Chapter 7 - Kaeli
Seven
Kaeli
“Good morning, Kaeli,” Stacy greets me the moment I step into my place of work.
She looks at me like she always does, with a warm smile on her face, and yet, my first thought is that she knows about last weekend.
Not like there’s much to know, unfortunately.
My own mind stuns itself with the thought, and I don’t even attempt to examine where it came from. It’s too early for that sort of focus.
Taking a sip of my coffee, I greet her back as we both head to the corridor, “Good morning, boss.” She laughs at my teasing. It’s so easy with her. I’m glad to have a boss who is a friend and a mentor. It’s hard to find women who lift each other up these days.
“I have some ideas and content I’d like to run by you for Ezra, if that’s okay with you,” I say.
“Already?” She raises her eyebrows. “Okay, sure. Come by my office in fifteen.” I nod, and with that, she walks toward her office, leaving me to get to mine.
I’m really excited to show her everything I have in mind. I hope she likes it too. Her opinions matter to me not only because she’s my boss but also because I know she has far more experience than I do and would never steer me wrong.
Sipping on my coffee, I move ahead, and my eyes snag onto Ezra as he walks by with his teammates, chatting on their way to the gym, I assume. As if he can feel my stare burning him, his gaze looks up to meet mine. My instinct is to turn away and hide, but I don’t.
Our eyes lock for just a second, confessing secrets we hide from the world, from ourselves.
His features set in his usual scowl. He’s the first one to look away when Oliver claps his shoulder, grabbing his attention.
Ezra walks away with the rest of the guys without looking back at me once, like he didn’t see me here.
And God knows why it bothers me. His ignoring me feels like a pin pricking me and drawing my blood, slowly, drip by drip.
Shooting daggers at him for affecting me, I head into my office and get ready for the meeting with Stacy.
Screw him. He can brood all he wants. I don’t care.
* * *
I suck in a huge breath the moment I’m done presenting my idea to Stacy. Looking at her expectantly and more than a little nervous than I’d like to admit, I bite my lower lip.
It’s just the two of us in her office. The air conditioner blasts cool air, and yet I still sweat, awaiting her verdict. Stacy looks at me with not a hint of what she’s thinking. “You did all this in a weekend?” Her question scares me as I nod.
Then suddenly, a grin splits across her face, and she looks at me with something akin to pride. “I love it. It’s a brilliant idea and so unique. It’ll definitely make Ezra look the way we want people to see him. The audience will eat up the content.”
Her approval makes my tense shoulders relax. I lean back in the chair. “Thank you so much. I’m glad you like it.” She has no idea how on edge I was since the idea sparked in my mind.
Nothing like this has ever been done before. And I wasn’t sure if she’d be behind it. Though her response definitely makes my lonely weekend work marathon worth it.
Admittedly, I was a little distracted by not-so-innocent thoughts of Ezra and his huge body, the clothes hide. Heat creeps up my face when the vivid image of him, almost bare, barges through the door of my mind.
Stacy pulls my mind out of the gutter, and I pray to God that she doesn’t notice the flush on my cheeks.
Shaking my head, I put the thoughts of him aside. For the next couple of hours, we plan out the finer details and schedule with other departments to draft the content calendar.
* * *
A couple of days later, I’m waiting for Ezra to arrive in the video shoot room for our first meeting to record content for social media teasers.
I glance at my wrist watch again and groan because, of course, he’s late. How else will he fulfill his quota of getting on my nerves? I swear he gets a kick out of it.
Pacing the length of the room, my excitement for this project today all but fizzles out by the time he swaggers into the room, as if he owns it.
“Thank you for gracing me with your presence, your majesty,” I deadpan, sarcasm dripping with every word. He has the gall to dismiss me with one look as he pulls up a chair and plants his ass on it. “You’re thirty-five minutes late,” I say through gritted teeth.
He shrugs.
He fucking shrugs. “Technically, thirty-four and a half. You gonna dock my pay?”
The audacity this man has is astounding. If women were half as cocky, uncaring, and confident as he is, they’d be ruling the world. “I might. The social media manager’s wrath is a serious thing.”
“I figured I’d give you some alone time with your camera. You two looked pretty cozy.” He says dryly.
This broody asshole.
“Yeah, because it listens when I say ‘be ready in five minutes.’”
Ezra leans back, his hands crossed at the back of his head. “You’ve got a mouth on you, you know that?” He says with a Cheshire cat grin on his face.
Not wanting to let this drag on longer than it already has, I roll my eyes and take a seat across from him, and start explaining what I have in mind, and he asks about his doubts whenever something is unclear to him.
When I’m sure he has understood, I stand up and go behind the camera. “Now, sit before I replace you with a cardboard cutout — it’ll probably cooperate more.”
“Like this?” With swift movements, he grabs the remote and makes himself comfortable as he drops on the couch the staff placed for him in front of the LED screen, spreading his legs casually, his shorts riding up.
My legs flick down before I can stop myself, and I clear my throat. “Maybe…with less legs.”
His head instantly turns to me, a smirk adorning his rugged face. “You were looking.”
My face flames up at being caught. “I was checking the frame,” I explain, pretending to check on the camera.
“Right. The frame,” he drawls.
I adjust my tripod, muttering under my breath. “You’re impossible.”
Unfortunately for me, he hears it as he leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “You like that, though, don’t you? Keeps things interesting.” His teasing voice reaches my ears.
“No, it keeps things delayed. I’d like to get this done before next season starts.” I glare at him, hoping he’ll stop making things difficult for me.
“Then stop staring at my legs and hit record,” he chirps with a grin.
I snap, “I’m not staring at your — You know what? Forget it. Smile. Try to look human for thirty seconds.” I sigh.
“You’re lucky I like your attitude.” He softly laughs.
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.” My brow arches.
The timbre of his voice drops low when he says, “It is. Trust me.”
Our eyes lock — the air between us thick with something unspoken, something I don’t want to revel in because I know it’ll get me in all sorts of trouble. I click record, forcing myself to focus.
He takes the hint and turns to the screen, but I notice the way his back coils with tension the moment I ask him to be in front of the camera.
Over the years, I’ve noticed how his demeanor changes the moment he’s the sole person in the spotlight.
Though most players get used to it, he still hasn’t.
Not that I can blame him. I can’t imagine being the center of attention every time I walk into a room, or not having privacy to even live my personal life like a normal person.
It can’t be easy to be scrutinized for everything you do on and off the ice. So even though I hate his guts, I try to make him comfortable and ease into it. It’s all for the audience and not because I’m concerned for him, which I’m not.
Clearing my throat, I indicate to him to play the clip cued. It’s the one where he got a breakaway and scored a resounding slap shot that should’ve been impossible. The whole arena stood on their feet, screaming it down.
“What were you thinking when you made that rare slap shot? We’ve hardly ever known players going for it when they have a breakaway,” I ask him as the mute video plays on the screen, catching his shot from every angle possible.
He waits for a few minutes as if recalling every emotion he was feeling before answering, “That what an idiot I am.” He shakes his head with a little chuckle. It’s clear he’s still tense but is trying his best. And for that alone, I hate that I admire him.
“Your fans would beg to differ,” I comment in my smooth reporter-like voice. He laughs at that.
“I bet. The moment I pulled my stick back to wind up for the shot, I knew I blew it. Even an amateur knows you don’t take a slap shot on a breakaway, because it needs an exorbitant amount of force and accuracy, and it often gives the goalie the time to anticipate your shot,” he explains.
From my spot behind the camera, I counter, “But that slap shot was a thing of beauty.” The moment the words leave my mouth, his head whips to look at me, his expression stunned.
“Thank you,” he whispers. We continue to stare for longer than would be considered appropriate, my face heating up from all his intense and focused attention on me.
I bite my lip to stop myself from saying something embarrassing, like If this is how you look at the women you fuck, no surprise you have them falling at your feet.
His unblinking gaze slides to my lips, and I let them free of my teeth with a pop. His jaw clenches while I squirm under his intense gaze. That slight movement seems to snap him out of the trance.
Looking back at the screen, he clears his throat and mutters, “Yeah, well, it was just dumb luck.”
No, it was his talent. But I don’t correct him. Soon, we move on to the next clip, and I continue to ask him about them. Gradually, I notice the tension bleeding out of his body and his face finally lighting up as he talks about hockey.
He forgets that it’s me behind the lens and drones on and on about the game and appreciates the talents of other players. I allow my eyes to drink him in for the first time since he arrived.
His raven-colored hair is messy, as if he let it air dry after a shower.
They curl at the ends and fall over his forehead, and I have this sudden urge to run my fingers through them and know if they feel as soft as they look.
As if he can hear my thoughts, he runs a hand through them, making his yellow and brown team jersey hold on for dear life as his flexing biceps threaten to rip it apart.
I clench my thighs involuntarily, biting back an unceremonious sound which would probably make him question my sanity.
My eyes drift down to his black shorts, his very muscular and thick thighs open as he lounges on the couch.
God, what would it feel like to have my head betw–
My inappropriate thoughts for the man I claim to hate come to a halt when he plays the next clip and calls out my name. Blinking the lust out of my eyes, afraid that the subtitles of my thoughts are running over my head, I look at him in question.
He narrows his eyes at me and repeats, “Next question, Kaeli.” I know that if my name keeps rolling off his tongue like that, I’ll be needing my vibrator tonight.
Is it now, after all these years, that I’m noticing, or has he always said my name like that?
And that’s when I realize that yes, in fact, it’s now that he even calls me by my name instead of Intern. Now, my name on his lips is like my own personal aphrodisiac.
God, I’m utterly fucked.