He didn’t crack a smile. “I save my silence for people who piss me off.”
“Lucky me,” I said. “I must be your muse.”
As our car pulled up, the photographers near the entrance came to attention.
Packy gave me such an artificial smile I nearly laughed.
“Remember,” he said. “Cameras love authenticity.”
I huffed. “Great. I’ll try not to look like I’m counting the seconds until I can shove you into traffic.”
“Wow,” he said. “That’s the spirit. Very relatable.”
The ballroom was packed. It was warm and sticky, and the smell of coffee and carpet cleaner was obnoxious. Packy and I took our places on the dais, in front of a single microphone, and did our best to look like friends.
He handled the opening remarks, cracking a few jokes and thanking everyone for being there. When he turned to me and raised his eyebrows, I talked about how Atlanta deserved another hockey team.
He covered the mic with his hand and asked, “Did you get that off a cereal box?”
“Only the parts with words you’d understand,” I shot back.
A few people in the front row laughed. They couldn’t have heard us, but apparently watching hockey players whisper was entertainment.
I’d never enjoyed public speaking, but once we started moving through the room, things got easier. We shook hands, posed for photos, and signed tons of autographs. One guy had both our rookie cards and asked us to sign them so he could put them in a frame, side by side. For a glad-handing session, it wasn’t bad.
A woman grinned after snapping a selfie. “You two have so much chemistry. Have you considered making more videos? The one from the other day was amazing.”
Packy froze, then pasted on a smile. “That’s… terrifying. But thanks.”
“Terrifying for him,” I said. “A nightmare for me. I’d rather have a tooth pulled.”
She laughed. “You just proved my point.”
We moved on, but Packy’s gaze drilled into me. By the time we escaped and slid into the back seat of the car, my smiling muscles were dead.
We ate burgers in the restaurant at our hotel. The silence from the car had followed us inside, and I was about to make an excuse to leave when my phone buzzed. It was Marissa with a schedule update.
OUR TORMENTOR: Local TV interview in Room 1602. Reporter and crew already there. Need you both to join them ASAP.
I showed Packy the screen, and he shook his head. “Why the fuck is she doing this at the last minute?”
“Because she can.” I pushed back from the table. “Come on. It’s not like we have a choice.”
When we stepped into an elevator, Packy grimaced and tugged at his tie.
“This thing’s killing me,” he said, shooting me a look. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you weren’t wearing one?”
“You could?—”
The elevator stopped at our floor, and he said, “I have to change. Meet you up there in a few minutes.”
Before I could say a word, he headed down the hall.
On the sixteenth floor, I met the reporter, Dave. He showed me his planned questions and asked if he should change anything. I said what he had was fine.
Packy showed up.Holy fuck.Besides changing his shirt, he’d shaved and fixed his hair. For once, whatever product he used had actually worked. A blue shirt was open at the collar, and a tuft of chest hair caught the light at his throat. His beige pants hugged his ass perfectly, displaying everything he had to offer.
Dave guided us to our chairs, side by side, facing a camera. He showed Packy his questions, and the sight of Pack hunched over looking at paperwork took me back to college. Fuck me because it dredged up memories I didn’t want. Dorms, locker rooms, late nights where we’d looked at each other for too long and pretended we hadn’t.
