Maybe This Summer (Colorado Ice #2.5)
Jennifer Snow
To Reagan, thank you for seeing past my scars and teaching me how to open up again. I love you.
Chapter 1
Did you do this?” Owen McConnell handed the inductee nomination form to his buddy before turning Ben’s Hummer into the parking lot of the Burn Treatment Center at the Colorado Hospital.
“Would I do that to you?” His friend’s grin answered that question.
“Asshole,” he muttered, glancing at the form. The Mascot Hall of Fame had selected him as one of the year’s six finalists in the professional mascot division. Now Bernie, the Colorado Avalanche mascot, would have his picture and profile displayed on their website, open to a public vote. He pulled to the far back of the lot and parked the vehicle on an angle, taking up three spaces.
“What’s wrong? You’re always complaining that you don’t get enough recognition for the team’s success. I thought you’d be happy.” Ben pulled down the visor and checked his hair.
The captain of the Colorado team could be bald and women would still fall at his hockey skates…or at least they had until he’d officially taken himself off the market when he’d proposed to his girlfriend, Olivia Davis—a lawyer who had once been out for his head on a platter.
Unlike his buddy, Owen had to work for his dates these days.
Climbing out of the air-conditioned vehicle, a wall of Denver heat hit him in the face. “Damn, it’s cooking.” Summer was here and Owen was looking forward to the break. Since the Avalanche won the Stanley Cup the month before, his alter ego had been booked for countless fan meet-and-greets throughout Colorado and promotional advertising for the team. He wasn’t complaining—he knew the job didn’t have an official off-season—but at thirty-six years old, he was starting to slow down a little, his slight limp from his injury overseas getting a little worse each season. In addition to his role as promotions manager for the team, Owen wore the costume and rallied the crowd two or three times a week during the season. The exhausting, high-energy routines were more work than anyone realized…or gave him credit for.
Okay, maybe Ben was right. Maybe a little recognition couldn’t hurt for all he did for the Avalanche. Of course, the credit would actually belong to Bernie. Other than the players, no one knew he was the man inside the costume.
It was one of the reasons he’d initially accepted the position when the previous mascot retired.
As they were walking across the parking lot, a beautiful tall brunette leaving the building caught his eye, and he nudged his buddy.
Ben shook his head. “Head down, eye on the prize for me, remember?”
His friend’s reformed playboy ways had robbed him of a wingman. Though at least now he had a shot. “Beautiful day,” he said to the brunette as he passed.
Only to be ignored.
Opening the door to the hospital, he was relieved when another blast of air-conditioning hit them. He checked the directory on the wall. “First floor, west wing,” he said.
“So? What do you think? Isn’t she everything I promised?”
He nodded slowly. The Hummer was the beast Ben affectionately promised it was, but the price tag on it was a little high. The ride was almost ten years old. If he was going to do Ben a favor by taking it off of his hands, his buddy would have to make the deal a little more appealing. “I’m not sure, man.” He wasn’t exactly pulling in seven-figure contracts. Not since he’d left the NHL.
“Oh come on. It’s a beacon for women.”
He shot him a look. “It’s an environment-destroying, obnoxious-sounding tank. Your fiancée is making you get rid of it.”
“Exactly! Because she knows it draws the ladies.”
“You’re a good salesman, I’ll give you that.” His friend certainly knew how to play to his weakness. The truth was, his own truck was becoming more costly to keep on the road than the payments on a new vehicle, and this win-win situation, as Ben referred to it as, solved both their problems.
Taking the west wing elevators, they entered the Burn Treatment Center offices.
“Ben Westmore—come in!” A slightly older woman in a light blue suit came around her desk to greet them. Tall and slender with a warm, welcoming smile, she lit up the otherwise muted, dimly lit office and its beige furniture and solitary abstract painting in various shades of bland.
“Paige?” Ben asked, extending a hand.
She took it. “No, I’m Isabelle Cartwright—her assistant. She’s just finishing up another meeting, and then she’ll be right with you both.”
“It’s not a meeting with one of my competing teams, is it?” Ben asked.
The woman smiled. “You know we’d never consider asking any other NHL team to sponsor the event.” She touched his arm.
Ben’s flirtatious grin was on autopilot.
“Head down,” Owen buried in a cough.
Grin fading, Ben shot him a look. “This is Owen McConnell—the team’s promotions manager.”
Finally, the woman noticed him. “Hi, nice to meet you,” she said, extending a hand to him. “Have a seat. I’m sure Paige will be out to greet you shortly.”
Her office door opened before they could sit.