Chapter Two
Two
Tristan
It’s good to be wanted.
My arms are full of free shit from random sports drink and athletic apparel companies, all of whom want to work with me. Badly, too, if the Aces’ advertising team and my agent are to be believed.
It doesn’t matter how far I get—I’ll always love a freebie.
Doesn’t mean I have to work with any of them, but I’ll drink their electrolytes and protein shakes and test out their shin guards. Why not?
Juggling the bags of stuff I’m carrying and shaking my hair from where it’s starting to hang in my eyes, I grin as I walk past the press room.
Habit has me peeking through the window…well, habit and sheer nosiness. As far as I know, there weren’t any conferences scheduled for today, but that quick look tells me the room is packed.
And at the front?
None other than Michelle Oxford, looking fucking gorgeous as ever, sits at the press table. Her thick brown hair shines under the lights, tied in a knot at the back of her neck, and my hands itch with the need to tug it loose.
She’s wearing glasses again, thick black frames that nearly overpower her small face. Michelle only wears her glasses when she’s been working too hard.
I know, because one morning I came in and told her I liked them, and she flatly said she hadn’t felt like touching her eyeballs. Which made me laugh, because she was just so damn grumpy about it.
She reaches, hand shaking, for a huge cup next to her. A frown tugs down the corners of my mouth, and my brow wrinkles.
Why is her hand shaking?
My body reacts before I have time to think it through. Reaction time is what makes me a good goalie, at least that’s what my coaches have always told me, but it only ever manages to get me in trouble where Michelle’s concerned.
The door closes quietly behind me, and only a few of the reporters react to my late entrance.
Uh-oh. That’s not good.
The local news guy, Eric Klaassen, shoots me a concerned look even as he gives me a nod in greeting.
“It’s bad,” he mouths, then jerks his chin at where Michelle’s drinking from her steaming mug.
Coffee, I realize.
Is it the caffeine making her fingers tremble, or is it the pressure?
Pressure is a funny thing, and something I’ve been intimately acquainted with for most of my life. Constant pressure either tumbles you like a river rock until you shine, or it grinds you up and spits you out like sand.
Sometimes it’s only a matter of time until the grit wears you down.
I drop the canvas totes on the floor as quietly as I can and lean over Eric’s shoulder, trying to read the chicken scratch on his old-school Moleskine.
“They’re ripping into her,” he says. “They’re out for blood, and they want a story.” His voice is pitched low. “You know they’re sharks.”
“Aren’t you one of them?” I keep my tone light, even though my hands have clenched into tight fists at my sides.
He has the audacity to shoot me an aggrieved look. “The Aces are my team. I have to report on whatever the fuck’s going on here, but that doesn’t mean I want to see my team beat up.”
I nod. “Fair enough.”
A clang sounds out in the otherwise quiet room as Michelle sets down her ridiculously large cup. She’s up there by herself, alone at a long table surrounded by a bevy of mismatched mics with twice as many eyes on her from the rows of reporters in front of me.
I exhale at the silence.
Quiet isn’t dangerous.
Quiet is a sign that whatever she’s just been asked, they all want the answer to it.
She takes in a deep breath, the sound amplified through the mic, as she pushes her glasses up on her nose. Her blue shirt’s unbuttoned just a bit, but even that small glimpse of skin threatens to undo all of my concentration.
“Thanks for your patience,” she finally says, forcing a smile. I wonder if the rest of the room knows how fake it is. That’s her I’m-hanging-on-by-a-thread smile, not the eye-crinkling-joy smile or the you-caught-me-looking-at-your-body mischievous grin.
I wonder when I started to classify her smiles.
“I understand there is a lot of uncertainty right now,” she says slowly, her gaze roving the room, making eye contact with as many of the reporters as she can.
Electricity crackles through my body when her attention lands on me.
Her eyes slide away again, and I’d do anything to get them back. I want her to look at me, not tremble and shake under the gaze of a bunch of assholes who would turn anything she says into a front-page story if they could.
“I understand that you are all trying to make sense of the shake-ups that have happened here over the past few months.”
“We asked if you were up to the challenge of stepping up—” a reporter interrupts, and a muscle twitches in Michelle’s temple.
I nearly laugh, because I know that look.
They’ve gone and pissed her off.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” she asks, tilting her head and glaring at the questioner.
Ben something or other, from one of the cable sports networks.
“I pulled myself away from my desk, where I have been basically living for the last few months, so you could accuse me of running this organization into the ground. Is that or is that not what you insinuated, Mr. Parker?”
I grimace, because getting combative with these guys isn’t going to work. Sure, I could tell she was mad, but I didn’t think she’d act on it.
She really must be exhausted.
The reporters all lean forward as one: shark senses tracking her like wounded prey.
She stumbles over her next sentence, and my fingernails bite into my palms.
I hate it. I hate how they’ve decided she’s to blame for all the bullshit the team’s gone through since our former owners’ reckless rule-breaking came to light.
As if she’s the one to blame for their mistakes, because she’s here cleaning them up.
A reporter interrupts her, then another, and another. I reach into the bag of shit the marketing team handed to me during my monthly meeting with them, shuffling the freebies until I find what I’m looking for.
The marker smells like a high school homeroom, and I unfold the slick graphic that the protein shake company sent for reasons unknown to me. Did they think I wanted to hang it on my fridge? Over the toilet?
The latter might be the best place for it.
The marker squeaks as I drag it over the back of the info sheet. I stand, holding up the sign where I know Michelle will see it.
The reporters are continuing their attack, pressing her for plans about staffing, about high turnover, and the effect on the players.
Her eyes dart to the words I’ve scrawled, and a small smile forms on her beautiful mouth.
I’ll have to think of a way to categorize that one, because it’s definitely a smile I want to remember.
She holds up a hand, effectively stopping the barrage of questions.
“At the end of the day, the LA Aces is one team, with one goal: to win. We all know that in this game, there are infinite ways to get the ball into scoring position. We’ll weather this storm like we would any other—together.
Thank you,” she says, standing up and finally making eye contact with me again.
We might be in a room full of people rooting for the Aces to lose, to give them a story, but it feels like those two words are for me alone.
Michelle exits the dais, and before I can think better of it, I’m on my way through the door right behind her, protein shakes and swag forgotten on the floor of the press room.