The clock ticks under a minute. The other team pulls their goalie. Bodies everywhere. Eli clears the puck, Colby beats two defenders to it, and buries the empty netter.
We win 3-1.
The horn blares, gloves and helmets scatter, fans scream like they’ve been waiting their whole lives to celebrate something.
I jog down the tunnel, boys chirping and laughing.
“Great game, loverboy,” Eli says.
“Do NOT start that nickname,” I warn.
“Too late,” Colby says. “It has been spoken.”
I shake my head, shower fast, change into jeans and a black henley, and head toward the exit.
Her heels click before I even step fully into her line of sight.
“Before you disappear, meet me in my office in ten minutes. I have your revised PR schedule,” she says, voice clipped, all business, like she didn’t have her tongue in my mouth recently.
"Will do."
***
Ten minutes later, I’m heading toward her office, still fired up from the win tonight. Her door is open, desk lamp on, so I knock once and step inside.
“Hey,” I say low, steady, like I already own the air between us.
“Hi. Here’s the updated schedule. Media availability, sponsor interviews, community meet-and-greets. Read it. Stick to it. And for the love of God, avoid unnecessary headlines.”
She holds out the paper.
I take it.
I don’t move.
Her throat tightens almost invisibly. But I see it. I see every demolished wall she’s trying to rebuild.
“Don't look at me like that,” she says quietly.
My voice drops without permission. “Then stop looking at me like you want me to fail.”
Her spine stiffens as she stands and moves around her desk toward me. “I… I don’t.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, stepping closer, “you do.”
She retreats a step like her body acts faster than her logic.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” I lower my gaze to her mouth. “So am I.”
Before she can answer, the metallic click of the hallway security system echoes behind us.
The doors seal.
The overhead light flips from green to red.
She blinks. “Oh great.”
