Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I don’t know.
And I want to.
As I prep the post, the server returns with my iced tea. I down some quickly, then show Max the images from today before I upload them. I covered any naked parts of riders with stickers of hockey pucks and added the shot of him here. The caption reads: Today a friend brought me to this event.
He lifts a brow in curiosity. “Are we friends now?”
“Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet,” I say.
“Thanks for the warning.”
“Anytime,” I say, then hit post. But I can’t keep wondering who he really is. Even though I vowed not to do this—I do it anyway. I let down my guard. “Look, I’ve got to hand it to you. From the circus to the naked parade, you’ve done a great job keeping your real self off social, and from me.” Then I take a chance. “But I’d love to know what you’re really like.”
Max is quiet for a beat, his brow furrowed, the cogs turning. He takes a deep breath. “You free Thursday afternoon? We don’t have a game that night. I can show you.”
He didn’t pick my night with Lucas, so I say yes in a heartbeat.
15
RAINCHECK
Everly
As I’m chatting with our new communications assistant at the arena before the game Tuesday night, a gruff voice calls out to me in the press box. “Got the injury report, Rosewood?”
I turn away from Jenna Nguyen toward Gus Mitchell, the grizzled sports reporter who’s been covering hockey for longer than I’ve been alive—something he likes to remind me of nearly every time I see him. His face is weathered and his voice sounds like gravel.
He’s tough, but fair though, which is all I can ask for. “Don’t I always, Gus?” I say, then brandish my tablet and make a show of swiping my finger across the screen. “In your email.”
He narrows his shrewd eyes, shaking his head as he grumbles, “Why can’t I just have it on a piece of paper like the old days?”
“Because it’s not the old days, Gus,” I say with a smile. “Why chop a tree down when I can send it to you in the ether?”
“I hate the ether,” he grouses, but he picks up his reading glasses from the string around his neck and shoves them on his face, hunching over his laptop. “Been covering this longer than you’ve been alive,” he mutters, as if on cue.
I smile at Jenna. “It’s his love language.”
She smiles awkwardly. “Really?”
“I promise. He’s more bark than bite.”
“I can hear you, Rosewood,” Gus chides.
“I know, Mitchell. It wasn’t a secret. I’m training a new department assistant on all the media team.”
I expect a surly comeback, but instead he snaps his gaze to me. “Volkov is out? He’s got an ankle sprain again?”
Jenna gulps, fidgeting with the silver bracelets on her wrists. She knows our center Alexei Volkov has an ankle sprain for the second time in a year. He should be back in a couple games.
“Just a minor lower body injury,” I say with a smile, giving nothing away.
“So it’s his ankle again?” Gus pushes.
I stare him down. “Gus, did I say it was his ankle? I did not. You have the report. He’s out with a lower body injury. And it’s minor. Anything else?”
He huffs. “Yeah, can you make sure I get one of those bags of salted chips with the media meal?”
“Salty for salty,” I say, then turn to Jenna. “Can you handle Mister Salty?”
“I can,” she says eagerly.
He rolls his eyes. “Make them extra salty.”
“As if we’d do anything else,” I say, then after checking in with a few other reporters, we leave.
In the hallway, Jenna brings her hand to her chest, like her heart is beating too fast. “I thought he was going to grill us, and then you went all badass boss babe.”
I laugh, making light of the compliment that I secretly love. “Thank you. And even if the press grills you on an injury, you don’t have to tell them the details.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. While we’re required to disclose injuries to the league and the public, we don’t have to specify the exact type so we usually share upper or lower body injury. Player privacy is an issue, but we also don’t want to reveal weaknesses to other teams. Reporters will try to push, but there’s a way around everything.”
“Like you did. Can I just imitate you if that ever happens to me?” she asks with a hopeful smile.
“Of course. And if you aren’t sure what to say you can always answer any question with a generic I’ll get back to you. It covers everything.”
“Good to know,” she says as we walk down the hall, then turn the corner as Zaire—my boss—walks toward us, head high, cutting a powerful image as she strides down the hall. “How’s everything going?”