Page 35 of Wrong Score

I nod. I'm glad she's seeing what I see, why giving up this game—this family, is so hard to walk away from. I'm lucky to have a supportive family outside of hockey, but not all of these guys do, and maybe I want to stick around for them.

The waiter comes back by and hands her the beer she ordered. I drop another hundred on his tray that she doesn't see, and I nod at him as if to say, "Keep them coming for her, too." He smiles and then heads off to give away the rest of the champagne glasses on his tray.

I might be a little disappointed that we won't be sharing my beer anymore, but I don't let it show.

"Not all teams are that way. I've been a part of some teams that can't stand each other. It can be a toxic working environment as a player and as a coach."

“Sure, I can see how egos, testosterone, and vying for the same positions could lead to a hostile working environment. Journalism can be just as ruthless," she says, raising an eyebrow. "What about you? Do you know much about art?”

I shake my head. “Enough to get by, but I should know more, considering my family ownsThe Painted Easel.”

Rowan gasps, her eyes going wide. “Wait—your family ownsThe Painted Easel? The Painted Easel… as in the magazine? As in the magazine printed in Liverpool, which is one of the biggest art magazines in the world?”

I can see the minute it clicks for her when she remembers where I'm from. There's not a lot of information about my connection with my family's magazine, mostly because I never tell anyone, and I haven't done an interview since my rookie year.

I nod, suppressing a grin at her surprise, and obvious pleasure in the idea of it. “Yeah, it's popular.”

She looks genuinely stunned. “Popular? I subscribe to that magazine. I get one every month in the mail. How did I not know that your family owns it?”

“Because it’s not something I talk about much. My older brother Leo runs it, and my younger brother Archie is a photographer and journalist for the magazine. They’ve been trying to convince me to move back home and get involved, but... I’m not really an art connoisseur. Not much of a writer or photographer either.”

I pause for a moment, considering how much to tell her. “I still own a place back in Liverpool. One day, when I retire, I’ll move back— become a professional uncle to my brother, Leo’s, kids. Maybe Archie’s if he ever settles down.”

Rowan's eyes brighten toward me as if I’m telling her the most interesting thing she’s ever heard.

“No plans for a wife and kids of your own?” she asks, her tone light, but there’s something deeper in the question.

I shake my head, glancing down at my beer as I swirl the liquid in my glass. “No. Not anymore. I chose a career in hockey instead.”

I just now realize that in the span of minutes, I've told her more information about me and my family than I have to any reporter over the last twenty-five years in the NHL.

Before I can tell her that everything I said is off the record, someone clears their throat behind us. I turn to see a man and a woman standing there. Rowan stiffens beside me, and I immediately pick up on her discomfort.

Then it dawns on me who it is. This is the first time I’ve seen him outside of the press box.

Drew Lansbury.

Rowan’s ex and the ass who wrote that article about me recently.

I place my free hand gently against the back of her arm to let her know that I'm here in solidarity, letting her know that I won't leave her side unless she asks me. I know she and I don't always see eye to eye, but no one should make her feel this uncomfortable; she doesn't even stiffen like this with me when we're at each other's throats.

Rowan forces a polite smile. “Drew, hi.”

"Hi, Rowan," he greets with a smile, and then his eyes drift over to me. "Coach Bex,” He reaches out to shake my hand and I decide not to crush his phalanges like the last guy since Drew is a reporter who could use it against me. He’s also not currently making eyes at Rowan so I have no reason to hurt the guy except for the article he wrote about me. “Nice to finally meet you outside of the press box. You're not an easy man to find out in the wild. This is my fiancée, Claire."

I nod at the brunette that he has his hand wrapped around, keeping my expression neutral. I’m not particularly interested in small talk with the man who’s made a career out of taking cheap shots at my coaching record and the coaching careers of my friends. But it seems Drew can’t resist stirring the pot for a guy who never made it past little league tryouts. He has no idea what it takes to compete at this level, he just hides behind his laptop, that is if he even bothers to show up in the press box at all.

He’s made a career of “phoning-in” his commentary, and it has me wondering what a driven beautiful woman like Rowan was ever doing with a lazy tosser like Drew Lansbury.

Then I start to notice the small ways that Rowan is fidgeting at my side.

Not that Drew or Claire seem to notice.

Maybe I'm starting to get used to Rowan's body language.

“So, Coach,” he starts, voice dripping with a smug edge, “It’s been, what, six years? Playoffs twice, but no Stanley Cup yet. Must be… frustrating for the fans. And for you, I imagine. You really thinkThe Seattle Sunriseshould even bother following the Hawkeyes around this year?”

I feel Rowan tense beside me, her fingers curling around the stem of her beer bottle. Before I can fire back with a retort, she speaks up, her voice calm but carrying an undeniable edge.

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