Hot Damn (Hot as Puck #3)

1. Cami

Cami

“ H ot damn!”

I barely avoid a fist to the face when the guy next to me punches the air. He can’t be more than five four and at five eleven in bare feet I tower over him.

The last thing I need—or want—is a black eye. Leaning back as far as the wall behind me allows in case he comes up swinging again, I warn, “Hey, watch it next time.”

He whirls around like he’s under attack, one arm out, palm up to hold off the threat while the other hand presses his phone to his chest, his eyes darting this way and that before landing on me.

His assessing gaze takes me in for a few seconds and I see the moment he dismisses me, a sneering twist of his lips overtaking his face. The smirk doesn’t do anything to improve his looks. In fact it does the opposite; the predatory smile makes me think of serial killers.

Before I can ask what has him so excited, he shuffles backward putting a good four feet between us, his creepy gaze never leaving me as though he thinks I’ll follow him to snatch the phone he’s cradling like it’s a bag of crack and I’m an addict looking for a fix.

Idiot.

I know most in the industry and he’s no different. There is not a chance in hell I’m going near Herman Draper by choice. In the world of journalism he’s a bottom feeder, a freelancer after any story he can sell to the highest bidder. He’ll peer through windows and hunt through garbage cans in search of some tidbit to reveal about any celebrity of interest to the public, especially those his information would tear down.

I’m pretty sure he was nabbed on a break and enter a few years ago.

The man gives respectable journalists a bad name.

I didn’t realize who he was when he slipped into the room and settled beside me a few minutes ago. Now I have to wonder why he’s here. Sports reporting isn’t his thing.

Then again, it’s not mine either.

I’m here because the usual guy called in a favor I’d been dumb enough to owe him. I should have known Bas would send me to a stinky locker room.

Okay, fine, it’s not the locker room, but close enough.

I’m not a fan of professional athletes for a number of reasons, the least of which being they smell. Although this room the press is jammed into lacks the usual athletic aroma, instead it’s filled with a mix of expensive and cheap perfumes and colognes as well as a slight trace of BO.

That last could be attributed to Draper though. The man looks like he’s slept in his clothes for more than a few days straight.

Noise at the front of the room draws everyone’s attention, and looking up I see Coach Walker Alcott step into the room. He’s followed by assistant coach Blake Watts, and players Beckett Higgison, Chase Hawkins, and Branton Lattimer Watts. While flashes pop all around the room, I watch the group get settled in seats behind a long table lined with microphones and wonder what questions they’ll be asked.

As I said, sport isn’t my thing and I’m a little out of my depth here, but a favor is a favor and Bas is a cool guy, and if I’m honest, I’d probably have said yes to anyway. And that’s what I am—honest—in my job and life.

I had my fill of liars before I hit double digits and I’ve no plans to live that way again.

Besides, it’s not like I’m here to interview anyone. I just need to pick up some highlights, a few soundbites we can use on the network and paper’s websites. Bas watched the game at home where he’s recovering from a sprained ankle and will already be pulling together the article to go in the sports section of Sunday’s paper as well as the one the network will use in their sports roundup.

I don’t plan on asking questions. I’ll leave that to the experts in the room. Of which there are many.

Except one.

Herman Draper.

He’s more of an expert in gossip, the dirtier the better.

I glance over and see Draper worming his way closer to the front. He’s got a look on his face that has me standing straighter, my gaze focused solely on him now.

“What are you up to?” I murmur, moving closer.

I’m not sure why I’m following him. The action is at the front of the room with the players and coaches answering questions about tonight’s game. I’ve got my ears on them, listening for anything I can use, but my gaze is locked on Draper. Whatever he’s up to, I don’t like it.

Can’t say why.

Maybe it’s the way his flinty eyes glint or the smarmy smile on his face. Whatever he has planned, I know it’s not going to be good. Shit usually gets flung when Draper is around.

From what I know, it’s been his stock-in-trade his entire career. We might not run in the same circles—professional or social— but I’m still well aware of his reputation.

I’m a few reporters to his left, back a bit so he doesn’t catch me in his peripheral vision. I don’t want him to notice me. The last thing I need is for him to work out who I am and aim that devious smirk my way. Best to keep out of his line of sight.

Not that I should be worried. He didn’t recognize me before when he was sizing me up as a threat and now he’s got his eyes glued to the front of the room.

On Higgison I think.

As I move closer, questions are tossed out about the game, the team, the coaching staff being inexperienced, and being two games into pre-season with two wins under their belt. My brain is cataloguing some possible bites when Draper shouts above everyone else.

“Beckett, you’ve played for Calgary, Montreal, and the last five years Toronto. Now you’re here with the league’s newest, and some would say most controversial, franchise team, the Baton Rouge Rogues.”

“Right?” Higgison nods with a frown, obviously not hearing the question and I don’t blame him, I don’t hear one either. It sounds like Draper is reading the man’s bio.

Draper grins and I’m stepping closer, my body coiling tight, bracing for what, I don’t have a clue, when the next words out of his mouth stop me in my tracks and send my gaze whipping to the man at the front of the room.

“How is it no one knows you have a kid?”

There’s a collective gasp, heads turn, and the team officials spread around the room snap to attention, but nothing comes from Higgison. His stony gaze is on the man to my right, and if looks could kill that’s the one.

It’s razor sharp and ice cold.

I can’t help the shiver that raises goosebumps all over my body. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of that look.

Higgison shakes his head slightly and says, “I’m not sure where you get your info?—”

“It’s right here.” Draper waves his phone above his head. “An Instagram post from WhitHigg, a high school senior. It’s a pic of the Rogues on the ice after tonight’s final horn and the caption reads ‘So proud of my dad, leading his new team the Baton Rouge Rogues to victory. Winning their way to the cup!’ with a bunch of hashtags and two account tags. You and the Rogues.”

I rack my brain trying to recall who on the team has kids, teenagers specifically, and what their names are. I can’t think of anyone with a teenager and the look on Higgison’s face tells me I won’t.

Higgison shakes his head. “No idea?—”

“Funny how the post was taken down moments later. And WhitHigg now seems to have switched their account to private.”

I can see the anger and fear in Higgison’s eyes, the greed and triumph stamped on Draper’s face, and as much as I’m clueless when it comes to reporting sports of any kind, never mind at a professional level, I’ve had a bit of an education in hockey the last few years thanks to my BFF and I’m a reporter. Questions are what I do, so I’m able to at least think up something to ask that will hopefully slow this speeding train down.

My phone is vibrating like crazy in my back pocket and, ignoring it because let’s be real, it can only be one of two people—or both of them—trying to reach me right now, I step forward.

Someone needs to stop this press conference from becoming a train wreck.

“Coach Alcott,” I call out, waving my hand to get everyone’s attention. “You must be pleased with how the team is shaping up. You’ve had your share of detractors since you took the job as head coach for the Rogues—do you feel vindicated now that your second outing proved the first wasn’t a fluke?”

Walker gives me a smile of relief before he answers. “The team played well tonight. The score reflects that, but there’s always room for improvement so we’ll be studying video footage, talking with coaches and players, before getting back on the ice to work on those areas. As for the detractors, everyone has an opinion—they’re entitled.”

I don’t miss the flick of his gaze to my right.

From the corner of my eye, I see a couple of security guards flank Draper who’s still shouting questions and demanding answers from Higgison about WhitHigg.

And because everyone else in the room seems to be watching the action surrounding the reporter, I throw out another question in the hope of blocking out the drama unfolding because I’m pretty sure Draper just threw a punch which isn’t good, or is. That will definitely get him ejected from the room quicker.

“How are you finding the team off the ice, and by that, I mean the players, management, and the owner?”

There’s a flare of something hot in Walker’s gaze but he quickly masks it and smiles. “We’re a team from the ice to the front door. Everything is working like a well-oiled machine. Everyone here brings years of experience and the Rogues are benefiting from that. Our performance tonight demonstrated that with favorable results.”

I keep the questions rolling as the scuffle on my right increases. “Being a new franchise has to have put more pressure on you and your team. How are you dealing with that? On and off the ice?”

“We’re concentrating on what we do best. Hockey. Sure, there is an expectation that we’ll fail, but when you take it down to the bones, we’re all professionals and it’s our job to play hockey, coach it, maintain equipment, or run the administrative end of a professional hockey team, and that’s what we’re all dedicated to doing. It’s what we’ll continue to do, win or lose on the ice.”

“Coach!” A reporter closer to the front sticks his hand up, a mini recorder held out. “There are rumors of tension in the ranks, in particular surrounding the new owner, Oakley James, who somehow managed to get a franchise without any media attention or prior hockey experience. What do you say to those?”

“I’m in the business of coaching a group of elite athletes, not standing around the water cooler gossiping. Do you have a question about the game?”

A smile tugs at my mouth. I like Walker. I’ve spent enough time with him outside of the Rogues facility to know he’s a stand- up guy. The fact Oakley married him within weeks of meeting him says enough for me anyway.

I trust her with my life. I trust her with the team.

The plan was for me to meet more of the players and staff after tonight’s game but I’m pretty sure after Draper’s questions, she’ll be in damage control mode. Which is probably why my phone hasn’t stopped vibrating.

My brain is already running through possibilities to keep this media storm locked down but when I hear the guy next to me say into his phone ‘get me everything you can on Beckett Higgison right down to his time of birth’, I know it’s too late to keep things contained. It’s a matter of battening the hatches and hoping for the least amount of damage.

If anyone knows how to do that it’s me.

I can’t say what the best course is yet, but one thing is clear.

I need to get out of here and find Oakley and Nat.