Accepting the Celly

PROLOGUE

 There comes a moment in everyone's life when they wonder what events took place to result in whatever fucked up situation they're currently stuck in.

Right now, I am living that moment.

If you asked me how I ended up trapped in the Maverick's locker room, I wouldn't be able to tell you.

If you asked me how I ended up in the showers of the Maverick's locker room, I would be able to tell you that it was the first corner I ducked around when I heard voices coming from the long brick hallway that led up to said locker room. How was I supposed to know it was the showers?

But everything would be fine, wouldn't it? After all, they had scheduled my meeting for after practice, so all of the athletes should be well and gone by now. The showers shouldn't be used anyways.

Maybe I should back up a few steps...

Thirty minutes ago I walked through the front doors of Cornerstone Arena and made my way to the human resources department to set up the company event that my boss insisted I organize. We had to do an annual team bonding night out to "boost moral", and this year it somehow fell to me to organize it.

Being from one of the most prominent hockey towns in North America, everyone in the office immediately voted that the event be held at Cornerstone Arena. To get more specific, they voted that it be an all-inclusive hockey game... and not only all inclusive, but the home opener. So easy to organize and attain given the small budget that accounting cleared me for.

I got lucky, however, because my Dad is college buddies with the Maverick's owner, and he was more than willing to meet me today to discuss some kind of deal for one of the team's biggest sponsors. Honestly, the fact that BarDown Brewing is the company requesting a meeting should be enough to obtain one with the team's owner, but my Dad was able to send a quick text and I was able to secure a rare next day meeting. If I am really lucky, I will be able to get tickets for this weekend's game for the company and secure one or two of the players for a photoshoot to promote our next release of apple ale.

That is my side-mission today, per my boss's instruction. I am to attempt to secure at least one player as a spokesman for "The Assist". Apparently our brewing team thought they were clever with that name.

I arrived to the meeting half an hour early, shamefully sitting in my car until about fifteen minutes ago when I walked through the front doors and asked the blonde-haired girl about my age behind the desk where I was supposed to go.

I followed the secretary's instructions clearly. She said "go down the stairs and take a right" and I had repeated it to myself as I closely followed each part of it. It's not like it was a lot of information to remember.

So how in the hell did I end up in the Maverick's locker room? I have no idea. I can tell you I ended up in the showers after I had ducked around the first wall I saw when I heard people walk into said locker room.

It just so happens that wall is the one that separates the showers from the rest of the room. I don't care, though, as long as whoever is out there doesn't know that I am in here. Their voices are muffled enough that I don't think they are in the actual locker room, which is good news for me, but they are definitely right outside the door and would therefore see me (and most likely question me) if I tried to make a quick escape.

The talking subsides, and I hear footsteps begin to echo down the hallway again as they grow further away. I exhale the breath I had been holding, feeling relief fill my body. I turn to exit the showers, but am abruptly halted when I feel my heart jump into my throat.

I don't know if the man standing to my side is what makes me jump, or if it is the state in which he is standing there. His arms are crossed over his bare chest as he leans nonchalantly against the wall, nothing but a pair of black compression shorts hugging his muscled hips and thighs. The longer strands of his dark hair atop his head are dripping with what I can only assume is sweat, since I am in the shower and it definitely has not been used. The little bit of facial hair that he has frames the wide smirk that lays across his lips, and when my shocked gaze finally meets his deep, brown eyes, they are glinting with humor.

"I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to be in here," his voice is deep, husky... teasing... and my face no doubt flushes a deep red at it.

"I- I'm not," I swallow my nervousness. "I got lost." He already towers over me, and I feel myself shrinking so much that I have to crane my neck to keep his gaze.

"Hell of a place to get lost," he glances at the shower head in the corner that has been dripping relentlessly since I scrambled in here. When his eyes lock with mine again, realization as to who he is dawns on me.

Dylan Cavanaugh. The Maverick's captain.

Fuck me.

One didn't have to like or follow hockey to know who Dylan Cavanaugh is. If you live in Maukingnen Falls you can't walk more than ten steps without seeing his face on something.

"Maukingnen's Captain, born and raised."

And apparently, he is a major dick.

He went to high school in this town, left very briefly for college, skipping the junior league altogether for God knows what reason (even though he was still only gone two years, because he got drafted before he even finished school), and then was brought right back home to play for the Mavericks after only half a season in the AHL, where he's been for the last three years. The captain title, however... that is new.

I never had the pleasure (note the sarcasm) of knowing Dylan Cavanaugh personally, despite growing up here as well and attending the same high school as him. Although not as big as a full-blown city, Maukingnen Falls was large enough that I went to high school with so many kids, I wouldn't be able to name them if someone offered me a million dollars to do so.

Dylan Cavanaugh was, however, a name I heard frequently enough- someone with talent like his was immediately noticed by big schools the second he hit the ice his freshman year. I just never met the kid. Apart from our school being large, he was three years my junior (now twenty-three when I am already twenty-six), so we overlapped, but me, being a senior, didn't feel any need to acknowledge the freshman. He ended up graduating, and playing hockey, with my little brother... yet another reason I heard his name so frequently. My brother and he even signed to the same college. I traveled out to watch my brother play a few games, and Dylan-show stopper-Cavanaugh had been the ultimate narcissist in every single one, just as he'd been in high school.

He raises an expectant eyebrow, waiting for my answer to a question I don't remember him actually asking.

"I'm supposed to be in a meeting with Mr. Evans," my voice finally comes out sounding normal again. "The woman at the front desk told me to go down the stairs and take a right."

"Up," he replies.

"What?"

"Go up the stairs and take a right." I feel my face blanch.

"Oh." He chuckles at that. "Okay, thank you." I attempt to move around him, but he pushes himself off the wall, blocking my path.

"Who are you?"

"I'm meeting with Mr. Evans. The team owner..." I say, again trying to step around him. He, again, side-steps to block my path.

"I know who the team owner is. That didn't really answer my question," his lip tips up to go from smirk to half-smile. With the action, a faint dimple appears on his cheek.

"Please, I'm going to be late. I probably already am," I move again, and again, I am blocked.

"If anyone knew you were in here, being late would be the least of your worries," he raises that eyebrow again. "Your name?"

"Are you going to get me in trouble if I tell it to you?" I really need to keep my good relationship with Mr. Evans. The last thing I need is for Dylan fucking Cavanaugh to let it slip that BarDown's head of marketing was peeping in the showers before her meeting. That humor glints in his eyes again.

"No."

I narrow my eyes at him, and he raises his hands in feign surrender.

"I swear," he draws an X over the left side of his chest with his right hand, leaving his left raised in surrender, giving me the best innocent face he can muster. "If you tell me your name, you're free to go to your meeting."

"Alison," I say.

"Alison," he repeats. After a few seconds, he steps to the side, exposing the exit to me. "Good luck, Alison," he smiles again, dimples appearing in both cheeks this time, and I give him another suspicious look before skirting around him and practically sprinting through the locker room's door.