Page 44 of Tough Score

"And this is one of the two rooms with workout equipment in the building," I hear Sam's voice say as he pushes through the gym doors.

I look over to find a blonde woman, who I'm guessing is about my age, trailing closely behind Sam. She's dressed professionally, and my guess is that she's either involved with a new sponsorship or part of the press. She does seem familiar, but during interviews, it can be hard to know who's who as they all scrunch in together. I just look for a raised hand and point at it anymore.

Sam gives us quick waves as he continues to give her information about the building. She sends us a smile and then they're back out the door in the direction that they came.

"Who's that?" I ask.

Briggs slows down his treadmill, turning it down to 'cool down' as well. "That's Rowan Summers. She's the reporter who's doing the big piece on the Hawkeyes and our comeback year. Sam's giving her full access to the stadium, and she's even going to travel with us for some of our away games."

Brent finishes his last rep and then walks over to his water bottle and takes a big gulp. "Coach Bex hates her."

"Why is that?" I ask.

This is the first I've heard of Rowan Summers or the puff piece. Though Coach Bex not liking reporters isn't news to me. I've heard him attempt to convince Phil Carlton to do away with making us do interviews at the end of every game, but that won't ever happen.

"I don't know. She wrote something about how he's the grumpiest NHL coach who ever lived and how his multi-million-dollar contract should at least buy Phil Carlton a smile once in a while," Brent says.

My eyebrows shoot up at the thought of a reporter going after Coach Bex. "Oh shit…"

"Yep. He's been dodging her all week—it's weird," Briggs says.

Lake hits the kill switch and jumps off the treadmill, finishing for the day. "Yeah, it's like watching that viral video of the hamster chasing the cat that was going around."

Brent's eyebrows scrunch together as he takes another pull off his water bottle. "Wasn't it a mouse and cat?"

"I don't know… either way, Coach Bex trying to avoid a pint-size reporter is unnatural," Lake says.

"Agreed," I chime in.

Thank God I'm back.

Reporter or no reporter, I'm home and being here is the best rehab I could ask for.

And I'll admit, seeing Coach Bex dodge this reporter is a hell of a lot more entertaining than sitting at home.

Chapter Fourteen

Keely

I wave goodbye to the recycling company truck driver as he gets in his truck after he and I loaded all of the beer bottles while my uncle went through the weekly order with the sales rep.

I step inside the bar when I'm done, wiping my hands down with a damp bar towel, the smell of bleach and wood polish mingling in the air. It’s just before rush hour— a little later than I've been staying, but Reeve had mentioned he was headed to the Stadium, and the broom closet could use some serious attention.

Turning in the direction of the broom closet, I suddenly bump into someone. My heart races at the unexpected contact. “Oh, excuse me,” I say, glancing up to find a familiar pair of dark blue eyes.

“Keely,” Dr. Morgan says, the recognition flashing across his face.

My breath hitches for a moment as the memory crashes into me—early mornings in the sterile chaos of the hospital, the urgency of Reeve's situation, and Dr. Morgan, clad in surgical garb. I hadn't expected to ever see him again… but here he is, in the flesh. Now, standing before me, he’s transformed into an image of relaxed confidence, sporting soccer shorts and a Tornados jersey that clings to his form.

“Dr. Morgan?” I ask, half-amazed, half-humbled. I can’t help but smile, dispelling some of my earlier anxiety.

“Jaxson,” he corrects gently, a matching grin making his features even more inviting. “I’m off the clock now. How about you?”

“I just finished the recycling, and now I am going to reorganize the broom closet before I head back to check on Reeve,” I say, assuming he is here to discuss his patient.

“How is Reeve doing? I talked to the Hawkeyes doc yesterday, and he said that he seems to be healing nicely," Jaxson says, crossing his arms over his chest and his biceps and forearms flexing when he does.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls me from their moment, and another familiar voice breaks through our conversation.

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