The Attack Zone (Slap Shot #2)

4. Mitch

CHAPTER 4

MITCH

THE NEXT DAY

I just boarded the elevator of Stacey’s office building, and my hands are already clammy. I haven’t even seen what jaw-dropping outfit she’s wearing today, and my heart is already beating a bit faster just knowing I’m about to be in the same room as her. The elevator dings when I’ve reached her floor, and I have to coax myself through the doors and down the hall.

Get your shit together, Greggs, I say to myself before raising my fist to knock on her door.

I tentatively knock three times and wait for her to appear in the doorway. Instead, I hear her holler, “Come on in, Mitchell!”

I hate when she uses my full first name. Well, I hate when anyone does, so it’s not really her fault. It’s just that I always seem to hear it in my mother’s voice when people say it. But I’m slightly annoyed when I swing the door open and stumble through the entrance to her office. I was right to be concerned about my reaction to her outfit. She’s wearing a stunning dress that shows off her chest perfectly without being unprofessional, and she has these insane heels on that make her legs look even longer and smoother than normal. My mouth goes dry.

“I’m just wrapping something up,” she says. “Please, take a seat.”

She’s being weirdly formal for someone who says she hates my guts, but I guess I’ll take that over outright hostility. Especially since I’m still reeling from seeing her. I try to sit across the desk from her, but change seating positions three times, unsure of what to do with my hands.

“Alright, I’m ready,” she says.

“Hey, love,” I say with a smile, in a stupid attempt to disarm her.

“Don’t call me that,” she says with a snarl.

“I’ll stop calling you ‘love’ if you stop calling me Mitchell,” I say.

“But that’s your name,” she says, pretending to be confused. But we’ve had this conversation too many times for her to actually be confused. She does this to get to me.

“Call me Mitch. Greggs. Anything but Mitchell,” I say.

“Anything?” She has a sneaky look in her eye, and I immediately regret my words.

“Don’t push it,” I say.

She laughs.

She actually laughs.

What am I supposed to do with that?

“Let’s get started,” I say with far too much oomph and professionalism.

It was the wrong thing to say and the wrong way to say it because she’s clearly taken aback. And just when I got her to let her guard down for the first time in, well, forever .

Goddammit, Greggs.

“I mean, we just have a lot of ground to cover today, with the wedding and all,” I say softly in an attempt to recover.

“Yes, the wedding. Do you want to start there or with Rebounds for Rescues ?”

“I don’t think Rebounds will take too long, we just have a few final decisions to make, right?”

“We are not doing that, Mitchell!” she yells.

“For the love of God, call me Mitch!” I yell back.

“What would your mother think of you shortening the name she gave you to something so boring?” she asks.

“I wouldn’t know. We don’t talk,” I say before I can stop myself.

Shit.

Why on earth did I say that?

“Oh,” she says after a long pause.

I say nothing because I’ve already said enough. No. More than enough. I never talk about my relationship (or lack thereof) with my parents. I have no idea what possessed me to start today, especially with Stacey.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” she continues.

I clear my throat and search for words. But they don’t come and all I hear is my father’s voice in my head, saying “ What is wrong with you, Mitchell? Just spit it out!i” But the words don’t come because I’m flustered and scared and stuck. It’s like my brain is a record, stuck on a scratch, just screeching over and over again. No actual words in sight.

I take a deep breath and attempt to banish my father to the deep part of myself where he usually stays put alongside my mother. I don’t talk to them for a reason, and this is a prime example.

Breathe in .

“It’s fine, forget I said anything,” I say after far too long of a pause. Please, please forget. I might not be able to, but she should.

Breathe out.

She gives me a long, thoughtful look before nodding and saying, “Okay,” in the kindest tone I’ve ever heard come out of her mouth in my direction.

“Anyway,” I say with far too much emphasis, but I need this conversation to shift before I completely lose it.

“Anyway,” she repeats quietly.

I try to focus back to what we were talking (arguing) about.

Right.

Dogs.

“I just think actually having dogs there will help hit the message home, and maybe we can even get a few adopted in the process,” I say.

“I really don’t think the hotel will let us bring a bunch of potentially untrained rescues into their very nice ballroom, Mitch,” she says.

I know she’s probably right and I also know that she just used my nickname. The relief that washes over me when I hear it is actually nice—relaxing even. If only it wasn’t because she feels bad for me.

“But I’ll ask,” she continues. She has a soft smile on her face now and I swear I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life. It actually knocks the wind out of me a little bit.

“On to wedding planning?” she asks.

“You mean I’m allowed to help?” I say with a bit of snark because she’s being too nice to me, and I don’t know how to handle it.

She laughs again and my brain cuts out for a second.

When I’m able to see past the fact that she has the most wonderful laugh I’ve ever heard, I realize I’m staring at her .

“You good?” she asks.

I gulp and say, “Yup.” Maybe she didn’t notice.

If she noticed, she’s not going to say anything. She just presses forward with the planning.

“I started looking at some venues,” she says. “Maybe we can visit one after you’re back from the All-Star game? We’re both super busy until after Caleb’s gala is over.”

“That sounds great. Should we start a joint Pinterest board for everything?” I ask. “Once we nail down the aesthetic, I’ll start looking for a florist.”

Her mouth falls open.

I grin.

“What?” I ask.

“A Pinterest board? You’re on Pinterest?” She’s totally dumbfounded by this realization, and I love it.

“I dabble,” I say, continuing to grin at her.

“Okay then,” she says. “Well, as much as this is blowing my mind a bit, I have another meeting starting soon.”

“Send me the venue info so I can start visualizing things,” I say.

“You got it, Martha Stewart,” she says. “Oh, and I have an updated headcount for you for your gala printed off.”

She hands me a few pages of paper filled with names. I flip through it and see some of the best donors in the state are planning to attend.

“This is great,” I say before my eyes fall on it. Stacey’s name is in one column with a number two next to it.

“You’ve got yourself down for two in this count,” I say.

“I know,” she says. “Is that a problem?”

Oh.

Oh.

She’s bringing a date.

“Nope,” I say too quickly. “Not a problem at all.”

“You’re sure? It’s your event,” she says.

“Positive,” I say. “Can’t wait to meet him ... her ... them. ”

“Great!” She stands up to walk me out. “Pleasure working with you, Mitchell,” she says as she opens her door.

And ... we’re back to Mitchell. Well, it was nice while it lasted, I guess.

“Bye, love,” I say with a wink as I step into the hall.

She rolls her eyes before closing the door between us.