.
Camila looked up. A guy she’d never seen before was smiling down at her as if it was completely normal for him to be talking to her. His red hair was cropped short, and both his ears were pierced. His bright-green pants and shirt told him he was a big fan of St. Patrick’s Day.
“Just busy, thanks,” she said, returning to her phone, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Mind if I sit by you?” the guy asked.
“Go ahead,” Camila said, shouldering her bag. “I was leaving anyway.” Before he could say another thing, she rose and strode to the corner. As soon as the light changed, she crossed the street without looking back. Sure, she might have been a bit rude, but why did that guy think he could get into her space, her head, and take up her time?
Camila really needed caffeine, or something stronger. A headache was building, and she didn’t want to be grumpy around Paige.
“Hey, look who’s here,” a guy said.
Camila slowed her step and tried not to cringe. But it was too late. She’d been spotted. Three guys were walking toward her—all ones she recognized. Chargers players. Her gaze skittered over Runt, Loop, and Declan.
Runt and Loop still wore their St. Patrick’s hats, but Declan had gotten rid of his. The other guys wore jackets over their jerseys, and Declan wore a black T-shirt. No jacket, although the weather was brisk. His jeans were faded and, well, looked like they’d been made for him.
Was she seriously ogling him again?
“Are you joining the team?” Runt asked, motioning toward the door of Back West Grill.
Oh no. The team was inside this restaurant? “I’m, uh, meeting someone.”
Runt chuckled. “Of course you are. What did I tell you? She has a boyfriend—”
“I don’t have a—” she started.
“No problem,” Loop said with a shrug. “You can join us with your date. You know, it will probably be good for Hammer to see you with another guy. Cool his jets a little.”
Camila frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“They’re talking about nothing,” Declan cut in with a growl. “Get in there, guys. And keep your mouths shut around Hammer.”
Runt laughed, and Loop raised his hands as if he was the picture of innocence. “Just trying to be friendly.”
“More like stirring the pot,” Runt said, just before Declan herded the guys through the door of the restaurant.
Declan paused at the door before going in himself. “Ignore them, and know that if you do come in with your date, Hammer will probably get stupid.”
She folded her arms. “That’s his problem, not mine.”
Declan held her gaze for a moment, his dark eyes seeming to bore into her.
Stop moving, butterflies, she commanded her stomach.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry for implying that you’re responsible for his actions.”
Camila gave a small nod, but Declan had already disappeared inside.
She exhaled and walked a few steps away from the restaurant, avoiding getting jostled by a group of teen girls wearing green beads and party hats.
Change of location, she texted Paige.
Camila’s phone rang.
“I’m already here,” Paige said through the phone. “Look to your left.”
Sure enough, Paige was coming up the sidewalk, decked out in a green-and-white-striped miniskirt and a bright-green shirt. Her outfit was complete with a headband of glittery gold coins, which only made her strawberry-blond hair more strawberry.
“Oh, wow,” Camila said, unable to stop her smile. “You look amazing.”
“So do you, honey,” Paige said. She pulled Camila into a tight hug.
“Hardly.” Camila’s ball cap and oversized jacket over her green sweater and leggings gave her the image she was trying to project. I’m boring. Uninteresting. Leave me alone.
“You know, Cam,” Paige said, throwing an arm about her shoulders as they walked toward the restaurant. “You said you were tired of the pickup scene, but you’ll still attract more attention than ninety-five percent of the women.”
“What about the other five percent?” Camila asked.
“That’s me,” Paige said with a laugh. “Now, what’s wrong with this restaurant?”
“It’s, uh . . .” Camila began. “Well, a bunch of the Chargers players are in there, and since I work with them, it’s going to be awkward.”
Paige paused. “Awkward, why? Just because you help with their social media, that doesn’t mean that you can’t be social with them.”
“Ha. Ha,” Camila deadpanned.
“Besides, I’d like to meet them,” Paige said. “Brady will be impressed, and jealous, which will totally work in my favor. If you know what I mean.”
“Maybe another time,” Camila said, slipping out from under Paige’s arm.
But the woman was fast. She grabbed Camila’s arm. “Oh no. We’re going. We can sit waaay on the other side, if you want. But we’re going in.”
“Paige,” Camila protested, although it was weak.
And five minutes later, she found herself sitting at a small table across from Paige. Somehow Paige’s dazzling smile had gotten them a table in front of a bunch of waiting people, and thankfully, the table was on the other side of the restaurant from the Chargers.
