Part 4 (1/2)
”Good to see you, Hitman,” the bartender called out to him as they pa.s.sed. ”Can I get you anything?”
”No thanks. Not right now.”
Chelsea bit the side of her lip. Hitman?
The Sports Ill.u.s.trated reporter sat on a red leather sofa in the back of the lounge; her long blond hair curled about her shoulders and shone in the subdued light. The reporter stood as they approached and moved from behind a large c.o.c.ktail table. She wore a red bird's-eye jacket and pencil skirt that hit her at mid-thigh. She was tall and gorgeous and perfectly proportioned, everything that Chelsea was not. Oh, Chelsea could buy that exact shade of blond and she planned to have her b.r.e.a.s.t.s reduced to fit her body, but she would never have those long legs.
”h.e.l.lo, I'm Chelsea Ross.” Chelsea shook the woman's slender hand. ”Mr. Bressler's a.s.sistant.”
”It's nice to meet you,” the reporter said, but her eyes were transfixed on the man behind Chelsea. ”You're a hard man to pin down,” she said as she dropped Chelsea's hand and reached for Mark. ”I'm Donda Clark.”
He switched his cane to his right hand. ”Mark Bressler.”
”Yes, I know.” She smiled and motioned toward the seat next to her on the sofa. ”I caught the game in Detroit last December.”
A tight smile curved Mark's lips. ”That was one of the last games I played.” He moved to the sofa, placed his good hand on the arm, and slowly sat. The corners of his mouth tightened even more, and Chelsea wondered if he was up to the interview. He seemed so strong, it was easy to forget that he'd been near death just a few months prior.
”I thought Detroit might turn it over after Leclaire drew a double minor in the third frame, but the Chinooks' firepower clearly overwhelmed the Red Wings.”
Wow, what an a.s.s kisser. ”Can I get anything for the two of you before I go?” Chelsea asked.
”I'd like a Chablis,” Donda answered as she sat and dug a tape recorder out of her bag. ”Thank you.”
”Mr. Bressler?”
He took the gla.s.ses from the top of his head and shoved one side down the collar of his T-s.h.i.+rt. ”Water.”
Chelsea moved to the bar and wondered if Donda noticed the pain etched in the side of Mark's mouth and if she'd write about it.
”What can I get you, sweetheart?” the bartender asked as his gaze landed on her chest. She was so used to guys' reaction to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, it didn't anger her as much as it once had. Annoy, yes. Anger, no.
Chelsea waited a few seconds before his gaze moved up to hers. ”House Chablis and a gla.s.s of ice water.” She looked at the name tag clipped to his blue polo. ”Colin.”
He smiled. The c.o.c.ky smile of bartenders worldwide who knew they were good-looking. ”You know my name. What's yours?”
She'd been known to date a few c.o.c.ky bartenders. Most of them had been out-of-work actors. ”You already know it. It's sweetheart.”
He reached for a gla.s.s and filled it with ice. ”It's nice to meet you, sweetheart. What brings you into the Spitfire?”
”I'm Mr. Bressler's a.s.sistant.”
Colin lifted his gaze from the gla.s.s he slid across the bar and grinned. ”I didn't think you were his date. You're not his type.”
”How do you know his type?”
”A lot of hockey players hang out here. He used to come in with some of the guys.”
He poured the wine, and Chelsea watched him for a few moments. ”What's his type?” she asked, only because it was her job to know that sort of thing. Not because she was nosy or anything.
”He goes for models. Like the blond he's talking to.”
”Ah.” Figured.
”I prefer cute and s.p.u.n.ky. Like you.”
Cute. She'd always been cute. For the most part, she was okay with that. Unless she had to stand next to a gorgeous supermodel and read for the same part. And because she was short, everyone a.s.sumed she was ”s.p.u.n.ky.” Or maybe it was her fas.h.i.+on flair. Although everyone always a.s.sumed the same about Bo, and Bo had the fas.h.i.+on sense of an undertaker. ”What makes you think I'm s.p.u.n.ky?”
He chuckled. ”It might as well be written across your forehead.”
Which told her nothing. She reached for both gla.s.ses. ”See ya, Colin.”
”Don't be a stranger, sweetheart.”
She moved back into the VIP lounge and set the gla.s.ses on the table in front of the sofa. Mark glanced up at her and slid his sungla.s.ses to one side of his neck. ”I'll be back in an hour,” she told him. ”If you need anything, call.”
”I'll take good care of him,” the reporter a.s.sured her, and Chelsea waited until she turned before she gave in to the urge to roll her eyes. She moved through the bar and out into the warm afternoon air. The Metro rushed past, the sound of the motor and screech of brakes bouncing off the stone buildings. Seattle definitely had a different vibe than L.A. It had a faster pace. Maybe it was the cooler temperature. Or maybe it was because the Gore-Texclad, gra-nola-munching Starbucks drinkers jogged because they actually enjoyed it. Whatever it was, Chelsea liked it well enough. She wouldn't mind living in Seattle until after her surgery. She figured she'd need a few weeks to recuper-ate before she headed back to L.A. to take another shot at pursuing her dream.
She'd often told friends that casting directors hired her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, not her. She'd been forever type-cast as a bimbo or a s.e.xually promiscuous character. Once her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were no longer a factor, directors would have to take her seri-ously. They'd have to pay more attention to her talent than to her body.
What if you still don't make it? a tiny pessimistic part of her brain asked. She'd give herself two years. No, five. If she still hadn't landed anything significant by the time she was thirty-five, she'd find something else. She'd be sad, but she wouldn't have any regrets. Not about pursuing her dream. And certainly not about reducing her heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s.
It took her less than ten minutes to walk the five blocks to the Chinooks' offices. She'd been in the human resources offices last week and found it eas-ily. After she filled out her insurance forms, she headed to the public relations department where her sister worked. The second she stepped inside the offices, she could feel that something was up.
Bo sat on the edge of her desk with her hands covering the bottom half of her face. Jules Garcia stood in front of her. ”You're worrying about nothing,” he said.
”That's easy for you to say. You don't have to fix it.”
”You don't have to fix anything.”
”Yet.”
”Hey all,” Chelsea said as she approached.
Bo dropped her hands. ”Hey, Chels.”
”Hi there,” Jules greeted, his gorgeous green eyes appraising her peac.o.c.k Gaultier. The other night when she'd first met Jules, she'd a.s.sumed he was gay. He was just too pretty and too concerned about the way he looked to be straight. His prison-ripped muscles screamed gay, but a few moments in his company had cleared up the confusion. Chelsea had been around a lot of gay men in her life. Straight men too. Jules was that rare breed that didn't easily fit in one camp or the other. Not like Mark Bressler. There was never a question for which team Mark played. His whole body leaked hetero toxins. Jules's s.e.x-uality was more covert, disguised behind hair gel and fas.h.i.+on risks. Like the lavender-and-pink-striped s.h.i.+rt he favored today.
”Is something wrong?” Chelsea asked.
Bo handed Chelsea the sports section of the Seattle Times. An enlarged photo of several men standing on a yacht, one of them pouring beer from the Stanley Cup onto bikini-clad women, took up most of the front page. The caption read: Chinooks celebrate near Vashon with Lord Stanley's Cup.
”They're partying with the Stanley Cup? Can they do that?” Chelsea studied the picture. It was a little fuzzy but clear enough. ”I mean, is it allowed?”
”It's actually tradition,” Jules a.s.sured her. ”Each team member gets the cup for one day.”
”They can just do what they want with it?” Now she understood some of Bo's concern.
”Within reason,” Jules answered. ”And a representative of the Hall of Fame has to be with it at all times.”
Obviously pouring beer on women in bikinis was considered ”within reason.”