She shoots daggers with her eyes. "Clay, shut up."
I can't help it, so I chuckle softly. "Mad, you're a Clay now, too."
"God, I hate you so much."
The rooftop restaurant offers a panoramic view of the city. String lights overhead, flowers everywhere, champagne flowing.
Anya didn't half-ass our fake wedding.
My teammates fill three tables near the makeshift altar, Coach Anderson beside them looking uncomfortable in his suit. Thephotographer circles us like a shark, capturing every moment for the press release.
A perfect PR spectacle. Exactly what we needed.
Two weeks ago, I wouldn't have believed this possible. But then again, two weeks ago, I was still just fantasizing about Mad, not slipping a ring on her finger.
The locker roomstinks of defeat.
Two goals down in the third period, and we couldn't claw our way back. I slam my locker shut, still in my base layers, hair dripping from the shower.
Coach's voice cuts through the silence. "Clay, the PR team's waiting."
"Tell them to fuck off." I pull my shirt over my head. "I'm not in the mood."
"That attitude is exactly why they're waiting." He gives me the look that usually precedes bag skates at practice. "Get your shit together and do your job."
I throw my gear into my bag. It's immature, I know, but I'm beyond caring. PR bullshit is the last thing I need after a loss like this. Some rookie reporter asking what went wrong when it's fucking obvious what went wrong. We played like shit. I played like shit. It was a shit game, period.
***
The media room's empty by the time I drag myself there. Just Mad standing with her tablet, checking her watch.
"You're late."
"Plus points for being a keen observer. Another one for stating the obvious."
Her lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but I'll take it. "Everyone's gone. You missed the press conference."
"Tragedy."
"Anya's going to hear about this."
"Add it to my tab." I step closer, towering over her. Mad never backs up, never shows fear. Her eyes flick up to mine, that spark of challenge I live for.
"Your tab's getting pretty long, Clay."
"Worth it to skip twenty minutes of 'we gave it our all' bullshit."
She tucks her tablet under her arm. "Your car's waiting. Try not to punch any reporters on your way out."
"No promises."
She rolls her eyes and heads for the door. "Goodnight, Clay."
I watch her walk away, the gentle sway of her hips in that pencil skirt making my throat tight. Every fucking time, she walks away. And every fucking time, I let her.
***
The parking garage is half-empty when I push through the exit doors. Security nods as I pass, heading for my Range Rover inthe players' section. The loss sits heavy in my gut, my mind already replaying missed opportunities.
