“No, you be you. I’ll ask behind-the-scenes questions.”
She straightens slightly, shoulders back, expression neutral in that way that makes it clear she’s working, not flirting.Neverflirting.
“Miss Quinn, you have a backstage pass to everything that happens with the Flaps. How are you feeling about the upcoming season?” I ask.
“Great,” she says. “Our guys are healthy and focused, and our coaches are world class. We’re ready to compete.”
“Nice,” I say. “I get what you were saying about being confident, not cocky.”
She nods. “Next.”
“What are the biggest opportunities you see in the Mudflaps organization?”
She pauses. “Learning how to trust each other in a short period of time. Minor league teams see a lot of change, so we need to build a culture that’s stronger than change.”
“Dang, that’s good,” I say, writing it down. The scratch of my pen across my notebook is the only sound. “I’m stealing that.”
Then I look back up, keeping calm, professional, but leaning forward like the reporters do when they’re sitting on a gotcha question.
“Some people say your relationship with Jake Rodgers seems a little … convenient. How do you respond to rumors that it’s more about image than reality?”
I don’t grin.
She doesn’t react. I keep my expression open, relaxed.
“I don’t spend much time worrying about rumors,” she says, though her gaze sharpens ever so slightly. “The people who matter know the truth, and that’s enough for me.”
“Got it,” I say, writing more notes. “You didn’t deny it. You didn’t confirm it, but you made it sound ridiculous, all the same.”
She nods, like her neck isn’t red, like her breath isn’t coming faster or harder.
“What would you say to people who think you and Jake are a terrible couple?” I ask.
She tilts her head slightly. “I’d say people are entitled to their own opinions. But it doesn’t affect me.”
“It … doesn’t … affect … me,” I echo, writing that down as if it’s a pearl of wisdom.
I look back up just in time to see her jaw tense. Just for a second. She takes one more breath. Not sharp. Quiet.
“And what do you say to the rumors that a player stayed overnight at your house?”
She doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
“I’d say I had the flu and a friend came over because myboyfriendwasn’t available.”
Friend.
I write it down. I don’t know why. I don’t need to write anything down. My hand just needs something to do.
Silence stretches between us. It’s not awkward. It’s charged. And I’m sitting here with the wordfriendpressed flat into my notebook like a bug that just stung me.
Which of us is she trying to convince?
“That’s it,” she says with finality. “That’s all the time we have, guys. No more questions.”
I lean back, exhaling slowly, like I’ve just finished a different kind of workout.
“Wow,” I say lightly. “You’re right. I could hardly tell how you really feel.”
