She doesn’t smile. In fact, she looks confused and slightly disgusted.
That’s not the usual reaction I get. Not that I don’t strike out once in a while. It’s happened to us all. But her reaction to my one-on-one "interview" suggestion alone makes me pause.
Most of them are angling for it before they even walk through the arena doors. Even the ones who pretend they’re above sleeping with players. Especially the ones who are. This woman just looks at me like she’s deciding whether I’m worth the oxygen I’m using.
"I’m not here for interviews," she says, her voice calm and steady. Not the breathless flirting I’m used to.
I straighten slightly, reassessing. Up close, she’s sharper than I thought. Not just pretty, but determined and intentional. The kind of woman who doesn’t waste movement or words.
I lean back into it, anyway. Old habits die hard.
"Autograph, then?" I ask, glancing deliberately at the badge swinging between us. Natalia Kovac–PRESS. "Natalia?"
Her name feels unfamiliar on my tongue, but it’s Russian. It’s soft, but not weak.
"Are you Russian?" I ask.
"No, I was named after my mother’s best friend. And an autograph won't be necessary," she says. "Actually, your agent sent me."
The words hit like a puck to the ribs.
Everything inside me goes still. My smile dies instantly. The flirtation evaporates like it was never there, replaced by coldness. I take a step back, putting space between us like a line drawn in the ice.
Randolph called another agent. I shouldn’t be surprised.
Now it all makes sense… She's PR. Yet another firm my talent agent hired. And yet another agent I’ll dodge like all the rest. I’msure her firm saw that Randolph was desperate, and Natalia saw the dollar signs and thought I would be an easy payday.
I don’t bother hiding the irritation. There’s no point. "Your services won’t be required, Miss Kovac," I say flatly. "I’m sorry my agent wasted your time. Thanks anyway."
Her eyebrows knitted together. She’s not hurt—she’s irritated. Just as well. At least we’re aligned on something.
Before she can respond, I step around her and keep moving. I don’t slow for the microphones or the shouted questions behind me. I’ve already given more than I intended.
She calls after me. My name passing through her lips, sharp enough to cut, but I ignored it anyway.
That’s how this works.
They show up. They insist they’re different. Then they leave when they realize I won’t play along.
Two of them already did. She will too... Soon enough.
Oakley’s is loud when I arrive, which is typical for any night, but especially on home game nights. The smell of fried food and spilled beer wraps around me the moment I walk through the doors. This place doesn’t ask questions like the pretty PR agent. It doesn’t want explanations, unlike my nagging agent, who sent me a replay of my interview from tonight with the caption:You can’t avoid this forever. We need to get ahead of it.
A pretty blonde walks up in a skin tight mini skirt and my jersey, leaning too close not to be angling for more than a conversation, and that’s exactly what I need tonight to get my mind off of Randolph’s texts, the press… the newest PR agent who thinks she’s going to get me to comply.
I silence my phone and order a drink, letting my shoulders relax for the first time all night, while the blonde inches closer. That’s when I see her again, across the room, talking to Penelope and a couple of the WAGs. She shakes hands with them, smiling at something Penelope says. If they even think of inviting her toSerendipity’s Coffee Shop, they might find the building burned down by an unknown gas leak.
Then I see her ask a question, and my sister nods and points to me sitting at the bar. I send Katerina a warning stare, but she and Penelope just smirk back in my direction, unfazed, as my sister stirs her olive skewer in her martini like the mob princess our father wished she’d be. If only he could see her now, seemingly plotting against me with Penelope for some unknown reason.
My vision turns back to Natalia, our eyes locking as she starts straight toward me like I didn’t just dismiss her thirty minutes ago.
I watch her approach over the rim of my glass, curiosity pricking at the edge of my annoyance.
She’s persistent, and that’s the kind of thing that gets my attention, though I wish it didn’t.
I take a slow sip, already bracing for round two, when she opens her mouth and says, "Were all the Olympic medals really necessary for the photo shoot?"
I choke on the whiskey before it makes it all the way down.
