“Then maybe they deserve it,” Caelia says. At my raised brow, she shrugs. “I’ve seen too much recently to be able to believe there isn’t harm in their interest. Don’t be a dick, Miles, but you can put them in their place.”
“Oh I like her,” Marilyn purrs.
“No, down,” I bark out without meaning to. There’s no real heat to it, and Caelia laughs loudly at Marilyn’s shocked face. “Ugh, if I need to deal with the press, you should come with me.”
“Am I allowed?” she asks.
“Yes,” Marilyn smirks, handing her a press pass. “Maybe you can keep him from causing trouble.”
There’s amusement flooding through the bond, and I keep my mouth shut as I take my omega’s hand. She’s more likely to throw the match on the gasoline of my anger than calm me down. Caelia is fiercely protective of us, just like we are her.
“Let’s head down there then,” I murmur, tugging her into motion.
“Seriously, Miles!” Marilyn calls out as we walk away. “Be good!”
“Telling a forty-five year old man to be good is hysterical,” I rumble.
“You’re much more settled in your antics, is all,” Caelia grins.
“That’s an adorable way to call me old,” I snort.
“I didn’t say it,” she giggles. “You did.”
“Such a brat,” I tease her. “Here we are. Don’t move from where I can see you, okay?”
“Okay…wow,” she says, seeing the crush of people.
“Come with me,” I murmur, pushing through the people until I find a spot where she’ll be safe. “I’ll come get you when I’m done.”
Her eyes are wide but she nods quickly.
“Are you freaking out?” I ask, not wanting to leave if there are too many people for her.
“No. I didn't realize this would be such a big deal,” she hissed.
Hmm. She’s right. This usually wouldn’t be. Marilyn must know there’s more to this. Fuck me.
“We’ll see,” I reply, wading through the crowd to the front of the room. Allen Durst, the team’s owner is waiting for me, and I purse my lips at him.
“Marilyn set this up,” he grumbles. “If it backfires, we can spank her.”
The idea of doing that makes me chuckle, and Allen grins at me.
“Focus on the win, Miles. Our guys looked really good tonight,” he says.
Nodding, I walk over to the raised podium with him. For better or worse, this is happening.
“Your attention, please,” Allen says into the microphone, his piercing emerald green eyes moving over the room. People immediately quiet down, which is typically what happens in this man’s presence. “Thank you. Let’s attempt to remain professional, and stay on topic with the Scented Scorpions’ winning game.”
Yeah, looking around at how attentive the reporters are as I take up the space that Allen was standing in, that’s doubtful.
“Good evening, everyone,” I greet the room. “I understand that you want to talk about the game.”
The statement helps keep people on track as hands go up, and I respond about stats, which players were the shining stars tonight, and more. It’s great, right up until I begin to wrap up.
A hand goes up, and I have to struggle not to wrinkle my nose. Olive Traker is notorious for asking invasive questions. She often gets under my skin. At one point, she asked me out, which was both wildly inappropriate, and I simply wasn’t interested.
“Coach, one more question if I may?” she asks, biting her lip seductively.
