“Later, Feather.” He waves his fingers before disappearing.
The stupid smile I spy in the mirror splits my face in half, making me look like a maniac and telling me all I need to know.
When it comes to Ezra Moore, I’m officially royally fucked.
Thirty Five
Kaeli
The interviewer, Sam Hopkins, a man with a British accent and graying hair, throws his head back and laughs at something Ezra says.
I feign one, too, though what Ezra said wasn’t even remotely funny. Not even he seems to think so, because he gives me a quick raise of an eyebrow at the interviewer’s reaction.
Sam directs his question to me, and I sit comfortably, knowing in the back of my mind that he had been given a pre-approved list of questions he can ask. “How has working in themale-dominated and violent sport been working out for you? How do you handle the testosterone-filled world of hockey?”
I’m pretty sure that he rephrased a question from the list to sound more dramatic and mean, but I take it in stride. It’s not the first time my being a woman has been pointed out.
I see the subtle clench of Ezra’s jaw and pray to God he doesn’t intervene.
“Well, Sam, I’m not the one on the ice playing the violent game, am I?” I dig while politely maintaining the smile on my face. Sam has no option but to laugh along.
“And as for my working experience, it has been great. I got an internship with the Boston Bandits fresh out of college, and since then, I’ve been working for them. Absolutely no complaints. All my peers and the senior staff have been supportive and understanding, pushing me to my growth,” I lie, as the incident with Mullens threatens to turn my breakfast into projectile humiliation over national TV.
“That’s lovely,” Sam comments with a faux smile, putting one leg over the other. “Moving on, how much do you actually know about strategy or the sport itself, or are you just thereto post pretty pictures?”
This son of a bitch.
He had to go and be a sexist pig, didn’t he?
My fists curl in anger, and so does Ezra’s on the edge of the couch, next to me. I see him about to stand up and instantly place my hand on his, ceasing what could turn out to be a disaster of epic proportions.
It’s too late, I realize that we have an audience when Sam’s eyes glint with impure intentions.
I paste an award-winning fake smile and answer him. “I grew up watching hockey like any other fan, so I know what I’m talking about when I design strategies for posting and creating content.”
My answer does nothing to satisfy him, because his next question shifts the ground beneath my feet. “How do you keep things professional when you’re constantly around sweaty, shirtless athletes?”
A chorus ofoh shitsanddamnsandfucksrings out around us from the people recording and the staff.
Oh, those words did not just leave his mouth!
My mouth hangs open at the audacity of this man. Basically, calling someone a slut andunprofessional in front of the world.
I feel Ezra’s body practically vibrating beside me, thirsty for the blood of the man who thinks he could ask anything, cross any professional and personal boundary with that stupid accent of his, without landing himself in trouble.
And if he thinks that I’ll take what he’s dishing out like some meek girl who can’t stand up for herself, he has another thing coming. Turning to Ezra as he looks at me with eyes that demand retribution and my permission, I give him the slightest shake of my head and squeeze his hand.
Snapping my gaze back to Sam and dropping all pretenses of being polite and professional, I give him an introduction with the woman of the twenty-first fucking century.
Leaning back against the couch and crossing my legs, I eye him with all the disinterest and disgust I can muster.
“I’ll answer that question in a second, Sam. Before that, do you mind if I ask you something?” I say, holding up my finger.
His malicious smile doesn’t slip as if he really thinks I’ll not rip him a new one for his absolutely horrendous behavior. I let him have it, though. I let him believe that he got out of itunscathed.
“Sam, are you asking me this question because you’re unable to concentrate beyond the fact that I’m a woman? Seeing that you can’t even pretend to look me in the eyes, since you’re so busy staring at my boobs. Now, that’s what I call unprofessionalism. And that’s the only thing that distracts me from my job.”
His face turns scarlet with embarrassment, his nose flaring with uncontrolled rage. But I do give my final blow. “Sweaty, shirtless athletes? Please. If I wanted that, I’d buy a calendar. I’m here to run strategy, not stare at abs.”
