Page 6 of Wrong Score

Spending so much time around Bex lately, I can take a wild guess why she walked away.

Still, Sam’s situation intrigues me. I make a mental note to dig into his future with the team. Penelope might know something about theWIFEcontact on Sam’s phone, but asking her outright risks tipping her off. For now, this stays a solo mission.

"Non-negotiable?" Bex scoffs, running a hand through his irritatingly full head of dark brown hair. "We're talking about the future of this team, Sam. Every second counts. We can't have some reporter poking around, disrupting our players' focus. Asking what animal they most closely identify with or what they wanted to be when they were five years old."

"Hey!..." I interject. I've held my tongue for long enough. "I’ve never asked a question that the fans don't gobble up. The players like the questions, too. It lightens the mood during an interview, and the fans enjoy hearing about their favorite players."

I'm a professional, not some tabloid vulture, and I already know that Phil Carlton wants me on that jet in two weeks, which means that Bexley Townsend is going to have to deal with it.

I've had full access to the team since Thanksgiving, far beyond the typical media room privileges my press badge grants most reporters at the Hawkeyes stadium. Yet, over the past four months, I’ve kept my presence scarce, sticking to game highlights and brief interviews with one player a week to keep the fans engaged.

Bex acts as if I'm hounding his players daily for sit-down interviews—it's not like that. He should know since he lives, eats, and breathes this place. I don't think I've ever stepped into the Hawkeyes stadium without Coach Bex being in the building. If I hadn't already seen his office and saw for myself that there isn't any evidence that he has a cot stashed in the corner and lives here full-time, I'd wonder.

He should be happy that I'm doing my job so efficiently. The ticket and jersey sales have increased sinceThe Seattle Sunrisehas created a special segment each week for just the Hawkeyes team. Meaning that his attitude towards me is completely unprovoked.

Okay, maybe not completely. There is the matter of the article I wrote about him earlier this year, before I knew I would land this huge opportunity and have to work side by side with him.

As a reporter, I don't usually worry about hurting a player or coach's feelings, especially since I report what is factual or observed firsthand. If I had known that the most senior sports reporter atThe Seattle Sunrisewas going to have his appendix rupture out of nowhere and my boss would choose me to fill in for him, I would have rethought writing an article about the versatility of Bex's resting asshole face. Maybe then he wouldn't be attempting to block my access to the team and effectively making it look like I can't do my job.

The article wasn't untrue, but it didn't paint him in the best light.

And I might have made a reference to the similarities between Coach Bex and a very large bridge troll.

The thing is, I'm not even close to the first reporter to write spot-on observations about Coach Bex's prickly disposition, and I doubt I'll be the last. In the column, I also wrote that despite his personality shortcomings, he's still arguably one of the best coaches ever to lead an NHL team.

Sam clears his throat, stepping in. "This isn't just about the team, Bex. It's about the franchise. The publicity from this coverage could be invaluable. Tessa is already seeing a rise in social media following and Autumn is getting more requests for product placement within the stadium. Not to mention that sales are up."

"Publicity?" Bex practically spits out the word. "We're here to win championships, not gain followers."

Sam looks to me and then back to Bex. "And we can do both," he counters, his tone patient but firm. "Phil Carlton himself signed off on this. The Hawkeyes have a chance to connect with our fans on a deeper level. Let them see the human side of our players as they fight for the cup."

Bex's jaw clenches, and I can almost hear his teeth grinding. "The human side? These are professional athletes, not reality TV stars. They need to focus on their game, not chit chat about their zodiac sign with a reporter who will turn around as soon as she gets her promotion and return to labeling us all as..." he turns his head to glare at me with a lifted brow. "What was it that you called me in that article? Oh right, a bumbling bridge troll with the approachability of a rabid porcupine and the social graces of a feral cat at Sunday brunch." Bex's eyes narrow as he finishes the quote, his voice dripping with disdain.

I knew it!

I knew this is why he's had it out for me since the minute I stepped on the Hawkeyes property with a shiny new full-access badge.

It's a grudge.

Sure, I know that Bex doesn't like reporters. I've been in the press box long enough and in the after-game media frenzy where Bex barely sits for his allotted time to take questions from reporters. I could see it in his eyes the second I walked into the stadium four months ago with Sam, a shiny new badge around my neck that gives me more clearance to this place than any other reporter has ever had, and he wasn't happy with the new arrangement.

It was a look of disdain across his sharp nose, strong jaw, and deep hazel-green eyes.

My boss expects an exclusive interview with every player on this team—including the head coach who hasn’t taken a one-on-one interview with a reporter in over twenty-five years— not since his rookie year and subsequent divorce. Charles is practically foaming at the mouth to get this Coach Bex’s story on paper.

"Make it juicy,"Charles said, his tone dripping with anticipation when he first gave me the exclusive Hawkeyes story. "Dig into the failed marriage, the divorce, his reputation on and off the ice. We’re talking the inside scoop, Summers. The kind of story that makes headlines for weeks."

This is where I should back down.

But I just can't.

I shrug, meeting his glare with a sweet smile. "For the record, I compared your leadership style to a bridge troll, not you personally. It wouldn’t be fair for me to make an assumption about the man behind the coach since you refuse interviews for me to find out. It would seem none of your fans know you personally either." I place my index finger on my chin in fake contemplation. "And although you recited that article beautifully, I have to correct you on one small error. I do believe the reference I made was "the social graces of a disgruntled honey badger at a garden party." It's an easy mistake, though; anyone could have made it. And you're welcome. That article was purely poetic and completely free of charge."

Sam coughs, trying to hide his smirk. Bex glares harder, his lip twitches and I half expect him to snarl. "You’ve got jokes. But it’s hard to take you seriously when your biggest claim to fame is calling out athletes from behind a keyboard. Must be nice, throwing shade behind the safety of the plexiglass."

"Bex..." I hear Sam warn under his breath, but Bex's eyes stay glued to mine.

I resist the urge to flinch under Bex's narrow stare. Instead, I lift my chin slightly. "Well, it’s great to know that you're an avid reader ofThe Seattle Sunrise. Didn’t expect you to be such a fan of my work. Should I autograph the article for you? I could frame it, and you could hang it on the wall in your office. It would add some much-needed personality and humor to the otherwise charming bare beige walls. And just to be clear, staying safely behind the Plexiglas is the perk of my chosen profession."

---