Page 63 of Ice Cold Hearts
“You want us to stay?” Ian asks.
“Nah, you two go on ahead. I can handle whatever he throws at me,” I assure them.
They sprint off so fast, I swear they leave behind smoke outlines like cartoon characters. I sit down and unlace my skates while I wait for this guy to huff and puff his way over here. He’s barely halfway to me and he’s already out of breath. I shake my head in disbelief. If these PR guys spent some time doing off ice training with us instead of meddling in our private business, they’d probably be a lot happier. First, because so much gossip happens on weight training days that it’s shocking how similar these men are to a brood of clucking hens, but also because they’d have the stamina to catch us before we manage to give them the slip.
No lie, there’s an actual chart in Shaw’s locker tracking who’s gotten cornered the most this season. The loser is responsible for planning the team’s end of the year party so, needless to say, we all have a vested interest in avoiding them. Unfortunately, I can’t turn tail and run after being singled out by name. Not because it’s rude, even though it is, but because it’s against the rules and I’d get two additional penalty tallies next to my name on top of the tally for being caught. I’m sure Shaw is already gleefully adding a mark next to my previously unblemished name… jackass.
I take a deep, mindful breath and focus on the man headed toward me.
Is he part turtle or something? Why is he still so far away?
Okay, maybe I need another set of deep breaths so I’m able to keep my temper.
What was that thing Emily told us about? Right. Things we can see.
I stare at the man coming toward me, trying to focus on any small details I can. I’m trying to remember his name, but the only word that pops into my mind is beige. Everything about him is beige. Skin, hair, suit, tie, and shoes. It’s all beige. Even his eyes are a color so washed out I can’t figure out what it is.
“Thank you for waiting, Alexei,” he wheezes.
“Team PR, right?” I ask because ‘what the fuck do you want’ is too rude a greeting even for me.
“Yes.” He holds out his hand. “Joe Smith.”
Damn, even his name is beige.
“Do you need a quote about practice for social media or something?” I ask. “That’s why you grabbed me, right? For your, what did you call them? Captain quotes?”
“Not exactly,” he says, chewing at the corner of his lip.
The way he’s squirming under my stare tells me he knows that I know exactly what he’s come to ask me about and it’s not for some stupid quote. The other hangnails sent him to weasel information out of me so they can do damage control and spin every inch of my private life into publicity for the team. I’d trusted them during the few months we dated Colleen, and they threw her to the wolves. I’m not going to make that mistake with Emily.
Mr. Beige cracks his knuckles, straightens his tie, and brushes nonexistent lint off his sleeves, all while refusing to meet my eyes. If they sent him to try to evoke some pity from me, it didn’t work. I’m actually thoroughly enjoying his discomfort. I don’t plan to ask him any more questions or volunteer any information. If he wants to know that badly, he’s going to have to have the balls to ask me outright.
After the third awkward cough, he finally manages it. “So, you know the media has been running stories on you guys and that physical therapist girl, and management sent me down to get the real story. You know, to separate fact from rumor.” He gets faster and squeakier after every other word, “So, is it just friendly? Is just one of you dating her or is it more like” —he swallows hard— “the, uh, other two times? Does she spend the night a lot? Are you serious or is this just a fling? This girl has a kid, right? Is the father in the picture? What’s the situation with that? Is he going to be any trouble?”
I need to end this conversation before I say or do anything I regret. I hold up my hand and he stops with a squeak.
“The first thing I’m going to make clear to you is this. She’s a woman, not some girl, and you’re going to refer to her respectfully or not at all,” I say firmly. “The second thing I’m going to make clear to you is that in the unlikely event that it becomes necessary for the PR team and management to know about my private life, you’ll hear it directly from me. My business is my business and isn’t your story to spin whichever way you want. So why don’t you run along and let them know that if they have a problem with what’s in the media right now, they should stop reading the damn papers?”
I turn on my heel and stalk to the locker room before he can open his mouth again.
When I get in there, the locker room is completely empty. It’s a good thing, though, because I don’t think I can handle the team buzzing off post-workout endorphins.
One thought keeps haunting me as I attempt to scrub off my frustration.
How could he have known she’s been spending the night?
Unfortunately, when I check my phone, I get the answer to that question.
Oliver - Brace yourself. Things are about to get worse.
I click on the link he sent and nearly chuck my phone across the room.
The shit has officially hit the fan.
21
EMILY