All he does is stare at me through his lowered, long lashes. God, he’s so infuriating. I grit my teeth to rein in my anger when the knock on the door reveals Stacy, now the team’s Digital Content Director.
I’m about to stand up when she motions me to keep sitting, taking a seat herself. “What can I do for you, Stacy?” Her presence makes his existence a little more tolerable.
“Well, this guy here had to go and make a perfect goal at last night’s game.” She jabs his shoulder playfully.
He sits straighter in his seat, his hands on his thighs.
“He has actually been scoring some amazing goals right from the season’s start,” she continues.
It’s comical to see how the tips of his ears turn red at her praises. I barely contain myself from making a quip at him.
“So, I was thinking that maybe we can do coverage on him, something to post on our socials and get good press for the team,” she poses the idea. “You know, we need it after everything with Mullens. He was handsy to say the least.”
My body tenses at the mention of his name, but I try not to let it show. Though by the sudden frown on Ezra’s face, I spectacularly fail. He doesn’t know what happened. No one does. Not really.
He tilts his head to the side, his eyes dropping to my lips, which I now realize I’m biting. He looks at me as if trying to gauge the reason for the abrupt shift in me. Not that he’ll find anything.
But his searing gaze still feels like it sees me more than it should. Because until now, no one has noticed how I would turn to stone whenever Mr. Mullens’s name is voiced.
It had to be my damn luck that the guy I hate would be the first one to notice.
I clear my throat to shake myself out of the depressive funk. “I think that’s a good idea. We can do some short interviews for reels, show Ezra’s daily routine, and some clips of himpracticing solo and with the guys. We can focus on how he takes his responsibility as a captain seriously and inspires the guys,” I spitball the ideas, my fingers itching to jot them down.
Stacy’s dark skin lights up, and she claps her hands. “That’s settled then. We can meet with the marketing and PR team and make a content calendar. I’ll leave you two to plan that out.” She’s out the door as fast as she came in, leaving me staring at her retreating back, and leaving me alone with him.
Slumping back in my seat, I shut my eyes and heave a sigh. Goddamn it! I need to learn to hide it better. At this rate, everyone will suspect me of hiding something. And I don’t think I’m ready to share it with anyone. I don’t think I ever will be.
“Want to talk about what’s bugging you?” Ezra’s voice reminds me that he’s still in the room.
My eyes flutter open, and I see concern marring his weirdly perfect features. A little part of me wonders if it’s real or pretend.
I don’t need looks of pity, which I know will be the first to arrive, followed by the gossip mill running behind my back. “None of your business,” I retort, feeling slightly guilty about being rude.
His mouth sets in a straight line as he glares at me. “Right, the great Kaeli Reed doesn’tfeel.” His words are like a punch to my gut, hurting me exactly as he intended. And here I thought that his concern might be real.
His words spark an old memory back to life. The anger and hurt I felt then, resurfacing now.
Screw that and screw him for being an asshole. On second thought, I’m not at all feeling guilty.
It’s not the first time someone called me an unfeeling, cold, ruthless bitch, not in so many words. Being a woman is hard. Especially being a woman in sports, where men believe that they are the king of the world, just because they are physiologically superior to most women.
If a woman speaks too much, she’s labeled as an oversharer. A flirt. Or even unprofessional. If a woman keeps to herself, she’s unfeeling and cold, she has a stick up her ass, she’s a narcissist. Well, joke’s on them because from where I’m sitting, the real narcissist is them, with a short stick between their legs.
Ezra shakes his head as ifI’mthe one who calledhiminsensitive and grumbles, “Just let me know what you want me to do and when you want me to do it.” With one last lingering look and a slightshake of his head, he takes his leave, too.
And for some reason, that lonely feeling creeps in at his exit.
* * *
The boys are all strapped and padded as they head to the ice for a scrimmage.
While waiting for coach James McCoy, they decide to goof around where I’m standing in the lower bowl with my intern.
Since Stacy has given me free rein over the content, I thought that I could get a few behind-the-scenes clips in and teach some things to the intern, Jodi, too. I’m explaining to her which camera settings and angles are best to get good quality shots when a heavily padded arm slides over my shoulder.
My gaze slides to the owner of it and finds a grinning Sebastian. I return his cheeky smile.
“Stop bothering the ladies, Seb,” Oliver snickers as he walks in with the other guys. “They’re the only ones who actually work around here, unlike your lazy ass.”
