I raise an eyebrow, shifting my phone to my other ear. "I mean, I know how to take decent pictures and throw a caption underneath. And I guess you could say I keep up with trends and stuff, but I’m no professional."
"That's okay, anything's better than nothing. Alex said you do it for The Pub?"
"Yeah…" I say skeptically. "My cocktail pics are top-notch, if I do say so myself. You throw that baby in portrait mode and—"
"Yeah, I have no idea what that means. But you know what you’re doing?"
I shrug even though he can’t see me. "Sure, I know my way around."
"Okay, well, I need someone in the interim until our replacement can start." He pauses, like he’s gauging my reaction. "What would you think about filling in until she gets here?"
"For just the first game?"
"Um, yeah. Or maybe, oh I don't know… the first dozen games? Say, a month or so?"
"A month?" I echo loudly.
"Yeah," he drags out. "I know. It's a little last minute, but you know this isn't my thing. It's not Jack's either—our owner—so we sort of both thought the other guy would handle it. I'll pay you, obviously. I know you'd need to take off from the restaurant."
I exhale heavily, contemplating his offer.
"You'd really be helping me and the organization out," he adds, then sighs. "It’s either you or Burnsey's gonna try to do it, and God help us all if that’s the case."
"Who?"
"Never mind," he says playfully.
"Wait, what about Al? She's basically doing that for Spark the Flame, isn't she? She wouldn't want to do it?" I ask, assuming he's already thought of his wife, who is working for the team's community outreach program doing almost the same job.
"Yeah, but the gala's next month. So, between the blog and Spark the Flame, she has basically zero extra time. She's actually the one who thought you might be interested." He lets a silence fall between us as I gather my thoughts. "You can think about it if you need to."
I hesitate, considering there's a good chance that my taking pictures of the team would involve my beingnearthe team… and a certain first line forward. But Ihavebeen looking for something new, and I'm sure I could get my shifts covered at The Pub. I guess temporary is better than nothing. Plus, I can hear Levi's desperation, and damn it if I don't have a soft spot for Coach McHottie thanks to how happy he makes one of my favorite people.
I inhale deeply, giving myself one more second to reconsider. "Yeah, alright," I say instead. "I can do it."
He blows out a heavy breath as if a weight's been lifted from his shoulders. "Thanks, Brooke. I owe you. I'll make sure to get you the specifics."
"No worries. I get the gist." I grin as I raise a brow, scheming. "Oh, and hey, Levi?"
"Yeah?"
"You keep me posted on those handcuffs."
Half a second passes where I think he may be thinking it over before he clears his throat. "Goodbye, Brooke," he says dryly.
I laugh as the line goes dead.
Okay, so maybe I won't be avoiding Drew as much as I had hoped. But this is a good opportunity to explore other career paths. And besides, there are other players on the team. He can't be the only one the media wants to see.
Deciding it's necessary—for research purposes—I click open the Instagram app.
Pulling up the page for @GoldenCityFlames, my vision is flooded with a sea of red and black. The last few images are marketing their first game against the Guardians, and before that, there are posts of new players they signed over the summer. Their contract years and values are listed next to their pictures with an overlay of the Flames logo and text that says "Welcome to G.C." There are also some trade alerts, this season's game schedule, and a couple of filler reels with player quotes and interviews—all things I think I can handle. If anything, they're actually a little duller than I expected them to be.
After sliding past another couple of posts, my thumb instinctively presses to the screen, pausing on a picture of a familiar face looking every bit as untouchable as he always does with any sort of glass between us. The post is of Drew on July second in his red jersey with a gold chain that lays on top. His hair looks freshly tossed, and his smile is more like a smirk, his left eyebrow raised slightly. The caption says, "HBD Drew Anderson! This Flames' forward turns twenty-five today. Happy birthday, number twelve!"
"Twenty-five," I whisper to myself.Holy shit.He'sbarelytwenty-five. That means when we hooked up, he wasn't even—yep, not even old enough to have a quarter-life crisis.
I swipe right, and it takes me to a short video clip the old social media manager must have asked him to send her. It's him holding the camera out in front of him with probably a hundred people in the background, party music bursting through the speakers. He's wearing a black button-up shirt that sits halfway open, his gold chain shimmering every time the moving lights glimmer past it. He looks good—sexy. My heart-rate kicks up like it onlydoes when you're doing—orfeeling—something that you shouldn't.
