27. Tori
An unexpected part of managing the Public Engagement department that Dee has pushed off to me recently has been replying to reporters looking for comments about certain rumors. It gives me a direct finger on the pulse of coverage for the Mystic, locally, nationally, and internationally, but it is tedious. Half the stuff I’m asked to comment on is completely unsubstantiated gossip, and the other half are attempts to get an official response to wild speculation. Occasionally, we’ll get a puff piece request for a player comment about something happening in their hometown, or for statements from any of the charities the players work with. That stuff I can handle.
The bullshit Mark Henderson emails me about multiple times a day, on the other hand, is the bane of my existence.
Tori — what happened to the defense? did they not even dress for the last game?
Tori — can you explain why Coach McQueen would put such lackluster talent on the ice for special teams?
Tori — Get me an interview with Hakala. He’s the only one keeping any hope of getting to the playoffs alive.
And those are just the ones I’ve received since I woke up today.
I’m almost positive Dee never had to deal with Henderson’s blatant disrespect when he was doing this part of the job, because the tone of the inquiry emails changed almost instantly when I started using my own email address rather than drafting the emails for Dee to approve and send out.
This morning’s attempt at baiting me into losing my cool has ruined my entire day. It’s been over a week and a half since Spencer and I returned from Vegas, and I’ve been splitting time between my house and theirs, though I might actually move in if they keep spoiling me. This morning, I woke up to snuggles and the fluffiest chocolate chip pancakes I’ve ever had, and all the laundry I’d inadvertently left there was done and folded. We’ve been commuting separately to avoid suspicion, but it’s starting to feel like a chore. Today is a practice day before the team takes off on a four-game road trip, the last big trip before we kick off our Mardi Gras homestand—two and a half weeks of home games leading up to Mardi Gras Day and the charity gala.
I’m working from the executive box again, watching over the ice as Logan puts his players through their paces. I set my laptop aside to cool off a little before I type out my reply to Henderson, smiling to myself as I track Spencer through the drill. I’m still surprised by how much more comfortable I am with the dark- haired alpha now. We’d spent most of our free time in Vegas in bed, not always fucking, but just talking, getting to know each other really for the first time. And since we’ve gotten back, I find myself choosing to snuggle next to him on the couch when we watch TV or sitting next to him at meals.
If you’d told me six months ago that I’d be sad that the alpha who scarred me physically and mentally would be gone for almost a week, and that I’d already miss him, I would have laughed directly in your face.
There’s still a part of me that’s worried about what the future will hold. We’re forming a pack, but that’s not the unbreakable tie that a lot of people think it is. Pack members aren’t bound to their pack mates eternally, and leaving a pack isn’t that much more difficult than getting a traditional divorce. We’re not mixing assets right away, and without bonds or children, any of the guys could decide that it’s too much hassle, or that their careers are more important than everything we have, and then I’d be back to broken-hearted square one. Only three times worse.
With a sigh, I try to shove the dark thoughts away, but a slight cramp in my lower belly refuses to let me escape. I haven’t started nesting or having night sweats or any of the early heat signs I’d been warned about at my last doctor’s appointment. Cramping, she’d said, was normal, but I’m not convinced. My body has been so out of whack, and I’m so used to not having cramps or a libido that the recent appearance of both has my fight-or-flight instincts on high alert.
Taking a deep breath, I pick up my laptop again, determined to distract myself away from an anxiety spiral. I close out of Mark’s email, scanning through the rest of my unread messages in search of something less infuriating. Most of them require simple answers that I’m happy to give. But then I reach one from a national sports talk show, a pretty popular one that prides itself on providing the inside scoops and breaking news first in the industry. I’ve responded to a couple of their emails, and I’m still adjusting to seeing my words being posted word-for-word within hours of hitting send.
But this email makes my blood run cold.
Dear Ms. Strauss— One of our sources has brought to our attention that the Mystic are shopping around for trades ahead of the deadline. Names being floated include LeBlanc, Hughes, and Astrauckas. Does the Mystic wish to comment on these rumors at this time?
I swallow hard, staring at the screen as all noise fades around me. All I can hear is my heartbeat and the echoes of Gideon St. Clair’s words:
That’s quite the carrot to dangle to lure the right people to the table.
My hands shake as I pull my phone out from my work bag, already dreading this call. I want to deny everything, which would be the simple way out of this. But I know better. If I make a blanket statement like that, when it inevitably gets published or reported, it could do serious harm to the team’s trade prospects. There are a lot of behind-the-scenes negotiations, but I’d be stupid to think that other teams aren’t watching the press coverage for hints at what might be on offer.
After pulling up Gideon’s number, I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the call button. The boys and I agreed to do our jobs as directed until we’re ready to approach the team as a united front to declare ourselves a pack, and if I don’t answer this news outlet, it doesn’t mean they’ll drop it. Reporters are like dogs with cars; they’ll keep chasing their story until they finally get what they want. They’ll end up citing less reliable sources, but they’ll still get their headline.
There’s a lump in my throat as I close my eyes and press that ominous green circle, my heart pounding as I bring the phone up to my ear. It rings once, and I let out a steadying breath.
Honestly, it might be for the best that no one answers. I can just say we decline to comment at this time.
Ring.
Gideon can’t say I didn’t try to get in touch, especially if I leave a voicemail letting him know it’s not a big deal.
Ring.
He’s such a busy guy. I’m sure he doesn’t have time for something as silly as this.
Ring.
He probably won’t answer anyway, because I didn’t give him my number. No one answers random calls from numbers they don’t have saved these days.
Rin–
“Hello, Miss Strauss.”
I jump as the deep voice practically purrs through the phone speaker, my heart plummeting to somewhere around my knees.
“H-how did you know it was me calling?” I ask, cursing myself for stumbling over my words.
“I have my ways,” Gideon replies, and I can almost hear the smirk in his voice.
I roll my eyes at that. Gideon might be intimidating, and maybe another omega or woman would swoon, but that sort of arrogance only grinds my gears. Though, in the pause I take to stop myself from scoffing, I hear some sort of shouting in the background. The words are muffled, but the voice is angry.
“I assume you didn’t call just to chat. Is there a question about my team you need answered?” he asks into the silence.
Straining my ears, I try to pick up any other hints of what he might be up to. But he must have walked away from whatever ruckus I’d interrupted, as there’s only silence.
“The NHL Network emailed us for comment on trade rumors,” I drone in my attempt to hide my nerves behind a wall of feigned boredom.
Gideon hums in thought. “Who are they wondering about?”
I swallow, taking another breath before I list the names from the email. Thankfully, I manage to get them all out without any noticeable catches in my voice. I pull the microphone away from my mouth for a moment, letting out a harsh exhale as I try to get it together. I can only blame my crazy hormones for why I’m so fucking nervous. Gideon has never had this effect on me before, and I can’t let him see how he’s getting under my skin.
“I’ve heard a few offers for Hughes, but I’m hesitant to trade him right now just for short-term success. He’s young, but you wouldn’t know it from the way he plays. I’m hoping McQueen bumps him up a line next season,” Gideon says, and I blink at the bald honesty in his voice.
Scrambling for my laptop, I open a blank document and start typing out notes, balancing my phone on my shoulder as I listen intently.
“LeBlanc is here until his contract is up. He’s a solid anchor on the fourth line and is incredible on the penalty kill. Ozolins, however, is someone I might package with prospects and picks for the chance at scorer rather than a fighter. No takers yet, but there’s still six weeks till the deadline, so you never know who’ll bite.”
My heart pounds as I do my best to keep my breathing even and my responses neutral. This is all valuable information, and it’ll help me with future inquiries as well as the one at hand. But it’s like he knows what I really want to hear and is purposefully dancing around it. Especially as he starts going through the roster player by player and telling me about his plans or offers that have been floated. A few names are safe. Dallas. Spencer. Elijah. The Pair of Ovs. But everyone else is on Gideon’s list of potential trade fodder.
“Bouchier is a good backup, but I have faith Kala can carry us through. Could be worth putting Gabe out as an option, but the only teams who could need a new goalie are so far out of contention and, with a few exceptions, don’t have anything we could use.” Gideon continues, almost like he’s talking to himself now.
“What about Ace?” I blurt, not able to stand it for a moment longer.
Gideon stops and goes silent. My skin breaks out in goosebumps, as if I can sense his stern glare across the telephone. But I don’t take it back, not willing to show weakness.
“The Avs asked about him, and so did St. Louis. But they aren’t offering enough for me to consider giving one of our best skaters to a division rival. But if someone like the Rangers or even Tampa steps up to the table...”
The words fall like lead weights into my gut. Some irrational part of me had been holding out hope that he would consider my opinion, but I should have known better.
“Do their agents know?” I ask, a rasp at the edge of my voice I don’t like.
Gideon releases an annoyed sigh. “They don’t have to tell their clients anything until a deal is on the table.”
Fuck. Oli has been working so hard to get back out on the ice, not knowing about the sword of Damocles hanging over his head. And Logan doesn’t know that half the starting roster is up for trade. Things have finally clicked for Leroy, and he’s actually creating scoring opportunities, rather than giving them up to the opponents.
“Does that answer your questions, Miss Strauss?”
Gideon’s question is a low, dangerous purr. Like he’s trying to bait me into giving away the secret. Maybe if we were in the same room, he might have gotten his wish. But I have the benefit of being safely locked in my executive box, with a locker room full of hockey players who will punch first and ask questions later if I so much as mentioned feeling uncomfortable.
“It does, Mr. St. Clair. Thank you for your time.”
I don’t wait for his approval before pulling the phone away from my ear and ending the call. I might hear about my “lack of professionalism” and “improper client communication” later. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it felt really good to get some control back in this situation. And I use that righteous indigence to craft what might be the most unhelpfully vague email I might have ever written.
Hello Paul— The New Orleans Mystic has received several offers, and we are considering each carefully. At this time, no steps have been taken to engage in formal negotiations over any specific players.
Hope this helps.
After hitting send, I close my laptop, ready to call it a day and go home to unwind. Spencer and Eli need to be at the arena early tomorrow, which means Oli has to drive them, so I’ll be returning to my own bed, which sounds amazing. But as I’m packing up, my phone pings. I toss my hair over my shoulder, my guard already up. I doubt Gideon would text over this, but I’m ready to finish a fight if he chooses to start one. But my shoulders relax almost instantly and a smile creeps up my cheeks as I read the name.
Logan
My afternoon meetings got canceled. Mind if I stop by yours tonight?
You absolutely can. Eat in or take-out?
How about eating out?
Oh you mean for dinner...
I’ll bring something with me.
My cheeks heat as my heart flutters. Logan and I haven’t been alone together since I worked in his office before the All-Star break. Mostly out of an abundance of caution, but also partially out of respect for the rest of my alphas. The prospect of blowing off steam after what I’ve been through today sounds perfect.