Page 35 of Body Check

God help me.

I nudge Carmen in the side. “More wine,” I mutter out of the corner of my mouth, handing her my glass. “Better yet, pass over the bottle instead.”

Carmen ignores my plea for all of the wine and only pours me another glass of red. “You don’t have the luxury of getting sloppy tonight. You told me that we had to take notes on the show—see what we can improve on for next week.”

She’s right, I know she’s right.

While we spent the latter part of last week editing footage and corresponding withGetting Pucked’s TV producers about the highlight reels they wanted for their clips, we’ve yet to see the entire episode from start to finish. Tonight is the night, for better or for worse, and our gathering is as much of a team-bonding exercise as it is analyzing every aspect of our contribution to the episode to see what we can work on.

Which is sort of the issue with me signing with the Blades and not Sports 24/7.

I no longer have the upper hand, and whatever their producers decide is the end of the road. For a control freak like myself, my new situation isn’t ideal, but I meant what I said to the team: my loyalty will always be with the Blades and not some sports network.

Still, nerves balloon in my belly as I try to keep my focus locked on my employees and not scoping out the clock on the wall every two minutes, waiting for 8 p.m. to strike on the dot.

“The thing is,” Shelby is saying now, “you want to open your mouth a little more for the moan. Like, make your cheeks all hollow and don’t forget to flare your nostrils maybe a half-centimeter or something, just for show.” When she demonstrates, I don’t even bother to pay her any attention. She’s a boss when it comes to administrative work, but I’ll be dead before I start taking advice about how to look in the throes of orgasm from an actress.

Who also just so happens to be a virgin.

I may be in a years’ long dry spell, but at least I’ve done the deed before, thank you very much.

Carmen snorts into her drink beside me, just as Adam shouts, “Guys, guys, opening credits are on!”

My gaze leaps to the TV as the male narrator announces, “You think you know us, but you haven’t seen us like this before. For the next two hours, I’ll be taking you behind the scenes with the Boston Blades. We’re the NHL’s biggest threat . . . but only if we can work together to take the Cup home at the end of the season.”

Hold on . . .

I don’t even have the chance to say a word before one of my photographers, Maisey, shouts, “Wait, hold the goddamn phone. Was thatJacksondoing the voiceover?”

I open my mouth and . . . and . . .

For the first time in my life, I have no words.

None. Zilch. Nada.

Someone’s cell phonepings!with an incoming message, but I can’t tear my focus away from the TV. Jackson—myJackson—is the one narrating the entire season?

He’s not yours anymore.

Whatever. Semantics.

Regardless, how in the world did he go from not wanting to doGetting Puckedat all to signing up for the show’s narration?

“Phone,” Carmen says at my side, dropping my cell into my lap. “You might want to look at it.”

I glance down, heart rate spiking at the name on the glass screen.

Jackson: I’m sorry in advance.

He’s sorry? What the hell does that mean? I mean, logistically, there are a lot of things he could be sorry for, starting with the two of us and ending with apologizing for who the hell knows what.

Swiping my thumb across the screen to unlock the phone, I tap on my ex-husband’s text message and am promptly bombarded with text after text.

Beaumont: Carter, man, did you add her?

Harrison: Seconding that. You added Holly to Safe Space, right?

Jackson: She’s in.

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