Chapter 20
20
NICKY
“E very mic is a hot mic.” Florence pins Ronan with a harsh look before carrying on. “Don’t assume otherwise, and don’t say anything you wouldn’t want the whole world to hear.”
“Right. Every mic is a hot mic.” He nods, half-listening as he takes long strides down the brightly-lit hallway.
Darius looks up from his phone to eyeball his hockey captain brother from under a stern brow. “You’ve got to keep your shit together, Ronan. Whether the Saints win or lose tonight.”
“Win or lose, huh? Let’s be real, D. The Saints can’t afford to take another loss at this point,” Ronan complains, adjusting the strap of the duffel bag on his broad shoulder.
I sort of agree with him. The Saints lost four of the six games they played in since I started working with Ronan. It’s been another rough two weeks for the team.
But at the moment, my mind is distracted from the team’s dismal performance. As Ronan walks, I can’t help but check him out.
He’s decked out in one of his expensive game-day suits. And holy shit, he looks hot in a suit. It’s one of those fitted ones, and it shows off those incredible arms and those long legs he has. And his butt, y’all. His tight, muscular butt.
It’s making me a little warm and tingly in all the right places.
Or the wrong places. Clearly the wrong places. All wrong. Because I’m not going ‘there’ with Ronan. Ever.
Doesn’t mean I won’t stare, though. Staring is allowed. Staring is inevitable.
Staring is what gets me in trouble.
Ronan peeks over his shoulder and his eyes land directly on me.
That’s when he catches me. With my eyes on his butt.
Busted!
His lips curl into a conceited grin. Like he knows exactly what I’ve been up to. I look away, brushing at the invisible lint on the skirt of my business suit.
Look—I’ve been celibate for months, and considering I’m around this man almost twenty-four seven, I’m pretty sure he has been, too, at least for the past few weeks. For two healthy adults who aren’t saving themselves for anything special, that’s a long freaking time.
Anyway, Florence and Darius are still preaching to Ronan. I’m trailing behind them, rolling my briefcase along with me as we hustle down some back hallway of the arena. We’re in New Jersey right now, in the tense moments before the start of tonight’s away game.
A lot is at stake and we all know it. That’s why Florence is choosing her words very carefully, walking the line between ‘Of course, we’re going to win this game’ motivation, and ‘ But if not, don’t be an asshole about it.’
“Obviously, we’re all hoping that we’ll get a win today,” Florence assures him. “But the root of the issue isn’t the losses. The root of the issues is your attitude after the losses.”
Ronan just grunts. “Look, Flo. You can’t expect me to go around, cheesing for the cameras when I’ve got a bunch of reporters throwing idiot questions in my face.”
I make an involuntary noise in my throat. Oops. That was louder than I expected. But seriously, Ronan has a point. Some of those reporters go out of their way to sabotage him with their asinine questions.
He turns over his back and peeks at me again.
Florence draws his attention back to the conversation. “You know what? Try this,” she suggests helpfully. “As you’re changing after the game and walking down to the press room, try practicing some talking points.”
“Talking points?” he questions, sounding skeptical.
“Well, you already have a pretty good idea of what they’ll ask if you win. And what types of questions they’ll ask if you lose. So, we can rehearse a few lines to have ready when those questions come up. That way, you’ll be mentally prepared and you should be able to sail through.”
“It’s not the regular, run of the mill questions I have trouble with,” Ronan points out. “It’s the dumbass curveballs they always throw my way. The last time some idiot reporter asked me if I think I should just voluntarily resign the captain position before the end of the season. I mean, come on. What kind of fucking question is that?!”
Darius huffs in annoyance. “ Ronan. ”
“I get it,” the head of PR assures him. “Even the fans get it. But you can’t treat any question like a dumb one.”
“Easy for you to say,” Ronan mumbles.
When he glances back, our eyes meet again. It’s almost like he’s checking to make sure I’m still here. I don’t know why that gives me butterflies in my tummy.
This time, I cock a brow and tilt my head to the side, wordlessly telling him to stop being difficult.
Ronan’s lips curl faintly at the corners, then he releases a sigh. “Okay. Fine. I’ll try my best.”
“Please try.” She briefly presses her palms together in prayer. “And don’t sit there all grumpy and act like you don’t want to be there.”
“Me? I’d never do something like that!” He fakes offense.
Darius turns and side-eyes his brother. “Remember that game a few nights ago when the Saints lost by four, and you literally walked in the room and said you were only there cause you had to be?”
Ronan laughs ruefully at the reminder. “Oh, that. ”
“Yeah. Don’t do that, Ronan.”
“Got it, boss. Is that all?” He gives Florence a salute, a smile lingering on his lips. “I need to jam to my playlist and get in the right mind space before the game. No more press stuff. It stresses me out.”
“Fine.” Florence gives a resigned smile. “Kick some butt out there.”
“You know I will.” He flashes a grin but I notice the way it wobbles as a glint of self-doubt sparks across his face. It only lasts for the blink of an eye, though. And then he’s back to his usual cocky self when he looks at me. “I’m gonna score all the goals tonight. I want to show my babysitter that I’m a big boy.”
Before I can interject, Ronan’s coach spots him from where he’s standing at the locker room door, huddled with a couple of the other players. The man waves the team captain over to join the discussion. Darius strides off along with him.
I hear one of the players whistle. “Who’s the hottie in the business suit?” Number 69 asks.
Ronan is quick to shoulder-bump his fellow hockey giant to the side. He growls. “Don’t even think about it, Lance. She’s mine!”
At his outburst, multiple eyebrows shoot up in the huddle. Whispered words are exchanged among the hockey players as eyes bounce between Ronan and me.
I feel my cheeks warm up.
Ronan clears his throat. “Mine…uh, my assistant, I mean,” he corrects himself, his ears turning pink. Then his lips curl into an embarrassed smile.
I roll a hand over my middle, smoothing out the fabric of my pencil skirt and the sudden butterflies in my tummy.
“Damn, coach. If I cause trouble and get arrested, can I get a hot assistant, too?” One of the other guys asks.
“You can get a knee to the nuts if you don’t stop interrupting me while I’m trying to start this team meeting,” the coach barks back. “Now, listen up, all of you!” The man heads into the locker room and his players follow after him.
Florence chuckles. “Hockey players…Let me tell you. Those guys make you work for every single penny of that fat paycheck.”
I nod slightly. “I believe you.”
Today, she’s wearing a puffy jacket with the Saints’ logo stitched onto the back. She’s paired it with dark jeans tucked into furry winter boots. She looks casual and cute.
She touches my elbow, nudging me to continue our stroll down the hallway. “So, how things going with Ronan?”
For a half second, a surge of apprehension hits me.
Does she know how many times I checked Ronan out while he was sleeping during our plane ride this morning?
Does she know that I’ve been having dirty thoughts about that man all night and all day?
I give my head a slight shake. No, Florence only cares about me helping the Saints’ star player to keep his public image squeaky clean.
“Things are going well with Ronan,” I tell her. If you don’t count him being an effortless sex god and a total pain in my butt.
“Good. Good.” Florence says slowly. Then she sighs. “That guy gets so worked up about everything. He wears all his emotions on his sleeve. I really hope he keeps it together today.”
When she says that, I feel myself getting unreasonably defensive. “People really aren’t fair to Ronan. I’m sure that anyone who’s watching just sees a hothead who can’t control his anger or his actions,” I start, my forehead pinched, “And that may be true to some extent. But I also see a man who really does care about his teammates. A man who puts the whole team on his back. A man who beats himself up when he can’t carry everyone successfully. I think that Ronan has good intentions. He needs to be given the benefit of the doubt sometimes.” I lay a hand on my chest. “It hurts my heart to see him so frustrated. He blames himself every time the team doesn’t win.”
Florence quirks an eyebrow at my passionate little rant.
Geez. What the hell is wrong with me? Rein in the dramatics, Nicky. Your emotions are getting away from you.
I clear my throat. “Uh, um. I think he’s ready.” I nod.
“I sure as shit hope he is,” she says after a pause. Then she looks me up and down, like she’s taking in my business attire. “Make sure to have some fun today. You’re allowed, you know that?”
“Right.” I force a smile.
“See ya later, Nicky.” With brisk steps, she heads off in the other direction, stalking down the hallway.
She leaves me there, frowning down at my business suit. Maybe I do look a little bit uptight. I smooth my fingers over my perfect bun. It’s been such a pain, having to flat-iron my hair all the time. Maybe I can afford to let loose a little bit.
The game starts a while later. Since I don’t have Karli and the rest of the Brighton crew tonight, I end up sticking in one of the executive suites with some of the Saints staff.
Our team comes out with a vengeance tonight. Ronan is in tiptop form on the ice. He’s focused, determined and downright lethal as he slices across the rink.
He plays like a beast, shooting one puck after another after another past his opponent’s goalie. New Jersey doesn’t stand a chance. The Saints absolutely demolish their competition, leaving them in ruins. 5-2. Three of those goals scored by Ronan.
Every time he sends a puck slamming into the net, his eyes find mine. Even as the crowd is screaming and his teammates are pouring down on him in celebration, Ronan always finds me in the crowd.
I feel electrified, watching him. I shamelessly lose my mind, yelling and cheering my team on.
My team?
Welp. Looks like I’m a hockey girl now. A Saints girl.
A Ronan girl.
I block that thought out.
During the post-game interviews, I stand at the side of the room and I can’t wipe the smile off of my face. Ronan is still guarded as he answers the reporters’ questions. But at least he doesn’t say or do anything that can be used against him in the court of public opinion.
I ride with Florence and some people from the PR department back to the hotel. I’m waiting in the lobby when Ronan and the rest of the team exit their bus and stroll in.
Ronan’s eyes find mine and they hold as he prowls in my direction. Jesus—he’s hot.
And he’s striding across the lobby, hockey stick in one hand, duffel bag in the other, one golden brown lock flopping across his forehead, looking like a hockey warrior returning from battle. I really like the way his hair curls over his brow after a shower.
Heaven. Have mercy on me.
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tipton barrels in. One hand cupped around his mouth, he’s pumping his other fist in the air.
The rest of the guys join in the shouting, looking around for the hotel bar and drawing the disapproving attention of the hotel staff. Their coach half-heartedly tells them to simmer down, but from the grin on his face, it’s clear that the man doesn’t give two shits if his boys make some noise. They won the game and that’s what matters tonight.
Parker notices me standing there and he grins. “You gonna drink with us, Nicky?”
“Thanks for the invite but that wouldn’t be a good idea,” I say, smiling back at him.
Ronan reaches out and touches my hand in that gentle way he does. It still amazes me how that simple touch does such disorderly things to my whole body.
And then when he throws in a smile, I literally feel my knees buckle. “You should come have a drink with us.”
I raise both eyebrows at him. “A drink? Who says you’re having a drink?”
He blinks. “Um, what? Of course I’m having a drink.”
My only response is to tilt my head.
“No way,” he says disbelievingly. “We won tonight.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder to where his teammates are still celebrating.
Florence steps in. “Yes, you did win. And we want to keep the headlines positive. So I think it’s best if you just go get some rest, Captain. Set a good example for the rest of the guys.”
“You can’t be serious,” Ronan says, his jaw hanging open.
I smirk at him. “You heard the woman. It’s bedtime for you, big guy.”
His eyes bounce between Florence and me. He’s waiting for either one of us to crack. It’s not happening.
Across the lobby, the coach is talking to the rest of the team, letting them know that tonight won’t be some wild and crazy post-win extravaganza. Looks like nobody’s partying hard tonight.
Finally, Ronan’s shoulders slump in acceptance. “Fine.”
Florence grins. She turns to me. “You have the key to your hotel room, Nicky?”
“I do.” I hold up my white plastic card in illustration.
“Good.” Then she looks to Ronan. “Good job tonight, Captain. You played really well.”
“And now I get to go sit in my hotel room and stare at a wall after tonight’s big win. Yay!” He frowns. “Feels like another punishment, Flo.”
“It’s called discipline. Get some rest. You’ll be grateful in the morning.” She shoos Ronan off toward the elevator. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
I bite back a giggle as we step onto the lift. Ronan slumps against one wall. I take the opposite corner, leaning a hip against the metal railing. “Good game tonight,” I say, my eyes following the numbers on the panel as we climb.
I don’t know if I can look at him with the way my body feels right now. Just sharing the same space as him has my skin prickling with awareness.
“Thanks,” he says, still all grumbly. “What are you doing tonight?” he asks.
I lift a shoulder. “Probably watching some TV. And ooh!—I’m only halfway through the novel I’m reading. It’s so good. Can’t wait to get back into it.”
In my periphery, I see him nod. “Okay. Not bad. That could be fun.”
When the elevator arrives on my floor, I take a step toward the exit. “Well, good night then.”
But before I can get off, Ronan pops off the elevator wall. He’s following me.
“Oh, your room is on this floor, too?” I ask him, peeking back.
“No,” he says simply, striding right along.
I narrow my eyes at him. “So where are you going?”
“To your room,” he says, matter-of-factly. Like it’s perfectly normal for us to hang out alone in a hotel room in the middle of the night.
Spinning to face him, I press a firm palm into his even firmer chest.
His fingers easily clasp around my wrist and now he’s casually leading me down the hallway. “Oh, you don’t get to just walk away after you gleefully fucked up my plans for the evening.”
“Excuse me?”
Ronan slips the key card from my hand, scoping out the room number scribbled on the back. “If I can’t hang out with the guys, then you’re stuck with me. It’s your job to keep me entertained tonight.”
Panic clenches my belly. I chase after him, struggling to keep up with his easy saunter. “Who made up that rule? You can’t just make up that rule!”
He swipes the card over the reader at the room entrance. He easily shoves the door open and turns to me with a smirk. “After you, madam.”
Shit. It’s a war inside my head. I shouldn’t do this. Do I want to do this? Should I do this? Damn—I really want to do this .
I throw a guilty peek up and down the hallway, looking for spectators. Then with a steely breath, I duck into the hotel room, hauling my rolling bag along with me.