Accepting the Celly

Chapter 1

 "Alison!" A cheery voice makes me lift my head from the chair I am currently trying to sit professionally in. Unfortunately for me, the tight pencil skirt I am wearing isn't making that very easy without flashing the black-laced thong I wore this morning to the rest of the room. I quickly stand and brush my knees when Mr. Evans walks across the room towards me.

"Mr. Evans," I reply, sticking my hand out to accept his handshake. "I am so sorry I'm late. The day got a bit out of hand."

"That's alright. I was in the middle of a meeting that ran late, anyways. Shall we?" He gestures to his office and I nod, stooping to pick up my briefcase before following him. He shuts the large oak door behind me and signals for me to sit in a chair by the desk. He walks around to sit in his own seat.

The office is nice; fitting for an owner of a fairly successful hockey team. The wall to my right is entirely windows that looks over the rink right at center ice, unobstructed by any seats or booths. Mr. Evans has set up a small sitting area with leather couches worth more than my car set around a coffee table overlooking the ice. A private viewing area for any guest he may wish to privately entertain here. A large fireplace across the massive room from his desk is crackling as it warms the area. His desk itself looks to be mahogany, which I only know from its rich color, and the chair I am sitting in is a plush velvet that makes me want to splay my fingers across it.

"Your office is amazing," I comment and he beams.

"Thank you. I put a lot of effort into it. He nods his head to the wall that houses the fireplace, and I look over my shoulder to see the plethora of signed memorabilia lining the walls and shelves. "Your father's college jersey is over there between Wayne's and my own."

"Really?"

He nods, standing from his seat and walking to the Wall of Fame. I take that as indication that I should follow, and quickly readjust my skirt upon standing again to meet him across from the familiar jersey.

"That has to be special addition," I joke, knowing that my Dad has the same one hanging in our living room.

"It actually is. Your father and I have the only two."

"I thought Dad was pretty big in college. He always brags about how many sweaters he sold."

"He was, but this is one of the two worn during the final game of the Frozen Four in 1989."

"Wait..." Realization dawned, "Does that mean-"

"The front of that one is covered in his blood," Mr. Evans says rather abruptly, and I can't help the small laugh that escapes my lips. Dad has a permanent scar across his lip from the puck he took to the face that day. He had to change jerseys between periods because of all the blood that poured down the front of his first one.

"What an honor for him to be between two Greats," I lay on the compliments.

"He might not be one of the biggest names in hockey, but that jersey has a hell of a story behind it."

"That it does," I say before side-stepping to examine the photo on a shelf to my right. It is a photo of Mr. Evans and my Dad, both in their college uniforms. Dad's top lip is stitched up, and Mr. Evans is holding a puck in his hand, shooting the camera a thumbs up with the other. "Is that-"

"The puck that busted his lip," Mr. Evans joins me. "Yes. He must not have told you that I was the one who hit it." I turn to him wide-eyed as he lets out a laugh. "I shot from the blue line and he got in the way. Somehow, he still managed to deflect it into the goal and I only got credited with the assist. I still give the bastard shit for stealing the goal from me."