Wilson bends that enormous body in half, grabs his giant knees and cracks up. “Let me guess. Every player said he liked silver, he liked winning, and nobody gave you a favorite poet?”
“Some of them like purple,” I say a little defensively.
“The team color.” He straightens up, still laughing at me. “Of course they did. You’re not going to get a lot of fun answers with those questions.”
“I noticed.” My shoulders sag. This video is going to suck.
“Lemme give you a clue,” Wilson says. He has a midwestern accent that some of his teammates like to mock. But to me, it makes him sound open and friendly. “You’ll get more interesting answers if you ask for unpopular opinions. Like—what’s your least favorite color? Or what’s the most overrated food?”
“Oh.” I turn that over in my mind, and I can kind of see his point. “Why is that?”
“People love haters.” He winks. “Just try it.”
I scan the crowd of professional hockey players. It’s eye candy as far as the eye can see. There’s a ferocious beach volleyball competition happening. These men are more competitive than hungry pitbulls at a steak eating contest. “Okay, I think I understand.”
“Good luck, Stacey.” He clamps a big hand over my shoulder and gives it a friendly squeeze. “You got this.”
And just maybe I do. I walk back to Jason Castro, who’s sipping a beer and turning pages in his book. “Could I ask you one more question?”
He removes his shades and frowns at me. “Sure, but do it quick because all this sunshine and relaxation is putting me into a coma.”
“I’ll be quick.” I point the camera at him. “What’s your least favorite airport to fly out of?”
“Oh easy,” he says, his brown eyes lighting up. “San Francisco. It’s fogged in, like, half the time. Every flight is forty minutes late. The traffic is atrocious.” Castro is so worked up about this now that he rises off the chair and crosses his arms in front of his incredible chest. “Now the real issue—they lose my luggage every time. This very minute my favorite suitcase is still circling the globe. They lost it in June. My bag has literally been to Fiji without me. Thanks, SFO! Thanks a ton.”
Maybe Wilson was onto something.
* * *
That evening I stay up late splicing the videos together. I thought it might be tricky, but apps are easier to negotiate than people.
Plus, I get to admire Wilson’s footage while I do it. He’s so cute. And he saved my video with his big idea.
Eventually I’ve created a cute TikTok video. But honestly, I don’t understand why this app is sweeping the globe. It’s loud. It’s random. Half the videos aren’t interesting or funny. I just don’t get it.
But hey—that’s the same way I feel about most pop culture. I don’t follow any celebrities. I don’t like most movies, because the plot holes make me crazy.
I love sports, though. That’s why I picked this job. Hockey doesn’t mess around. You win or you lose. It’s not a popularity contest. So imagine my horror at this assignment—improving Brooklyn’s TikTok channel, which is absolutely a popularity contest.
Still, I want to do a good job. So the next morning I go into my meeting with Georgia Trevi—the team’s publicist—with my video in hand. And I’m actually pretty proud of myself.
For at least two whole minutes. That’s how long it takes Georgia to watch the video, make an apologetic face, and then explain why they can’t run my video on the channel.
Afterward, I walk slowly out of her impromptu office in one of the beach cabanas, and consider resigning on the spot.
“Just try again,” Georgia had said. “You’ll figure it out.”
I won’t, though. It’s hopeless.
“Hey there,” Wilson says in a perfectly calm voice, even though he’s in the middle of a set of push-ups right there in the beach sand. “Why the long face? Need some coffee?”
“Not even coffee can save me,” I say. Then I flop down in the sand beside him.
“Video is no good?” he asks, raising and lowering that huge body in a perfect rhythm.
“It’s good,” I say with a sigh. “Georgia laughed when she watched it. But then she said that it manages to offend eleven different cities in less than a minute. And worse—it makes the players sound like rich divas. Apparently, if you fly around in a private jet, you’re not supposed to complain about it.”
“Ah,” Wilson says. “Hang on.” He bangs out ten more push-ups, then hops into a seated position with more grace than a giant should really possess. “Can I see?”
“Sure.” I pass him my phone and watch as he takes in the video I made.
He starts laughing right away, of course. “This is funny. But I kind of see Georgia’s point. Except for that bit about Bayer gettin’ food poisoning in Tampa. That’s pure internet gold.”
“Yeah,” I grumble. “Do you think I should do a whole video about food poisoning?”
Wilson makes a grossed out face, and I think better of it. “Tell you what. Let me help you with the next one.”
“Why?” I yelp. He’s so hunky and distracting. My video-making skills won’t be improved by his company.
“I feel bad,” he says, shrugging those incredible shoulders. “I kinda told you to do unpopular opinions.”
“Pffft,” I say, and he grins. “It’s not your fault that I’m awkward, and that I hate this job. I hate TikTok—except for this one video I saw with a herd of puppies. But that’s it. And I’m just not cut out for a job where I have to talk to strangers.” I shiver a little just saying that aloud. “I could do your taxes or manage your retirement fund. But social media baffles me.”
“See? You do need my help,” he insists. “Let’s start with something simple. Nobody cares what hockey players think, anyway. The fans want two things from us: they want us to win, and look good doing it. The end.”
“That’s all this fan wants,” I agree. “So how do we make a video about that?”
“Eh, we’ll start simple,” he insists. “We’ll do a cake check.”
“Cake…?” I don’t have the first idea what he means.
“Do you know what hockey butts are?” he asks.
“Erm…” Are we really talking about his butt right now?
“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but most every player has a big patootie.”
I let out a snort of laughter. “Yeah, yeah. Skating develops the glutes. I don’t live under a rock.”
“See, girl? I knew you were special.” His smile is white hot. “So follow along—we’ll grab the players one by one, they’ll lie down…”
I lean forward to listen. And I realize Wilson really is a genius.
2
“Let’s see it, Captain!” Wilson shouts, clapping his hands. “Your turn, baby! Prove you got what it takes. Lay it down on the ground so we can measure yo’ mound!”