The Slot (Rochester Riot #1)(8)
The Zamboni hummed its way across the ice surface as she passed through, readying the slick surface for morning practice. If her boss hadn’t been expecting her, she’d have stopped to catch a glimpse of the elusive Cole Fiorino. A curtain of heavy vinyl covered the connecting breezeway into the construction zone. Eloise parted the split in the plastic drape and stepped through to the cavern of concrete that would soon change the face of the arena district.
Workers, tools, and building materials filled the space, the hubbub of noise echoing against the empty walls. Steps led up to a second level, and Eloise clomped in that direction assuming Sheehan would be up there, her heels clicking on the raw cement.
As she crossed the floor, she again glimpsed a small gathering of citizens outside the main entrance where glass doors had just been installed. She did a double take when she saw two or three players standing among them, their Rochester Riot equipment bags slung over their shoulders.
They were signing autographs. Cool beans. She loved it when the players took some time out to engage with the fans. It made her job that much easier. Eloise smiled at the great PR move; no better way to indulge the fans than to get up close and personal with their hometown heroes. Rochester loved their hockey team. No. That word wasn’t strong enough. This town worshiped their badass men on the ice. One by one, the players waved goodbye to the small crowd and entered through the partially-finished entrance, clearly deciding to take a shortcut to the dressing rooms before the fan club grew any bigger.
As the players trooped in, the tallest one caught Eloise’s eye. Holy shit! Man candy walked toward her, causing her heart to race and her palms to sweat. What in the hell was a spoiled rich kid doing in the arena at practice time? Today, he didn’t look so scruffy with his beard trimmed up and a Riot baseball cap covering black, spiky hair.
Minus the sunglasses, her rock-paper-scissors competitor had been none other than Cole Fiorino, their star centerman. A wave of horror washed over her, and she felt like puking all over his expensive Italian loafers. How humiliating. How could she not have recognized him? His azure eyes sparkled in greeting, and his smile lit up the dim and dusty space around them.
“Hey, pretty doughnut-lady,” he asked as he broke out the killer dimple again. “What are you doing here?”
Eloise felt her face grow hot, certain her cheeks must be aflame with color. “Hi,” she said. “I’d ask you the same thing, except the bag gives it away. Guess we should start over – I’m Eloise Robertson, Director of Communications and Community Relations for the Riot. You’re Cole Fiorino.”
“So my mom tells me,” he said. “Unless she’s pissed. Then, she calls me Coleman Arthur Fiorino in this waspish tone so she sounds like half Marge Simpson and half Kathleen Turner. You’d swear she smokes a pack a day, but she’d never touched a cancer stick in her life.”
Eloise laughed, grateful for his attempt to put her at ease. “Welcome to the team. I’m sorry for not recognizing you yesterday.”
“No worries,” he said as he waved it off with a sculpted hand. His fingers were long and graceful. Eloise stared at them, imagining those perfect digits running down the length of her thigh. “Guess the hoodie and shades did the trick.”
“Sure did.” Eloise willed her telling blush to recede and nodded in the direction of the street. “A little fan interaction?”
Cole glanced outside where the group of onlookers had ramped up. “Well, it didn’t start out that way, but they calmed down when we started talking and signing autographs. They’re not too happy about Sheehan’s new whiskey bar going up in their neighborhood. A lot of rumbling about drunks and degenerates.”
Eloise nodded. “They were here last week causing a ruckus, harassing some of the workers. I can see their point; the addition to the building will cut off significant access to the surrounding streets.”
“Yeah, not to mention taking business away. Some of the shops have sold out to Murphy and are shutting down completely. My friend owns a place not far from here, and I know he’s pissed about the whole thing.”
“Oh? What’s it called?”
“Blues & Brews, about two blocks down that way,” Cole answered, pointing sharply out the entrance doors to the north.
“Blues & Brews? Sounds like a music venue.”
“It is, some of the time. Kind of a retro coffee-house. Small live acts perform there on Friday nights. The rest of the week he serves coffee and beer, in that order. It’s got a kick-ass vibe. Unique. Kind of like a pretty lady with a lust for powdered sugar. You should check it out sometime.”
Eloise grinned at his not-so-subtle come-on. Men of the NHL were used to getting anything they wanted. Women included so flirting became second nature. “I’ll do that,” she said. A series of loud shouts cut off her voice.
“Goddamn yokels, get them the hell away from my building!” Sheehan Murphy thundered down the steps from the upper level, yelling all the way. Eloise visibly cringed. The supercilious blowhard was the only thing she didn’t love about her career with The Riot.
“Uh, that’s my cue,” Cole said, adjusting his hat and taking a step back. “Late for practice. Have a great day, pretty doughnut-lady.”
“It’s Eloise. Call me El.”
Cole nodded as he turned toward the arena. “Eloise,” he mouthed silently, then winked. “I think I like pretty doughnut-lady better.”