He was a nice guy. She didn't wish him ill. She only wanted to steal the executive production job from under his nose. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?
“That's why I wanted you all to be here tonight.” John's voice filtered in through her thoughts, and panic hit her gut. What had she missed?
Country’s eyes were on her, and she jumped in before it was too awkward to admit she had no idea what he was talking about. “John, I'm sorry, can you repeat that? I didn't quite hear the first part over the music.”
John gave her an it’s alright, I know your female ears are inferior look and repeated himself. "I'd like to do a feature story on the Snowballs, Country's Elite League team. It would add a down-home feel to the broadcast and would be a way for us to give back to the community.”
Translation: I think it will get us more ratings and build goodwill for GCBN. She groaned internally. The last thing she wanted was any other reason for Country to be around the studio, which was why she’d intentionally pitched his involvement in HEC as a one-and-done.
"Interesting thought, John," Jenna managed to say with a neutral expression, tucking a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “We’ve never done anything like that before.” Keep it general, don’t give your internal panic away. Think. This could be good. The fact that John was interested in the Snowballs meant he appreciated the fresh kill she’d dropped on his doorstep.
Jenna wouldn’t have to be involved in this portion of the story. She could easily ask one of their reporters to get the personal information and footage while she produced high-level details on the Elite League. She straightened in her chair. “I think it’s a great idea.”
"Country, what’s your take?" John turned to him with a grin on his lips, but his eyes hawk-like. That look had been honed over years on the ice, in broadcasting live in studios, and pitching in boardrooms. It was meant to make his opponents wither while convincing their amygdala he’d been entirely pleasant during their interactions.
Country didn’t break his gaze. "I don't like it, personally." He clasped his hands together on the table, and his shoulders flexed under his shirt. Jenna’s heart began to gallop.
“Don’t like it.” John’s repetition of his words was crisp. The tension between them snapped when a lanky server with thick gauges in his ears and slicked-back hair approached their table.
"Do you have some drink orders for me?”
Jenna forced a smile. “I'll have a glass of the house red, please.”
“Make it two,” John chimed in. The server nodded and looked at Archer.
“Mule, extra lime.”
Glen held up a hand. “Sex on the beach. Two straws.”
Country flicked a glance at Kessler, and Jenna almost snorted. Imagining Glen with a pink drink in his hand, his lips puckered over two tiny black straws, she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“Whiskey on the rocks,” Country said last, his voice smooth. As if he hadn’t insinuated Glen wasn’t a real man with one twitch of his eyebrow and straight up disagreed with John Allen. He was hot. He was so hot with his tie loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, and his thumb running over the stubble on his chin.
The server nodded and walked back in the direction of the bar. Jenna reached for her coat that was wadded next to her on the bench and fiddled with the zipper.
Country relaxed against the back of the booth and exhaled. “It’s not that I don’t think special interest stories are a good idea—Canadians love the hell out of their athletes. But I don’t think the Elite League is what you’re looking for.”
“Why not?” John tapped his pointer finger on the tabletop.
“Because it’s a national broadcast. The Elite League is only in Alberta, and while I’m partial to this province, the rest of the country sees us as roughnecks and ranchers.”
Jenna pursed her lips. Out of the four of them sitting at the table, Archer had worked on the oil rigs when he was younger and Country was currently a rancher. “Maybe it’s time for people living in the ‘centre of the universe’ to see what we do here.”
Country’s lips twitched, and a flash of cold zipped down Jenna’s spine. She didn’t want Country to be around the studio more and, more importantly, didn’t want him to think she wanted him around more, but she also wouldn’t let him sit here and poke a stick at her Alberta pride.
She drew in a breath. “The Elite League has over eighty-five teams and supports fourteen hundred athletes. It produces many of the highest-ranking players in Western Canada and probably the country as a whole. Why wouldn’t we want to show off what us ‘roughnecks and ranchers’ can do with only a fraction of the country’s population?”
Country leaned in and crossed his arms on the table. “The Elite League has over eighty-five teams in thirteen divisions. Mine is Masters, age twenty-nine to thirty-nine. All the guys who couldn’t hack it in the NHL or didn’t make it in the first place. I think what you’re looking for are the preparatory leagues.”
“Your Masters’ League is full of ex-NHL players, and the prize money is nothing to balk at. Don’t pretend it’s a beer league.” Jenna may have done some more intensive reading that week on the Elite League purely for educational purposes.
Country raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t play in the NHL.”
Jenna scoffed. “You were on the Admirals!”
“Which isn’t an NHL team.”
“Close enough. What John’s looking for is a story. We’ve all heard the one about the kid with forty-five goals and sixty-three assists in less than seventy games, a plus thirty-five and a hundred and twenty hits who dominated at World Juniors.”
