Page 48 of Wrong Score

“What was that about?” he asks.

“It’s complicated,” I tell him.

“Well, might I suggest a hat? Unless you want everyone to know that Rowan had something to do with that,” he smirks, gesturing to my hair.

And then I realize that I didn’t slick back my hair after Rowan had her hands in it.

Fuck.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I lie.

He chuckles to himself and shakes his head. “For your sake, Townsend, I hope it’s exactly what it looks like. She’s exactly what you need. What you both need. Though, take it back to your penthouse next time, alright?”

Chapter Sixteen

Bex

I catch Cammy’s eye at the reception desk as I head for Sam's closed office door. She glances up, nods, and says, “Go right in. He’s waiting for you.” There’s a hint of something in her tone, something that puts me on alert.

Sam texted me ten minutes ago to meet him here. It’s not often he summons me without a heads-up. If Sam has something on his mind, he usually heads straight to my office or finds me on the ice or in the gym. But here I am, being called up to his office with zero explanation, and I don’t like the mystery of it.

As I reach for the handle, I hear muffled voices on the other side of the door. One voice cuts through the others—familiar, soft, but slightly strained. It’s Rowan.

A cold twinge grips my chest. Is this about what happened in my office last week? Does she regret it, or has she said something to Sam? I take a steadying breath, hoping to shake off the unease in my gut. Whatever it is, I’m about to find out.

I twist the handle and step in, taking in the scene. The room’s more crowded than I expected. Keely and Reeve are standing off to the side, both looking tense. Keely’s expression flickers with guilt as she glances at me, then quickly looks away.

"Bex," Sam’s voice breaks the silence. "Come on in. Close the door behind you,"

I shut the door and scan the room, feeling the weight of every eye on me. In the corner, Phil’s leaning against the wall, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He nods at me, tight-lipped, his expression unreadable. And then I see them—Autumn and Rowan, standing together by the window, speaking softly as they exchange glances, barely noticing me walk in. My pulse spikes, though I keep my face blank.

“What’s going on here?” I ask.

Keely clears her throat, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “This… is actually about me,” she says, looking as sheepish as I’ve ever seen her.

Keely takes a breath, eyes flicking to Reeve and then to Sam before she finally speaks. “I was just… confessing, I guess. Telling Sam and Phil about my father’s history and the fears I have about how it might affect the team.”

“Your father?” I echo, struggling to make sense of this. “What does he have to do with the Hawkeyes?”

Keely glances over at Reeve, who gives her a slight nod of encouragement. She visibly steadies herself, then looks back at me, her expression tightening with something between fear and determination.

“He used to work for the mob.” Her confession has my chest tightening at the thought that Keely might be in some kind of trouble. “He went to prison for organizing the throwing of the World Cup fifteen years ago. Rowan’s been keeping her ear to the ground in case there’s anyone in the media that might be stirring up a story about my connection to my father, but so far, she hasn’t heard anything.”

There’s a beat of silence, and I piece it together, though her explanation only brings on more questions. Suddenly, Reeve’s concerns over Keely since Thanksgiving, and the whispering in the hallways with Rowan are all starting to make sense. “So you’re worried about his reputation sticking to you,” I conclude, my tone gentler.

Keely nods, her shoulders slumping in relief. “But more than concern for myself, I am concerned about the Hawkeyes' reputation and Reeve’s sponsorships dropping him.”

“You know I don’t care about that. They can drop me if they want. It won’t change us being together.” Reeve tells her reassuringly, pulling her hand into hers.

She nods. “I just don’t want anything from my past to cast a shadow on this team—or on Reeve.”

“Nothing is going to happen to the team or to Reeve. Even if a reporter got their hands on this, it might last a week or two at most. Then they’ll move on to something else,” Rowan says.

“The media might move on, but what about the investors for the Hawkeyes? Will they forget so easily?” Keely asks.

“Rowan’s right. If anyone wrote an article about the Hawkeyes PT having a father that was involved in an incident a decade and a half ago, it would have to be a slow week. We’ll support you if the story comes out. Though I wish you would have given us a heads up a lot sooner so that we could have prepared our backers about any possible angle the press might take on this.”

I glance around the room, taking in the faces of everyone here, realizing that this is more than just Keely’s confession. They’re all here to figure out how to shield her—and by extension, the team—from any potential fallout. And while this is Keely’s story, it’s clear that everyone in this room is affected by it in one way or another.

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