Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Tedi
I’m in the bench area, instructing Fletcher, the cameraman who’s been assigned to me, on what shots to get at practice this morning since Coach Buford said he was fine with me getting some raw shots and videos. I’ve planned a photoshoot next week to replace the shots Gill got.
After the other night at Peeper’s, I’m really trying to have a better attitude when it comes to Tweetie. All this animosity between us isn’t good for the team or for me. I don’t really hate him, and I do want to see him succeed. It’s just a struggle when there are so many deep and hurt feelings between us.
“He’s got limited time left,” someone says behind me.
I stop directing Fletcher where to shoot, wanting to hear whoever it is since I’m fairly sure they’re talking about Tweetie.
“His contract is up this year. What are you going to do?” someone else says.
“Last week I was ready to send him packing, but his hat trick this week was promising. We’ll see how he does this season.”
I recognize the one voice now. Bud Caldron. Slimy asshole.
The man has no shame. Openly talking about one of his players within earshot of other people. Bringing his mistress to dinner. When I asked some of the guys at dinner about it, they told me he’s always been that way. Apparently the rumor is that his wife knows about his cheating and just turns a blind eye. Even so, just because you can doesn’t mean you should.
“He’s all over the blogs and socials. The fans love him after that game,” the other guy says, and I can’t place that voice.
I fight my urge to turn around and give them both a piece of my mind. Tweetie is the best left wing in the league, and they’d be fools not to sign him to another contract.
“He’s inconsistent. Which is why I came down here today to have a look. He’ll have one good game, then three bad ones.”
God, I fucking hate Bud.
Fletcher eyes me because he must hear them too. I really wish their conversation would be held somewhere more private and not feet away from the person they’re judging.
Tweetie steals the puck and skates down the ice, dodging and deflecting, shooting it to Henry, who passes it back to Tweetie before he circles the net and shoots it in.
Conor shouts, “Fuck you!”
Tweetie laughs, and he and Henry do a bit of a celebration on the ice, throwing their goal in Conor’s face.
Take that, Bud Caldron.
The team takes a break to get a drink, and Coach Buford and the rest of the coaching staff instruct them on the next drill. Fletcher and I sit on the bench, waiting for things to start up again.
I pull out my phone, ready to film some amateur videos to put on socials. They’ve been going well. Everyone loved seeing Tweetie coming off the ice after his hat trick. I took off the sound, and a bunch of the female fans commented on the look he gave the camera.
“Getting good stuff?” Bud sits down next to me. He’s not in a suit today, but in jogging pants with a matching zip-up sweatshirt.
“Yep.”
“Good. Good. You’ll send it to me. I saw your video from the other night and all the comments it got. You’ve got an eye for this stuff.”
Does he expect me to say thank you over his judgmental comment that he’s shocked I can do my job? I bite my tongue, having learned a long time ago that if I keep fighting upstream, I’m not going to get anywhere. I need to swim with the current if I want to make progress here.
“So, I was thinking,” he says, and I inwardly groan. “Let’s narrow the field even more. Base the social media around Tweetie. Everyone loves him.”
“And just forget the rest of the players?” I try to keep the skepticism out of my tone, but this man makes it impossible with his ludicrous ideas.
“Think about it.” He puts his hands in the air as if a video is about to play.
Is he sane?
“The oldest player in the league.”
“He’s not the oldest player in the league.”
Bud sneers at me. Okay, I don’t need a call up to Mr. Herington, so I zip my mouth.
“As of right now, he doesn’t have a team to play for next year.”
I feel the first roar of the lion coming to life inside me. “You’d be an idiot not to sign him again.”
He turns all the way in his seat to face me. “Do you think you’re more qualified than me to say who should play for the Falcons?”
I grab my coffee, my hand tightening as I tell myself that I cannot throw it in his face. “Sorry, go on with your vision.”
He smiles like the popular girl in high school who just got her way. “Everyone loves an underdog.”
“Underdog? Tweetie?” My voice gets a little too shrill, and some of the players and Coach Buford look in our direction.
Swim with the school of fish, Tedi. Swim downstream with them.
“Perhaps I should make a call up to headquarters. Maybe we need someone else who can see my vision.”
He’s threatening me, and I mentally calculate how much savings I have in the bank if I tell him to go fuck himself and be done with this job. It’s costing me my mental stability anyway. But if I tell Bud to go screw himself, my name will be blacklisted all over the league, and this is what I love, so I swallow my pride.
I give Bud a smile I hope seems sincere. “I’m just saying that I think having the fans getting to know all the players is better for the team’s long-term success.”
He waves me off. “All you younger generations bounce around to whatever’s hot at the moment.” He moves to put his hand on my knee, but I slide it away from him before he has the chance. He pulls back his hand. “I have faith that next year, you’ll have a fresh idea on what kind of campaign we should do, whether Tweetie’s here or not.”
There go my teeth grinding again.
“So, just Tweetie. Forget your entire first line.”
He shrugs. “You can do a little on them, but make Tweetie the main focus. People will be either rooting for him to get signed or wanting him to go.”
“And are you signing him?”
He chuckles and points at me. “Trying to trick me, huh? I don’t tell people what I’m doing until I do it.” He turns his attention to the ice, staring at Tweetie. “Anyway, you should schedule a meeting with him, so he knows what way we’re going with this.” He stands.
“Me?” I squeak.
“What’s with the confusion, Tedi? You’re the social media person.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Oh, and good catch. Decker Davis. Look at you, surprising me at every turn.”
My mouth is too open to respond as he walks away, telling Fletcher to make sure he gets a lot of pictures of Tweetie today.
I stare into my lap.
“He’s such a prick,” Fletcher whispers when Bud stops by Coach Buford, saying something to him before he laughs and walks away.
“I’m not crazy, right? What is he thinking by gambling with Tweetie’s contract for next year?”
Fletcher shrugs, and we both look out at the ice.
They’re doing skating drills, and Tweetie is first every damn time. Even faster than Rowan.
“You’re definitely not crazy. He’s playing a game of chicken, and I’m pretty sure Tweetie is the type of guy who will call his bluff.”
Fletcher is right. Once you wrong Tweetie, there’s no getting back in his good graces. Just ask Jana and Kane Burrows.