Page 30 of Oh, Puck!
There are people everywhere. Production crew types with headsets and clipboards, wrangling cables and adjusting lights. A craft services table has been set up in the hallway, loaded with coffee urns and pastries that look suspiciously gourmet.
What the hell happened to my quiet little arena?
"Captain Morrison!"
I turn to find a young guy in a Bears polo beaming at me, a clipboard clutched to his chest. "Great, you're here! Ms. Whitfield's been expecting you."
I give the fucker a slow once-over, from his overpriced sneakers to his desperate little clipboard. "Who the hell are you?"
The kid's smile falters for exactly half a second before bouncing back. "Oh! I'm Tyler, from the production team. I'm Ms. Whitfield's assistant for the day."
Assistant for the day.Jesus Christ.
What the fuck is happening to my hockey team?
"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.
