And how he’ll never see me as anything more than the girl who walks his dogs and keeps his life together.
I keep these feelings tucked away in a secret little pocket of my heart, where they’ve lived for ten years. Where they’ll remain because losing him entirely would be worse than never having had his friendship at all.
7
CLARK
My phone buzzesin my bag as I’m pulling on my jersey, and I know without looking that it’s Whitaker.
The guy has impeccable—or maybe terrible—timing, depending on your perspective.
Sure enough, his name flashes across the screen along with a text that’s somehow both a question and an accusation.
Whitaker: Avoiding me?
Me: Game day laser focus activated.
Three dots appear immediately, indicating he’s typing. He’s not letting this go and I imagine all caps incoming.
Whitaker: That’s exactly the problem. You only care about the game. But your PUBLIC IMAGE matters too. More endorsements = more money = better career security. You avoided the conversation I came all the way to Cobbiton to have. Instead, you yapped all about April and your dogs. We need to talk.
I exhale a sharp breath. Whitaker is an old friend and he’s good at his job. He’s gotten me deals I never would’ve landed on my own, boosted my social media presence, and made me “marketable” in a way that matters in professional sports.
But he also thinks my personal life is part of his portfolio.
Me: Watch me win.
Whitaker: Fine. But dinner when you get back. Already made reservations. 7 p.m. Thursday. DON’T FORGET.
I shove my phone back in my bag without responding. Thursday is two days away. I’ll deal with Whitaker then.
Right now, I need to focus on the Denver Blizzard and the fact that they beat us the last two times we’ve played them.
“You vibin’ or spiralin’?” Mikey asks, noticing my expression.
I grunt. “Can’t we just play hockey and not deal with all the other stuff?”
“Say no more.” He makes a face that suggests he understands completely.
But I do say more. “Whitaker says my public image matters.”
“Does it, though?” Pierre pipes up from across the locker room. “I mean, you’re a goalie. You wear a mask. Half the time, people can’t even see your face.”
“Exactly!”
“What does he want from you?” Hayden asks, lacing up his skates. “To start doing those silly dances on social media?”
“I already do them.”
Grady chuckles. “Do product placements?”
“Those, too.”
“Prance around shirtless with your dogs?”
“Don’t give him ideas,” I mutter.
Hayden snorts.
