Vital Blindside-SAMPLE-

|| Chapter Three ||

The words on the resume in front of me blur into inky swirls. I'm only half listening to the woman seated on the opposite side of my desk as she tells me about her brief year-long career with the Calgary Blaze for the third time in the past forty-five minutes.

We're already well over her interview time, and I can't keep myself from looking at the door, curious if my next applicant has shown up and whether she's debating to stay a few more minutes or take off.

I'm praying she's not the impatient type.

"I was so close to getting promoted to second-line centre when I broke my wrist and spent the rest of the season healing," Lilliana says.

I nod subconsciously and push the flimsy paper away. Looking up, I catch her chewing on her thumbnail before she drops her hand to her lap.

"What have you been doing since? When did you leave the team?"

"Oh, I didn't leave," she replies with a forced laugh.

My brow quirks. "So you still play for them?"

"No. They released me from my contract."

"Why?" I can't help myself from asking. There are usually only two reasons a team will release a player from a contract early, and neither of them is promising.

Her nostrils flare as she sits up straighter in her chair. "I was too physical of a player on the ice."

"Physical? In a mild-contact sport?"

Her laugh has an edge sharp enough to cut steel. "There lies the problem, don't you think? The question you should really be asking is why do women with the same skill set as men have to play a milder version of the same sport we encourage them to hit and fight in?"

I tuck my knuckles beneath my chin and lean forward in my chair, chewing on what she's said. It's not a new topic, but still one that carries heavily opinionated views. Views that I don't particularly want to get into today.

"You have valid points, Lilliana. I won't argue otherwise. However—"

I'm interrupted by three harsh knocks on the door. The wheels on my chair screech against the floor when I abruptly stand and head toward the noise.

Grateful for the distraction, I throw a quick "Excuse me" at Lilliana before flinging open my office door. An immediate grin tugs at my mouth.

"My interview was twenty minutes ago, Mr. White," says a clearly livid red-headed woman. She stands in front of me with her arms crossed, chin high, and robin-egg-coloured eyes blazing. My smile drops at her harsh tone.

Flaming red hair falls in loose curls over her shoulders, skimming the tips of her heavily muscled biceps. And freckles—so many dark brown freckles—are splattered across her porcelain cheeks and over her nose, like someone has flicked melted chocolate on her face and let it dry. I'm bombarded with the urge to take a pen to her skin and connect them all. I drag a hand over my jaw to collect myself before flashing a warm smile.