With a sympathetic nod, she reaches over and squeezes my knee. “Well, if it counts for anything, I bet Henry almost jizzed in his pants when he heard you.”
“Ashlyn!” I screech. “Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend? Actually, never mind. You’ve been hanging out with Blakely while the boys have been away, haven’t you.” It isn’t a question. It doesn’t need to be. Ashlyn’s dating Blakely’s older brother. Of course, they’re going to grow closer. The thought stings slightly, but I shove the unwarranted jealousy aside and stand. “Thanks again for the coffee. I should probably finish getting ready.”
“Okay. I’ll hang out here until it’s time for us to leave.”
Slipping my phone out of my back pocket, I check the time and nod. “Perfect. I’ll be out in twenty.”
I head down the hall to my bedroom.
23
MIA
I’m able to avoid him for the entire game. Well, avoid might be a stretch. Truth be told, I haven’t seen him yet, despite feeling like an owl with a rotating head in search of a man who looks hella good in a suit. But I haven’t had any luck spotting him. Or maybe luck has been on my side for once in my life since the idea of facing him after my butt dial is absolutely mortifying.
The guy usually watches the game while schmoozing associates in the suites with a buffet of crab legs and escargot. Okay, I technically don’t know if they serve crab legs and escargot in the suites. Still, it’s how I’ve always imagined the buffet is stocked, along with classical music playing in the background.
Classy, I know.
Unfortunately, my luck has run out.
Resting my camera against my shoulder, I attempt to ignore Buchanan standing at the edge of the stage during the post-game interviews. Instead, I focus on Colt and Theo. They’re sitting in the front of the room on a large platform, surrounded by cameras and answering questions with the rest of the Lions lineup. I should probably be filming this in case someone says something clever, but I’m too distracted. My eyes dart in Henry’s direction, despite my best effort. He looks good up there. He commands the entire room without even needing access to a microphone. He’s more hands-on than a lot of the other owners in the industry. A lot more present. Hell, some don’t even bother attending the games, yet Buchanan insists on traveling with the team. He doesn’t seem like someone who does anything half-assed, so I’m not sure why I thought this would be any different. I tear my attention away from his strong hands toying with the edge of his suit. He has attractive hands. Like…stupidly attractive. It’s a problem. I need to focus. Focusing would be much easier if Buchanan wasn’t onstage looking like a solid snack.
“Yeah, I think the Lions played really well despite the loss,” Colt answers, though I was too distracted to hear what the interviewer asked. “Once we make a few changes to our offense, I think we’ll be able to close out the next game with a win.”
“And how do you know the lyrics to every Taylor Swift song?” another reporter prods, lifting his pen into the air.
With a low chuckle, Theo leans back in his chair, spreading his legs wide beneath the coffee-colored table and waving his hand for Colt to continue.
“Our social media manager insisted we play it during warm-ups for the past few weeks,” Colt answers. “Guess the lyrics kind of sunk in.”
Beck’s sitting on Colt’s left and leans closer to his mic, adding, “Yeah, she said it helps us memorize the words so we’re ready to lip-sync whenever she wants us to.”
“Either Mia’s a genius or a sadist,” Greer pipes up dryly. “None of us are sure which one.”
The reporters laugh along with the players, and my mouth lifts as I drop my gaze to the ground. These boys. I kind of love how they’ve claimed me. And how they willingly go along with my shenanigans these days.
“Ah, so this Mia is the mastermind behind all your videos,” another interviewer states. “May I ask how much time she requires you to spend filming silly videos instead of practicing actual hockey?”
Silly videos?
My brows tug, but I force myself to let the words roll off my shoulders.
I’m not the only one who hears it. The hint of condescension. Greer and Beck share a look, each of them shrugging. “Depends on the video. Nothing crazy, though.”
The reporter taps the edge of her recorder against her chin and adds, “Do you think if you spent more time focusing on practicing instead of being distracted by your social media manager’s desire to boost your online presence, the outcome of tonight’s game would have been different?”
My gaze narrows along with the rest of the team’s as I digest the reporter’s thinly-veiled accusation posed as a question.
Is she seriously blaming the loss on me?
Dude. I wasn’t even on the ice.
You gotta be kidding me.
Whatever earlier amusement had been present evaporates from Colt’s features, and he demands, “Are you suggesting we lost the game because of Mia?”
“I’m saying the Lions have quite the social media presence, and I’m curious if the trade-off is worth it,” the woman explains. “Do more followers online equal more losses on the ice?”
Colt’s scoff echoes throughout the silent room, and Theo sits up fully in his chair. He reaches for his mic like he’s about to lose his shit on the woman, but something grabs his attention from his periphery, and he hesitates.
Henry’s determined stride catches us all by surprise as he closes the space between him and Greer’s microphone, lifting it to his mouth. “In case you missed it, our social media manager didn’t play in the game tonight, so I’m not sure how you can insinuate the loss was her fault.”
“I’m saying––”
“I suggest you spend a little more time learning how hockey works before attacking my staff,” Henry interrupts. I stare at him, willing him to look at me, but the bastard keeps his attention zeroed in on the reporter with a stick up her ass like I don’t exist. Like he isn’t talking about me to a bunch of people. Like he isn’t defending me. “Mia Rutherford is great at what she does and has gained more support for the Lions in the last few weeks than any of your articles.”
Again, the reporter opens her mouth to argue, but he cuts her off. “Does anyone else have any further questions about the game? Or are we finished?” His sharp gaze falls over the crowd in front of the stage as he waits for a reporter to say something. When no one utters a single syllable, Henry sets the microphone back in its stand in front of Greer and strides off the platform and out of sight.
Whoa.
Now that I wish I’d caught on camera. I’d probably watch it and get off to him all over again.
Yeah, super healthy idea, Mia.
I shake the thought off and attempt to focus on the rest of the post-game interview. It goes by without a hitch, and when the guys all stand, I click the lens cover back onto my camera and head toward the exit. I grabbed my camera bag when the players were showering before the interviews, and with them finished, I’m ready to call it a day.
Almost everyone has trickled out of the arena as I head to my car. It’s dark now. The last of the sun has already slipped beneath the horizon. I parked under a lamp post, knowing I wouldn’t leave until after dark. And if I’ve learned anything from my precarious situation with stalkers, it’s light is my friend. And so are crowds. Unfortunately, the latter is a little sparse, so I pick up my pace.