Finding Carson Lee (Oh Captain, My Captain 3)

“Wow, that’s some accent. I thought I’d heard it all when I moved here.” He shook my hand and points for me to sit down.

“I didn’t realize I had an accent.” I smile at him. I could tell the moment he opened his mouth that he is from the northern states.

“Trust me you do, but let’s get down to business.” He looks over some papers on his desk, and I pull out my copy of the contract. “You want Carson to be the spokesman for LSMP clothing line. Right?”

“Correct. We think that Mr. Lee would fit right into our new fall line. It’s a mix between the rough and tough and relaxing everyday clothes. We’ve studied Mr. Lee, and we heard that he wasn’t happy with his current clothing sponsors, and LSMP would be a perfect fit for him.” I can’t believe I got all of that out without stammering at all.

“Yes, well, see the reason Carson is shopping for another clothing sponsor is because he likes free stuff and the female models, and the other sponsor dropped him because he punched the photographer.” Mr. Underwood didn’t even flinch when he said that.

“Oh,” what the hell do I say to that? “You know, that’s why I said rough and tough.” I give my best fake giggle to him.

“Yes, you did.” He flips through a few more pages. “I already told Carson this was a good deal. So, he’ll make his final decision tonight. Of course, he’ll need to meet you before he says ‘yes’.”

“Um, meet me? I mean, I know that we’ll be working close together when the shoots starts, but-”

Mr. Underwood put his hand up and stops me from talking. “This isn’t a negotiation. You can pick up tickets to the game tonight at the front gate. Carson will meet you when the game is over.” He gives me a big smile. “Have fun.”

Chapter Two

Carson

I tilt my head to the left and then to the right, hearing the pop each time. The third period is about to start, and we’re up by three, two goals courtesy of yours truly. Our home crowd is eating up our energy. I don’t care what anyone says, our fans are the rowdiest. I think that comes from our play. We play rough and celebrate with arrogance. They love it.

Chasing a Portland Viking down the ice, I catch him against the boards, shoving him hard as I try to regain possession. He manages to keep it and push me away, slapping it towards the goalie.

Fuck. He scores.

And then another Viking scores five minutes later.

And then another.

Our goalie is a nice guy and all, but damn if I’m not ready for a new one. We have to fight extra hard to take a lead and win. I’m this close too, when one of our guys gets a penalty. That’s all the Vikings need to score with three minutes left in the period. We don’t get any good chances and lose the game. These are the games I despise. When we have a decent lead, and then we lose our shit in the third that costs us the game.

At least this is a good excuse to go get laid, as if I need one. I change, leave the guys behind, and drive to my favorite bar in my black Lamborghini. Thanks to my car and having a favorite post-game bar, I’m never hard to find. The women come to me, so I can make them come in return. I find an empty seat in the corner to survey my options. Without even asking, the bartender brings me my drink of choice, whiskey.

My eyes scan the brunettes, the redheads, the girls with black hair, those that are more than one color, and then my favorite, blondes. There seems to be one, in particular, that is watching me. Usually, they’ll glance a few times with a little smile that’s secretly begging me to walk over to them. This one, though, isn’t smiling. She almost looks unsure. I bring my glass to my lips, trying to figure her out. At least she’s a blonde. Her curls are a bit too perfect, like she’s not naturally curly.

She surprises me by standing and walking over to me. She’s curvy, not my usual size two type, but she owns it with confidence, which is a plus. As she gets closer, stopping at the empty stool next to me, I see she has green eyes.

“Carson Lee?” Her Southern accent is clear and strong, even with only my name.

“That’s me. Who might you be, sweetheart?” I grin.

Her eyes narrow slightly. “Kinley Wright, with LSMP. We were supposed to meet.”

Oh, great. She takes the seat next to me as I reply, “Right. Sorry, it slipped my mind. Mike tell you to meet me here?” She nods. “That’s why. He knew I would be here and wouldn’t remember one way or another.” I take a quick, deep breath. “Did you go to the game? Enjoy it?”

“I did see the game. I especially enjoyed the third quarter when you hit that other player into the wall. Very exciting.”

Quarter? I stare at her for a second to see if she’ll catch her mistake. “You don’t know shit about hockey, do you?” I raise an eyebrow at her with a bit of annoyance, but mostly curiosity. They want me to work with this woman, and she doesn’t even know what she’s talking about?

“Oh, well, I’m new to the sport, but I really enjoy it. I mean, I like it so much. It’s a great sport. Yep, love it.” She nods one too many times, but I’m not buying what she’s selling.

For some reason, I laugh. “No need to lie, sweetheart. And by the way, quarter usually means there’s four of ‘em.”

“Okay, so I’m not a huge fan of hockey, but I did enjoy the game. Yes, it was the first full game I’d seen. Most of the hockey I see is on ESPN when I’m trying to catch up on the football stats.”

Her confession surprises me. I was expecting her to ride the “I’m a fan, so I know what I’m talking about” for a while longer. “Football, huh? Why are you trying to work in this sport, if you aren’t knowledgeable about it to start with or since you’re actually a fan of another?”