Chapter 9 #2
So I’m currently cyberstalking her. Not my finest moment, but these are desperate times.
I don’t bother to look her up on the Dragons’ hockey accounts tonight because she never shows her face there. Instead, she usually does cute daily things on her own platforms with her face. Taking another small sip of the very flat beer, I find her.
She’s beside her dad with her phone up in the video as she walks and talks. The reason I can tell it’s him is due to the frame showing his body here and there. No one else is built like the Dragon’s coach. He’s a fucking tree trunk with legs.
It’s a quick, simple video talking about how she wants to offer editing tutorials for those interested in content creation. My eyes narrow as she explains that some people had reached out asking for help.
“I hope you’re charging for this,” I murmur under my breath. Despite my best efforts, I have peeked at the Dragons’ socials. The difference in content over the last couple of weeks is obvious, and it’s clear to me that it’s because Caelia is now in charge of it.
Before her, there weren’t many posts, and it’s clear someone was attempting to do the work poorly at that.
“I have also been told I have to charge for my services,” she says, rolling her eyes in her father’s direction. “It won’t be a ton because we all start somewhere, and I’ll offer amateur and advanced courses. I don’t have a ton of time since I’m on the road, but I’ll upload as much as I can. Bye!”
“Who is that?” Levon asks, leaning in my direction.
There’s another bus with staff, which means that his doctor is probably already at the hotel, waiting for Levon to finish up. I would feel badly about dragging everyone out after a long day, except I don’t have that much of a heart.
“You know her,” I shrug. “It’s Coach Freedman’s daughter.”
“Why are you watching her videos?” he asks, brows drawing down in confusion.
I didn’t realize he’d come over to me, or I wouldn’t have had the volume up. I was desperate to hear her voice though.
“She’s…” Confessing that Caelia is my scent match is intensely personal. I let it slip with Marilyn, and press my lips against each other as I make my decision. “Marilyn wants you to meet with her. She’s not responding to any of her messages about agreeing to a date with you.”
“I’m failing to understand why I’m chasing after a girl who doesn’t want anything to do with me,” Levon says.
“You’re right,” I muse. “Gorgeous, hates hockey players, and definitely not your type.”
Levon bristles, glaring at me. “I don’t even want to participate in this,” he grumbles. “Santo moved into my condo, how will it look if I’m chasing a skirt?”
“Like you’re following orders from your PR manager?” I suggest. “It may not even happen. If you do see her one day, try not being scary, yeah? Also, Santo knows about Marilyn’s need to matchmake. No one is trying to push him out of the equation.”
“Yeah,” Levon sighs. “I feel like a hunk of steak being offered up.”
“You’re not that great, hot stuff,” I chuckle. “You can go home to the doctor in exactly twenty minutes. I’m sure Santo will be ready to pamper your damaged ego.”
“Fuck you’re mean,” he mutters, drifting away.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I open a message box from the Scorpions’ team social profile and begin by pretending to be someone else entirely.
In this instance, I am an enemy despite not being someone who personally hurt her.
Hello, Ms. Caelia.
My name is Marilyn Mansfield, and I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.
I’m attempting to change the way the public sees hockey players, and particularly the Scorpions.
I understand you aren’t a fan of them. Whatever the reason, they belong to you.
Not all of them are cut from the same cloth.
The young man I have in question volunteers regularly, has a great family, and would have a chaperone, as your safety as an omega is always paramount in my mind. Will you accept?
I hope to hear from you soon,
Marilyn.
Again, I have very little conscience about impersonating someone else. I’ll play by the rules on the ice, and bend everything else when it suits me. I’ve always been like this. It’s why I wasn’t around during Coach’s diatribe after our loss six years ago.
I just didn’t want to deal with getting yelled at. I believe in begging for forgiveness later, though I remind the guys their careers do hinge on public opinion. No one wants to get traded because they have a bad reputation.
Marilyn smoothes the edges when our players misbehave, and we all toe the line just enough not to get spanked.
No longer wanting the rest of my beer, I leave it on a table and gaze around the room. Heads pop up, players make eye contact, and they nudge each other to signal that I’m ready to go. We didn’t quite make the hour, but it was a good effort.
No one complained too much, and I’m solidifying a precedent of team building. Now, I’m ready for a shower and to fall head first into my bed.
It’s going to take all of my resolve not to worry about whether my impulse to write to Caelia was a mistake or not. In fact, I shove it into a box in my head to think about later, and manage to forget completely about it by the time I’m sinking between the sheets of my bed.
If I can’t remember it, it doesn’t exist.