Chapter 4 #2
"And what exactly does Ms. Whitfield need an assistant for?" I cross my arms, watching Tyler's eyes widen as he takes in the full scope of my displeasure. "Last I checked, she was perfectly capable of handling a clipboard on her own."
"Well, sir, today's practice shoot is pretty extensive. As you can see." He casts an eye around the chaos inside the arena. "We're doing the full cast, a proper rehearsal."
"A rehearsal?" I repeat. "In my arena."
Tyler nods enthusiastically, apparently missing the warning signs. "Yes! It's going to be amazing. Ms. Whitfield has this whole vision. She's so nice. She bought me lunch!"
"Fuck me." I scrub a hand over my face. I'm rapidly losing what little patience I woke up with. "Where is she?"
Tyler jumps slightly, then points toward the corridor leading to the corporate rooms.
"She's setting up for the first segment. Right this way, Captain."
I follow him through the maze of hallways, past the weight room where I can hear Finn and Sawyer arguing about something, past the equipment room where the stick boy is frantically taping shafts, and finally to yet another damn conference room.
We enter, and Josie Whitfield is standing at the head of the table, a remote clicker in one hand, her laptop connected to a massive screen displaying a sleek presentation.
She's wearing a fitted blazer today. Dark gray. With a white blouse underneath that's buttoned just low enough to be distracting.
Her hair is down, falling around her shoulders, and she's got these silver-framed glasses perched on her nose that make her look like a very sexy librarian.
Focus, Morrison. She's the enemy. She's the one who's trying to ruin your easy life.
But my dick isn't listening.
"Ah, Declan." She looks up as I enter, her expression perfectly neutral. She's wearing more make up today too. It suits her. "Glad you could make it."
"I was told there would be duct tape involved if I didn't."
A flicker of amusement crosses her face before it's gone. "Yeah, I've noticed Coach Pearson does have a flair for the dramatic. Have a seat. We're just about to start."
I take the chair farthest from her, right in the back corner. Defensive positioning. She doesn't comment, just turns back to her laptop as the rest of the team filters in.
I take a second to really look around the room.
And holy shit.
This isn't media training. This is a full-scale production.
She's transformed the conference room into a mock interview set. A professional backdrop hangs behind a small podium, the Bears logo front and center. Two cameras sit on tripods, their red lights blinking. A teleprompter stands to the side, its screen glowing with script.
There are lighting rigs. Actual fucking lighting rigs.
I've never seen media training like this. In ten years of professional hockey, I've sat through my fair share of 'how to talk to reporters' presentations. They're always boring. Always pointless.
But this is different.
This is a full-blown production.
And I hate how impressed I am.
Beck arrives first, sliding into the seat beside me. "Shit. This might actually be good."
"Shut up."
Mason follows, taking the seat on my other side. Thank Christ Biscuit's not with him. "Damn. This is the real deal. How we feeling over there, Dec? Do we still follow your example?"
They both snigger, sensing how uncomfortable this is making me.
"You're both assholes."
"Love you too, Cap."
The rest of the team trickles in over the next few minutes.
Finn and Sawyer, Max, Spencer and Travis, all of them still dressed like they just came from the beach.
Pete Langford and Coach Pearson find their seats too, as Corbin Cole rushes in last, looking nervous as he takes a seat right up the front.
The room is packed.
And then there's Josie.
"Alright, everyone. Thanks for coming. I know this isn't how you'd normally spend your afternoon, but I promise this will be painless."
Beck snorts. "Famous last words."
Josie ignores him. "As you can see, we're going to do some media training today.
Basic stuff. How to handle interviews, what to say when you don't want to answer a question, and how to pivot to talking points that don't attract unwanted attention.
" She clicks again, and a video starts playing. "Like this."
It's a compilation of athletes getting destroyed in post-game interviews. Fumbling over words. Getting defensive. Saying something stupid that ends up as a headline.
The room groans in collective recognition.
"These are cautionary tales," Josie says, her lips glossy and distracting as she speaks. "Don't be these guys."
She runs through a few other scenarios. How to handle a tough question about a loss. How to deflect when a reporter asks about personal drama. How to stay on brand without sounding like a robot.
She's good. I'll give her that.
Then she starts pulling guys up one by one, going through a pretend interview with each of them.
Spencer goes first, flashing that Calvin Klein smile until Josie asks about his 'dating show history' and he blanks while the room loses it.
Finn answers every question in Irish slang nobody understands.
Corbin says 'sir' three times to an imaginary reporter and nearly cries.
Beck turns his entire mock interview into a stand-up routine until Josie cuts him off, and somehow that's the funniest part of all.
She's got them eating out of her hand.
The whole team is laughing. Engaged. Wanting their turn.
But then her gaze lands on me.
And her expression shifts.
"Declan. Your turn."
I lean back in my chair, arms crossed. "I'm good."
"I'm sure you are. But let's do a practice run anyway. Just to be safe."
"I don't need practice."
"Everyone needs practice."
"I've been doing interviews for ten years. I think I know how to handle a microphone."
The room goes quiet, but Josie doesn't flinch.
She just tilts her head, those stunning green eyes sharp behind the glasses. My brain instantly remembers that look. The way they glazed over, pleasure-drunk, when she was spread beneath me.
"Then it should be easy for you to demonstrate your abilities."
Yeah. You know all about my abilities, don't you.
"Fine." I stand, the chair scraping against the floor. "What do you want me to do?"
She gestures to the front of the room. "Come stand up here. Like everyone else has." A few chuckles murmur around the room. "Then I'll ask you a few questions, and you just answer them like you would in a real interview."
I make my way to the front, stopping a few feet from her.
"Ready?" she asks, smiling way too sweetly at me.
"Hit me, princess."
She smirks at the nickname, then picks up a microphone from the table, holding it like a reporter would. The cameras start to roll, and I don't know if this is actually being recorded or not, but her voice shifts like this is authentic as hell.
"Captain Morrison, thanks for joining us today. Big game coming up this weekend. How's the team feeling?"
I swallow hard, my palms suddenly sweaty.
"Good. We've been working hard in practice. Ready to get back on the ice."
"Any particular strategies you're looking to employ against the Riptide?"
I shrug. "We're gonna play our game. Stick to the system and trust the process."
Classic hockey clichés. Safe. Boring.
Josie's eyes narrow slightly, like she knows exactly what I'm doing.
"And what about the rumors that this franchise is on the verge of folding? Any truth to those?"
I stare at her. She stares back, unblinking.
"That's not a real question," I say slowly.
"It could be. And as the captain of the team, if they're going to ask anyone, they'll ask you. So, Declan… how would you answer it?"
Every eye is on me. My heart hammers against my ribs, not from the pressure, but from the woman delivering it.
I hate this.
I hate that she hasn’t even mentioned that night, hasn’t acknowledged the fact that I know exactly how we connected that first night. I know how she feels. How she tastes.
But she doesn't have to mention it.
This whole fucking performance is a reminder.
A reminder of what she’s trying to do here.
"I'd answer it with a question," I say, my voice dropping. "I'd ask the reporter where they got their information, and why they're more interested in spreading rumors than covering the game we're about to play."
"Good. Pivot to the present. But what if they press? What if they say their sources are solid?"
"Then my sources," I say, "say they're full of shit."
A few guys chuckle, but it’s strained. They can feel it, too.
This isn’t practice anymore.
This is personal.
Josie doesn’t back up an inch. "Charming. But 'full of shit' isn't a PR-approved response. Try again. With less… Morrison."
The challenge is there, simmering. Attraction versus pure irritation. She’s using her brain to box me in, and I’m letting her, because part of me wants to see how far she’ll push.
So I don’t push back.
I just sit there. Silent as the night is black.
"That's what I thought." Josie's voice is soft, almost gentle.
But her eyes are steel. "You don't have an answer because you haven't thought about it.
You've been coasting, Declan. Playing it safe.
And I think you're terrified that if you actually try, if you actually care to put in the effort and do the training, you might fail. "
The room is dead quiet. Not a damn sound.
"Alright," she says, cutting the tension before it can truly explode. "Thank you, Declan. That was very... instructive."
She turns back to her laptop, dismissing me.
I stand there for a moment, feeling like an asshole.
Great job, Morrison. Real mature.