Page 7 of He Has Pluck

He shrugs. “Guess I want to see for myself that you’re perfectly stable and can stay on script.”

I snort again, pretending his concern is misplaced.

“What good are you to the crew if you fall apart, Juliette?” His voice gentles and I swear he sounds like he cares, like the old family friend he was when I was a kid. When Dad was alive, and Mom was still with him, with us.

But he’s my boss, and this is work. Trivial and uninspiring work, but work.

Maybe I do have something to prove. Killing a native, and getting the production embroiled in a police investigation and shut down makes you a liability no matter how good you are at your job. That’s what my crew chief in Columbia had said after the incident.

She loved my work, ambition and facility with the language; she even loved that I got along with the natives. The work was important to all of us, but I was the one who messed it up by picking the wrong guy to sleep with. Well, that will no longer be a problem. Not for a long while. Hell, the way I feel right now, maybe forever. I scoff at myself. I’m a red-blooded woman who enjoys men, so maybe not forever. Definitely not forever.

Either way, hockey players will never be on my menu.

The Boston hockey scene poses no danger to anyone. The assignment is the least important one I’ve ever contemplated, even counting undergrad. The Brawlers Stanley Cup run documentary is a three out of a hundred on the importance meter in life.

“How do I know you’re going to get all this access to the cartel and the victims?”

“You leave that to me.”

I know he has a great rep in the business and a lot of solid contacts in law enforcement, especially with the Feds, ever since he gave up a source to save a kidnap victim years ago, so it’s not a total longshot. But filming hockey to get there? I make one last plea.

“How about if we find another way for me to prove myself? Maybe I can shoot rock climbing or cliff diving…?”

He shakes his head. “Take the deal. Do your work. Stick to the script. Keep your head down, and eat some humble pie. Make up for your mistake. You cost the production company a lot of money with your… mistake.”

It takes everything in me not to lower my head in shame because I went off-script, took a chance and let—never mind.

“Okay.” I hold my breath and have a ridiculous urge to cross my fingers behind my back or do the sign of the cross because this feels like an unholy deal. The kind my father would’ve told me I should be doing all along to keep out of trouble.

On the other hand, mom loves sports, and in particular professional athletes, and would be ecstatic. If I were to tell her…but that’s impossible since I’m not speaking to the woman. Why should I? She didn’t talk to me for years. Not until Dad died. Good enough reason for me to jump at that assignment in Columbia.

“You’re probably right. I could use this so-called palate cleansing assignment.” I hate to admit I made a mistake and played it loose with a cardinal rule about getting personally involved with the locals while on assignment. It doesn’t matter how lonely I felt then or how raw I still am after losing my dad. Now, it’s time to pay my penance.

“As long as it’s temporary,” I say. Because it’s not failure unless I give up, right?

He nods. “We’ll talk again at the end of the playoffs. Take some time to lighten up.”

“Lighten up? Is that what you’re calling it? More like punishment.”

He lowers his voice. “You shot and killed a man, sweetheart. He tried to kill you. That kind of thing takes time to process. Let’s get through this project and see if you can stay on track.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Who knows? Maybe the Brawlers will lose early.”

He furrows his brow.

“Okay, I’ll behave. Go, Brawlers.” I raise my fist in a mock cheer for a team I could care less about in a sport that barely registers on my radar.

“Not everything has to be about life and death to be important, Juliette,” he says. His face is sad and his words soft, and I can hear my dad telling me the same thing—just before he left for a dangerous mission in Somalia and never came back.

Chapter Three

JASON

I show up late to practice after the PR meeting, but Coach gives me a nod as I take the ice. The instant connection of my blades to the ice settles my nerves, loosens my tight muscles and makes me feel at home even though it’s a fucking NHL practice rink at a facility with more bells and whistles than a carnival. Coach blows his whistle and summons the team to the bench. Shit. We gather around, and he wastes no time.

“This is Jason Tansem, up from the minors. He played for the Portsmouth team. He has some firepower, so we’re going to try and work him into our scoring line.” He pauses, and Rafe bumps his glove against mine.

“Welcome to the team, kid.” He grins. “How old are you?”