The Attack Zone (Slap Shot #2)

1. Stacey

CHAPTER 1

STACEY

T oo short.

I swipe left.

Too hairy.

Left.

Is that a skinny tie? Absolutely not.

Left.

I’ve been at it for nearly an hour, and I still don’t have a date. Normally I can log in and find a decent match in a few minutes. I’m not even that picky. It’s not like this is for me anyway. It’s for work, which is why I don’t feel guilty for swiping on Tinder at my desk at two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon. This is my job. Well, sort of. My work as a non-profit fundraising consultant means that I have to attend a number of events and I like to have a date for some of them, just for looks.

I don’t date.

I don’t have the time and I don’t need to get validation from a man to know that I’m hot as shit. But the donors I interact with like to see me in a certain way, and that means keeping up appearances. What’s important is that I raise good money for good causes, but sometimes that involves having a soft touch. And in this case, it involves bringing a date to Mitchell Greggs’ upcoming Rebounds for Rescues gala.

Mitchell is a defenseman for the Colorado Blizzards and my absolute least favorite client. Which is why I want to have a date for his gala. I guess there’s a small part of me that wants to make sure I don’t have his pity. While I’m perfectly happy being single, some people see me and think I’m missing out on some great big part of life by not having a partner. Mitchell first came to me a few years ago and things between us have always been ... frustrating. His is a smaller non-profit, which is my specialty. I’m a one-woman, one-stop-shop for all fundraising needs for organizations that can’t necessarily have a full-time staff for one reason or another. My services include everything from major donor stewardship (a.k.a. making rich people feel special) to event planning (a.k.a. also making rich people feel special) to ensuring my clients feel well-managed and taken care of (a.k.a. making usually less than rich people feel special.) It sounds like a lot of hobnobbing with important folks, but really most of my days are spent in spreadsheets. My work comes down to knowing people and what makes them tick, and being able to guide them towards giving to good causes.

So, because it’s been a while since I had someone with me at an event, and I feel like I need to bring a date. I keep swiping, looking for the perfect fit. I won’t date this man, I likely won’t even sleep with him, but I still need him to be able play his role well. Which in this case is to stand there, look pretty, and not get in my way.

I swipe and I swipe, usually left but occasionally right, and all the men start to blend together. After another ten minutes of nothing, I grumpily place my phone on my desk and turn my attention back to my computer. I have a few emails about a local youth non-profit’s mail solicitation that’s going out next week, and a number of spreadsheet trackers that need updating before the end of my day, which could take a few hours. But my afternoon slump has hit and I feel frustrated about my lack of Tinder success, so I find myself standing up, grabbing my purse, and walking out of my office. I’ll just get a quick coffee and then I’ll be back to it. It’s probably going to be a late night based on how much work I have to do; I deserve the caffeine.

I board the elevator of my office building and take a deep breath. Unlike a lot of my donors, I don’t like spending money on frivolous things, but I allow myself two vices: fancy coffee and fancy shoes. Today I’m wearing an adorable pair of designer sneakers with a floral print. I figured sneakers were okay since I don’t have anything donor-facing to do, and I paired them with my favorite jeans that hug my curves well and a crisp white blouse. My hair is pulled into the sort of high bun that makes me feel powerful and pulled together while being able to rock third-day hair.

When the elevator reaches the bottom floor, I cross the lobby and walk through the revolving door. On the street, it feels like spring despite it only being early February. I guess that’s one of the perks of living in 300-Days-of-Sunshine Denver. I walk just a few paces down the street until I reach the coffee shop on the corner. Inside, there are plants everywhere, so much so that it feels like a jungle. I prefer the cleaner cut coffee shop I choose to take clients to in the upscale neighborhood of Cherry Creek, but it’s far away and expensive as hell. So, I’ll settle for this hipster downtown spot. Besides, I’m just taking my coffee and going back to work.

I order my oat milk flat white with the barista and step around the espresso machine, careful to not hit any plants with my hips on the way to the pickup counter. I avoid looking at my phone for fear of seeing more work come into my inbox. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. Some would argue I’m obsessed with it. But you can’t blame a girl for wanting five minutes without a new item being added to her to-do list.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I ignore it. Instead, I choose to take a few deep breaths and let the scent of coffee fill my nose. Even just the smell seems like it’s giving me more energy.

“Oat milk flat white for Stacey!” the barista hollers, jolting me out of my meditative state.

I open my eyes and take a few steps forward, pick up my drink, and say “Thank you” to the barista before walking out the door.

Once I’m in the elevator heading back to my office, I dare a look at my phone. Only two emails, not too bad. I can’t help but notice the lack of Tinder notifications. I guess I’ll have to swipe more tonight if I want to get a date locked in for the gala.

Back in my office, I open up my laptop and create a to-do list for the rest of my afternoon. There’s nothing I love more than the rush of checking a box off on a to-do list, so I live by them religiously. I start by updating some spreadsheets I share with my clients so they know where certain projects are at. Then I deal with a problem with the mailer going out soon. Before I know it, it’s six in the evening and I still have a full night of work ahead of me.

This is why I won’t be dating whichever Tinder guy I wind up bringing to Mitchell’s gala. It’s nothing against the hypothetical dude, I just know that I can’t handle both running this business and being in a relationship. I tried once with Trevor and that wound up being a complete disaster. So, I’ve accepted that I don’t need a man in my life. And in a shocking (to the patriarchal society we live in) turn of events, I’m still happy. I love my life. I have great friends, a great job, and enough shoes to cover the feet of a small army. What more could a girl need?

My phone buzzes but I ignore it, choosing to focus on the spreadsheet in front of me. Something isn’t working on it, and I can’t figure out why. Finally, once all the numbers all line up and I’m happy with how it looks, I share the file with the client and turn my phone over.

Tinder Notification: You have a new match!

Finally.

I swipe open my phone and click on the notification. The app opens and I see that I have a message too, from my new match. It looks like his name is Greg. I barely remember swiping right on the guy, so I open his profile. He works in finance, whatever that means, and looks like he could pull off a suit at least somewhat decently, though he’s not wearing one in any of his photos. I go back to his message and click it open.

Greg: Hey. Wyd?

Wow. So original. Such a way with words. I’m swooning.

Stacey: Hey – I’ll be upfront. I need a date for a work event. Is that something you’d be interested in? I hear the food will be good.

I know the food will be good because I picked the catering, but whatever. Greg doesn’t need to know those kinds of details.

Greg: I like good food. Sure, why not.

Greg: Is this a suit kind of thing?

Stacey: Yes, it is. Is that okay?

Greg: Sure. Send me the deets and I’ll be there.

Deets? Oh, good lord.

I take a deep breath. Greg is the only match I’ve gotten today, and I’d really like to have this date locked in, so I kind of have no choice.

Stacey: Will do. Thanks in advance!

Greg: Np .

I glance at my to-do list and make sure all the necessary items are checked off. I place a little check next to Mitchell Gala Date before closing my laptop, placing it and my notebook in my bag, and standing up from my desk. I close the blinds, cross the room, and switch off the lights. Another late night in the office but at least I can start tomorrow feeling refreshed and ready instead of behind.

Once I’m home, I place my weekly flower delivery into its vase. I have no idea who keeps sending these to me, but every Thursday for the past year or so, a new bouquet arrives. I would think it was a bit weird, but they bring me joy, so I do my best to just ignore the anonymous sender.

Eventually I make it to my bed and check the score of the Blizzards game. They’re up 3–2 in the third. I scroll down to see who made the goals.

1: Thomas King, Assist: Mitch Greggs

2: Mitch Greggs, Assist: Caleb Mack

3: Matti Lakso, Assists: Mitch Greggs, Caleb Mack

Mitchell seems to be having himself quite a night , I think before rolling my eyes. My least favorite client happens to be one of the more prolific hockey players in the world. He’s also great friends with some of my best friends and happens to keep me gainfully employed by throwing work my way all the time. Too bad he doesn’t trust me, insists on being overly involved, and has irrationally passionate opinions about stupid things. Otherwise, we might actually be able to be friends. Or at least not enemies. But he’s him and I’m me and we’re basically oil and water.

I shake my head, set my alarm on my phone, and roll over. Thinking about Mitchell Greggs does nothing but get me all riled up, and I need rest. I close my eyes and try to think of the coffee I’m going to have in the morning until I fall asleep.