Page 10 of Playing Her Game

Hayes notices where my attention has gone. “Don't even think about it.”

“Think about what?”

“Whatever stupid idea just crossed your mind.” He keeps walking, and I follow. “We have a press conference. You're already in enough trouble.”

“I'm not going to start anything.”

“Good.”

But I glance back anyway.

The scene should irritate me. Kilovac celebrating his cheap-shot victory, Faulker playing happy family with his upgrade, all of them acting like they didn't just benefit from me losing my temper.

Instead, I'm watching Anna adjust her coat over her arm and tuck a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, and I'm annoyed that I'm watching.

She's engaged to Faulker, or she was? The internet isn't clear on the current status, but either way, she's standing in the Brooklyn family area wearing a jersey with his number on it, which tells me everything I need to know about where her loyalty sits. Skewed. Just like the rest of the worlds.

“Rez.” Hayes doesn't look back. “Move.”

I tear my eyes away and catch up.

The press area is just ahead, marked by a cluster of team staff and media coordinators hovering near the entrance. Cameras are being positioned, reporters are checking their recording equipment, and the whole circus is preparing for the show.

Brayden Wampler, our director of team services, spots us and waves us over. “There you are. We're starting in three minutes.”

“Thrilled,” I mutter.

“Remember what Coach said. Keep it clean.”

“When have I ever been anything but professional?”

Brayden gives me a look that suggests he has an itemized list ready if I really want an answer. Fair.

Hayes adjusts his tie and rolls his shoulders. Captain mode activating. He'll do most of the talking anyway. I'm just here to prove I haven't been thrown out of the league yet.

Through the wall, I can hear the murmur of the assembled press corps. Dozens of them, all ready to ask variations of the same question: What the hell was that?

I still don't have a good answer.

Hayes glances at me. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Perfect.”

He pushes open the door. “Let's go.”

The cameras are already rolling when Hayes and I take our seats. Reporters fill the rows in front of us, notebooks open, phones poised, all waiting for someone to say something they can turn into a headline.

And across the room, representing Brooklyn, are Evan Smith and Theo Rivera.

Of course they sent the golden boys.

Smith wears that easy smile that makes everyone think he's their best friend. Rivera has the relaxed, responsible-dad thing down to an art. Together, they project exactly what Brooklyn wants the world to see: wholesome, approachable, family-friendly hockey.

Meanwhile, Chicago sent me. Punishment.

Brayden takes up position at the side of the room, arms crossed, watching me like he's already drafting the apology statement.