I quickly climb in, “If this situation ends up on the internet after that damn near viral video of you being all gooey with Savannah, it will piss me off.”
“My what?” he asks.
I grab his phone, “Password.”
“I don’t have a password,” he grumbles as he tries to snatch his phone.Tries.He may be big and strong and yummy looking in that I want to fuck the bad boy way I have avoided all my life, but when I’m in stealth mode, I’m unstoppable.
“That’s completely irresponsible,” I say as I turn, blocking him and opening his IG.
“Killer and baby,” I say as I type it into the search.
“I would highly advise you not to type shit like that in my phone.”
“Worried it’ll fuck up your FYP? That pro hockey bad boy with a filthy mouth looking for hook up won’t pop?” I gasp when I see?—
“I told you.” He snaps. “No one needs to see that shit, not even you.”
I turn and hold the phone up, smiling, “You went viral.”
He snarls, teeth bared, the whole works. “That’s nearly as bad.”
“You have no idea what kind of work it takes to make something like that happen and how this little tantrum could mess it all up.” I put on my seat belt, “Now go before this stunt goes viral and muddies up the good that post did.” He just looks at me. “What?”
“Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable in the back,” his lips curl again. “Tsarina.”
Fuck itandfuck himI think as I climb over the console and into the back. “Huh, you’re right. It’s much comfier back here.” I cross my arms and sit back smugly. “Fairfax Media building, please. And driver, please pull around to the back. The private resident’s entrance is there.”
“Of course you live in a tower high above the world.” He huffs as he pulls off the curb and onto 6th.
“Exactly, it makes it much easier to look down on everyone around me from my place of privilege.”
As he spits obscenities under his breath and the beast of a truck powers over the curb and back onto the road, I realize I have Aleks Kilovac’s phone in my hand.
I shouldn’t peak, but then again, he shouldn’t have been such a dick.
Chapter 7
Media
Aleks
“You good?”Faulker asks as I toss my gear in my locker.
“I’m tired.”
“You should be,” he snickers.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I slam the door shut.
“Because you just played the whole game by yourself, the rest of our line may as well have taken a nap,” Moretti states, setting his skates in his locker, then turns to me. “What’s up?”
“The sky is what’s up.” I sputter.
“Kilovac,” Coach D calls. “You’re up for media, superstar.”
“I did that last night, Coach.”
She arches a brow at me, an answer unto itself, and then looks at Deacon. “You, too.”
