Cormac shook his head. “Today he overslept by three hours. Missed practice and weight training. But he said it’s fine because he can skate around all of us old men any day of the week.”
Yeah, those comments and that cocksure attitude were only going to cause more problems. I didn’t have patience for the Jeffs of the world, so either the rookie would fall in line or he’d be slap shotted into a better fit for him, which would mean a less-successful team. That was the deal when you came to Houston: Silas’s word was law. Everyone believed in and followed the values of inclusion and hard work, my mainstays.
If they didn’t, they didn’t last.
“I’ll talk to Silas, and we’ll keep you in the loop,” I told him. If the locker room was splintering before preseason, I needed to get ahead of the fracture fast.
“Thanks.” Cormac stood and stretched, tension still etched into his face. “By the way, you need to tell your new social media intern to take the CATS up on lunch. Keelie’s gotten her feelings hurt by the rejection, and that pisses me off, too.”
“Zaila’s been mean to your wife?” I couldn’t fathom such behavior.
“Nah, man. It’s just that Keelie’s pregnant again, and everything makes her cry,” he clarified. “Currently, it’s Zaila trying to keep a professional distance. I thought about talking to her myself, but Keelie would get angry, and I hate that shit. So, I’m telling you.” He turned toward the door. “If you want me in a good-enough mood to deal with that rookie’s assholery, make your intern play nice with the CATS.”
I shook my head and raised my hand in a wave as he departed. Now I was in the middle of a friendship dispute? I just wanted this day to be normal. I reached for my phone to check the schedule and got hit with a flood of alerts—mentions, tags, and texts from players and even a few board members.
One stopped me cold: #GunnarTheGoalie is trending!
I clicked the link and blinked. There I was, in a photo from the end of the charity game when I’d scored the winning goal. Except in this version, someone had Photoshopped me into goalie pads that looked more like a bad Superman suit.
The caption read: “When your billionaire boss can score goals, stop pucks, AND fund the team.”
A breath hitched in my chest before I realized it was a laugh. Soft, surprised. Hell. It was stupid…and really funny.
I scrolled farther, finding meme after meme. Fans were already adding their own. This gag was blowing up, and I’d bet quite a bit of my bank account that Zaila Monroe had come up with it. That woman kept me on my toes, and damn if I didn’t love every second of it.
Chapter 7
Zaila
On Wednesday, after I met with Phoebe Goldstein, the head nutritionist for the team, I returned to my office, excited about the next round of posts she’d helped me develop. Settling into my chair, I pulled out my phone, and my jaw dropped. The top trending hashtag in our city was #GunnarTheGoalie, accompanied by a photoshopped image of Gunnar in full goalie gear, looking comically out of place. Tim and I had created said image earlier this morning, not long after Jay, glee clear in his expression, had told us we had authorization for a week of pranks and free-flowing creativity.
I shook my head, incredulous as I scrolled through the tweets. Fans were having a field day, creating memes and sharing the image with increasingly ridiculous captions.
I bit my lip as I struggled not to laugh. “Tim,” I called, pushing away so quickly that my chair rolled into the credenza behind my desk. I rushed to my office door just as Tim sped through it. We collided with a grunt and a squeak as I toppled backward and Tim fell on top.
“What the hell is going on?” Gunnar demanded from down the hall.
I heard his footsteps approaching, but with Tim’s elbow still pressed into my diaphragm, I couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. He’d smacked his head on the door frame as we fell, and he groaned, his warm breath in my armpit.
“That hurt…” He moaned.
“It’ll hurt more if I have to pull you off of her,” Gunnar growled. He came into view over Tim’s bony shoulder as I gaped like a fish. “You’re squishing her, Tim.”
Gunnar took Tim’s elbow and hauled him off me. I curled into the fetal position and struggled to breathe, my breath between a pant and a gag.
“Zaila?” Gunnar knelt at my shoulders, cradling my head against his thigh…his very firm thigh. The man was so strong and sexy, and I wheezed like a goose dying of emphysema. “Are you okay? Should I call an ambulance? Did Tim break you?” My vision cleared in time to see Gunnar give Tim a death glare.
I reached for Gunnar’s hand and gripped his fingers as I struggled to push out the words. “Wind. Knocked. Out.”
His icy gaze softened as concern replaced rage. “You had the wind knocked out of you?”
I nodded.
“I’m bleeding.” Tim moaned again, touching his forehead with his fingertips. “I don’t do blood.”
“You work for a hockey team, my man,” Jay said, squatting beside him. “And you cheer loudest when there’s a fight.”
“Not my blood…” Tim gagged.
