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 spunky. 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 assumed she was “spunky.” Or maybe it was her fashion flair. Although everyone always assumed the same about Bo, and Bo had the fashion sense of an undertaker. “What makes you think I’m spunky?”
He chuckled. “It might as well be written across your forehead.”
Which told her nothing. She reached for both glasses. “See ya, Colin.”
“Don’t be a stranger, sweetheart.”
She moved back into the VIP lounge and set the glasses on the table in front of the sofa. Mark glanced up at her and slid his sunglasses 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 assured 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-Tex–clad, granola-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 recuperate 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 breasts, not her. She’d been forever type-cast as a bimbo or a sexually promiscuous character. Once her breasts were no longer a factor, directors would have to take her seriously. 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 breasts.
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 easily. 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 peacock Gaultier. The other night when she’d first met Jules, she’d assumed 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 sexuality was more covert, disguised behind hair gel and fashion risks. Like the lavender-and-pink-striped shirt 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 assured 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.”
Bo slid off the side of her desk. “So there’s going to be a lot of opportunity for shenanigans.”
Jules shook his head. “You worry too much. After they all get their turn, it’ll get taken away to have their names engraved on it and everything will settle down.”
Chelsea tossed the paper on her sister’s desk. “How many players get their turn with the cup?”
“All those who are eligible to have their names engraved on it. Off the top of my head, I think twenty-four,” Jules answered. “Including Ty Savage and Mark Bressler. Even though neither played the full season.”
“Mr. Bressler gets a day with the cup?” He hadn’t mentioned it. Then again, he didn’t say much. Except when he wanted to be rude.
“Sure. He was the captain until just before the playoffs. Any player who played in forty-one regular season games or five playoff games is eligible. Bressler played in well over forty-one games and is a huge part of the reason the team made it into the finals. He helped build the team and deserves as much credit for winning as anyone. It’s just a shame he didn’t get to play in the finals.”
“When is his day?” She pulled her BlackBerry out of her bag to make a note.
“I don’t know,” Bo answered.
“I’m sure he can have it whenever he wants. Has he talked to anyone about what day he wants the cup?”
Chelsea shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ll ask him.”
Jules reached out and brushed the sleeve of her shirt. “Nice.”
“Thanks. It’s a Gaultier.”
“I thought it might be. I have a silk Gaultier in pewter and gold.”
Of course he did. “Are you sure you’re not gay?” She cocked her head to one side. “Bo has no interest in fashion, and I’d love to find a gay best friend to shop with.”
“I have more important things in my life,” Bo protested.
“Like what?” Jules and Chelsea asked at the same time.
“Like… like my job.”
Jules looked from one sister to the other. “If the two of you didn’t look alike, I wouldn’t know you’re twins. You’re so different.”
Chelsea thought about the fight she’d had with her sister the night before. “Bo is a lot more responsible than I am.”
Her sister gave her a tight smile. “I can be kind of uptight.”
“That’s an understatement.” Jules chuckled. “You’re bossy as hell.”
“Well, someone has to be or nothing would get done around here.”
“Right. The whole organization would fall apart without a five-and-a-half-foot woman in PR telling everyone what to do and how to do it.”
“I’m five feet, one and a half,” Bo said as if they were in junior high and that half an inch was still important. She frowned and pushed her short hair behind her ears. “Why are you here, Jules? Just to fight with me?”
“As pleasant as fighting with you always is, I was going to see if you’re free for lunch.”
“I have a meeting in ten minutes,” Bo grumbled.
He looked at Chelsea. “You free?”
She glanced at the clock on her phone. She didn’t get the feeling that Jules asked because he thought she and
