Page 7 of Wrong Score

Bex growls while fighting the urge to throttle me. "Don't flatter yourself, Summers. The last thing I want is anything from you, including your autograph. I'm relieved you plan to stay on the spectator side of the ice, though. You can also keep your opinions of my coaching style to yourself. If I want to hear a more half-baked take on my coaching style, I’ll go to social media, where I can find all the insightful critiques from the knobheaded followers you've added for us. Thanks again for that, by the way."

The readers ofThe Seattle Sunriseare not knobheads. Or at least I don't think they are. I'm not British but I know an insult when I hear one and I'm assuming that's what he meant.

Sam clears his throat, preparing himself to diffuse the tension. "Okay, you two, it's time for a cease-fire. This conversation is getting out of hand, and I have stayed hopeful that you two could hash out your differences like grown adults, but it seems that you can't. The decision has already been made for this to happen," Bex turns back to Sam as if to make another plea, but Sam holds up his palm to Bex, indicating that he's not interested in hearing anymore. "Look, Bex, I understand your concerns. But I do think that your reasoning is unfounded. Everything that I have seen shows that Rowan is capable of doing her job, and I’ve only received positive reactions from players on the team at how she conducts her interviews. You're the only one with an issue of her presence around here. This is happening whether you two can get along or not, but I strongly suggest, for both of your careers," he says, glancing between us both, "that you two find a way to work together this season. Rowan will be joining the team for any home and away games that are required for her to keepherboss andourboss happy. That means that I expect everyone to cooperate fully. Her presence won't interfere with practices or game prep. She'll follow all team protocols."

Bex's nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. For a moment, I think he might actually explode. But then his shoulders slump slightly in defeat.

"Fine," he growls. "But she stays out of the locker room, off the ice, and away from the players during warm-ups and cool-downs. And if I catch even a whiff of her disrupting my team during game days or knocking on their hotel room doors in the middle of the night—"

My eyes flare the second he insinuates that I would ever be unprofessional or blur the lines of personal ethics.

"Please tell me that you didn't just suggest that I would—"

"That's offensive," Sam says, coming to my aid. "Rowan is a professional, here to do her job--that's it. Don't make me get involved further."

Sam didn't need to step in like that. I would have put Bex in his place if I had to but it's nice to know that Sam has my back. I work in a predominantly male-driven workplace. It's not the first time a man has made comments about women in the locker rooms, or worse. I'm not saying that there aren't women who haven't taken advantage of a close proximity to a good-looking, well-paid athlete but working in the field of male sports, you realize how many of them are walking STDs.

And with the infidelity and divorce rate so high, I'm not the least bit interested.

The memory of Penelope's teasing voice at Keely's Hawkeyes Girl Club initiation comes back to me.

"Don't worry, we have plans for you next."

I shake the thought. She must have had too many sticky buns before I showed up and was tripping on a sugar rush.

"I didn't mean to offend you..." I hear Bex say under his breath like a spoiled brat who was just reprimanded by the principal.

Yes, he did mean it, but I doubt Bex is the kind to apologize for anything so I'll take it for what it is.

I clear my throat softly, drawing both men's attention. "I want the team to win just as much as you do—it makes for a better come-back story which is just as good for your career as it is for mine. I'm here to document, not disrupt."

Bex shakes his head, disagreeing with what I said. "With all due respect, Summers, you can't possibly understand the pressure these players are under. Every distraction, no matter how small, could cost us everything we've worked for."

Before I can respond, Sam's phone buzzes. He glances at the screen and holds up a hand. "It's Phil. I need to take this." He looks at us as if disappointed in us both. "We'll continue this discussion later. For now, the arrangement stands."

Bex lets out a deep sigh, but he gives a nod to Sam as Sam takes the call. As we turn to leave, he stops at the door and fixes me with a hard stare. "Keep your reporting on the game, Summers and we won't have a problem."

I meet his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. "Crystal, Coach. I'm here for the story, nothing else."

He grunts, seemingly unconvinced, and stalks out of the office. I follow, my mind racing with the meaning behind his words. Does he really think I'm here to mess with his players or their chances at winning the Stanley Cup? My ability to garner my boss's attention enough to throw me another big story like this hinges on the Hawkeyes winning, which sadly, is one thing completely out of my control.

Yes, technically, my job is just to report on the story, but reporting on Hawkeye's big comeback will gain me more favor than a loss for the team. And God help me if they lose before the playoffs. Then my story dies too soon for me to gain momentum at work.

I want the Hawkeyes to go all the way. Just as bad as Bex wants it.

As I step into the reception area, I hear a familiar voice. "Wow, that was intense. I could practically feel the testosterone radiating off Bex from all the way over here."

I turn to see Cammy, Sam's assistant, and Seven Wrenley's daughter, grinning at me from behind her desk. Her brown hair pulled up in a messy bun with a pencil through it as if she'd just walked out of an all-nighter study session for a college exam before coming in for work.

"You heard all that?" I ask, feeling a mix of embarrassment and frustration.

Cammy nods, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Hard not to. It got a little heated in there, huh?" She asks.

I blow out a breath. "I know that the article I wrote last year isn't doing me any favors, but is he always like this? I mean, it can't be that he doesn't see how he's perceived out on the ice."

I watch as Cammy stuffs mailers in envelopes for Briggs Conley’s Kids With Cancer Gala coming up in a couple of weeks.

"Don't let him get to you, Ro. He can be finicky, but it's nothing you can't handle."

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