Home > Jett (Arizona Vengeance #10)(3)

Jett (Arizona Vengeance #10)(3)
Author: Sawyer Bennett

While I didn’t have an invitation to sit in the box for the game, I had a lanyard identifying my position with the organization—Vice President of Digital Marketing and Analytics—and it’s been made known that I have free access to go pretty much anywhere to shoot pictures for our social media accounts.

And I take advantage of it.

Granted, I’m not barreling my way into the locker room while the guys are getting dressed—which my sister thinks is a crying shame—but when Dominik hired me to help make his hockey team “America’s Team” through social media outreach, I demanded he give me a lot of personalized access.

He had no qualms granting it.

I lean back in my chair, studying the photo before I publish the post. It was taken from behind the Carlson family, with Dillon standing between Dominik and Willow in the first row of the box. The game was too exciting to sit down, and the part that touched me the most was both Willow and Dominik touching the boy, seemingly unaware the other was doing the same.

Willow’s hand was pressed against Dillon’s back. Dominik’s hand was curled around the side of the boy’s neck, and Dillon was leaning slightly into him. The tender family moment hits me in all the feels.

I press the button to post it, and I know it’s going to hit our followers in the feels too.

All three hundred and forty-three thousand of them.

Grimacing, I roll that number over in my head. It’s too small. The Carolina Cold Fury has over a million followers.

Granted… our team is only a year old, but we’re defending Cup champions. I’ve got to get that number up.

I switch my attention over to my second screen and type a note into my social media organizer to schedule a few signed jersey giveaways next week. It’s been slow growing since I started a few weeks ago, but I’m relentless. I’m pretty sure that’s why Dominik hired me.

My phone rings and I lean to the side to open the deep desk drawer where my purse is stashed. I know the lure of my own personal social media and chatting up my family members via text so I keep my phone tucked away during my workday.

Out of sight, out of mind type of thing.

But that’s Jenna’s ring tone and I always have time to answer her call.

“What’s up, buttercup?” I answer cheerfully. While my mind was just spinning with analytics and progress still to be made, I release it easily for my sister.

“Not much,” she says, then gives out a slight groan. I can envision what she’s doing… in her desk chair, reaching her hands up overhead and arching backward to ease the tension in her back. She can sit there working for hours without a break, but it takes a toll on her physically sometimes.

I’ve been trying to get her to join me at the gym for some yoga or pilates, but she’s become too much of a homebody. And since she’s self-employed as a freelance editor, she’s tied to the house we share more than ever before.

“I was thinking of making some braised short ribs for dinner,” she says after letting out a breath of release against her stretch. “Some garlic rosemary potatoes.”

“Delish,” I reply. The one thing I can’t help but appreciate is that as Jenna has become more tied to the house, our meals have gotten infinitely better.

“Can you stop at the wine store and grab a good red?” she asks.

That gives me pause.

Jenna and I both enjoy a good wine with dinner, or without for that matter. But it’s usually on a weekend or a special occasion.

It’s a Tuesday in mid-November. Nothing special at all today.


“Did you get it?” I ask hesitantly, my body starting to bristle with excitement.

There’s a long pause, and then she shrieks. “I got it!”

I shriek too, and then remember that my office is in the executive suite for the Arizona Vengeance and I’m far too professional for that, so I rein it in.

My voice goes down to a frenzied whisper. “Oh my God. I’m utterly thrilled for you, Jenna.”

Because my sister just got hired by the Phoenix Tribune as a copy editor, ending her up and down existence of trying to find work as a freelancer. She’s been needing stability, and this will give it to her.

“Best of all,” she chirps into the phone. “I get to work remotely.”

My heart sinks. I had hoped this was going to be a way for her to be forced out of the house more, but apparently not.

I don’t mention that though. Instead, I keep my enthusiasm high. “I’ll stop and get us the very best bottle of red to go with the braised short ribs.”

“You’re the best, sis,” she replies.

“No, you are,” I reply back.

And we’re both right. The two of us have leaned on each other tremendously the last few years.

We are one another’s rock.

We chat for a few more minutes and I get details on her new job, but the front desk receptionist sends an IM through our organization’s personal messaging system letting me know my two o’clock appointment has arrived.

I grimace internally.

Jett Olsson, the relentless, although admittedly gorgeous hockey player, who has gone to ridiculous measures to get me to go out with him. Many women would be charmed, but I don’t have time for it, so it’s more of an irritation than anything.

“Gotta go, Jenna,” I say to my sister as I respond to the message, asking the receptionist to send him back. I promise Jenna I’ll be home promptly at 6:30 PM and we disconnect.

Standing from my desk, I take in a deep, fortifying breath and let it out slowly. Smoothing down my skirt, I tug at the silky bow tied at my throat. My outfit is on point today, like it is most days. I’m driven by fashion trends, even breaking them on occasion, and today I’m wearing a black, high-waisted skirt that hugs my body and comes down just below my knees. And when I say high-waisted, I mean it comes up high enough to almost cover my rib cage. I paired it with an emerald green, long-sleeved silk blouse with a bow at the throat, and black boots. It’s an interesting look with the form-fitting skirt starting just below my breasts and the billowy blouse above it that sort of froths out a bit.

I wore my hair down today, the raven locks parted down the middle and hanging in long, spiky layers I’d straightened to perfection. My hairstyles are as diverse as my clothing choices. Just yesterday I went with old-fashioned pin curls.

The one thing that always stays consistent are my black-framed glasses, which I wear routinely at work. I have contacts which I don’t mind wearing, but I’ve found that people tend to take my work in analytics a bit more seriously if I look studious.

There’s a short knock on my door and Jett Olsson is walking in. I push back the initial shock that has come the other two times we’ve met, mainly the healthy appreciation over how gorgeous he is.

Unlike many hockey players, he wears his dark blond hair cropped close to his scalp and has perpetual, but a perfect amount of, facial hair on his face. His eyes are dark blue—the color of pure denim—and his Swedish accent is faint, but not unsexy.

Yup… I push that all aside and move around my desk, professionally holding out my hand for him to shake. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Olsson.”

Rather than align his palm to mine for a business-like shake, he scoops mine up, turning my knuckles upward. I know his intent before he can attempt to lift my hand to his mouth to graze his lips over. It’s how he greeted me the first time we met and it caught me off guard, embarrassing me.

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