Page 8 of Wrong Score

I give a small smile at her attempt to lighten the mood. "Thanks, Cam. I just feel like I’m fighting against more than just his issues with me. I get the feeling I represent everything he hates.”

Cammy shakes her head. "You’re probably right. That man wouldn't give Mother Theresa herself a chance if she showed up wearing a press badge. It's not personal. Well, not entirely personal."

The article I wrote—I know. It's as personal as it gets.

I nod, grateful for her support anyway. "Thanks, Cam. I'll do my best."

As I walk out of the office and head down the long hallway of the Hawkeyes corporate offices, my eyes catch sight of Coach Bex walking towards the lobby. Even from this distance, I can see the tension in his broad shoulders, the barely contained energy in his stride. I can't help but wonder what experiences have shaped him into the man he is today – a man who seems to view my presence as a threat to everything he's worked for.

Dread and anticipation fill my belly when I realize that he and I are about to ride the elevator down together, but just as he makes his way into the lobby, he glances over his shoulder to see me, and then turns the corner instead of heading straight for the elevator right in front of him.

I make it out of the hallway with just enough time to see the emergency stairwell door in the right corner of the lobby close shut.

I startle at the sound of Phil's assistant's voice coming from her desk, not realizing that she's back from lunch.

"He must have needed to work off some of that energy. I've never seen him so flustered," she says.

I turn to her, wanting to tell her what happened in Sam's office, but she was at lunch when I came up, and she probably didn't even know that Bex and I were in a meeting with Sam. It was an impromptu, last-minute meeting and not on Sam's agenda. It's better not to start gossip if she doesn't already know that Bex and I went toe-to-toe a minute ago.

Plus, for Bex's prickly personality, everyone here loves him and I'm the new girl. I don't want to make any more enemies than theoneI already have.

"Let's hope he pops out the bottom with a fresh new personality."

Adele must think I'm teasing because she gives a good throaty laugh.

"Oh, Ms. Summers, you are such a card."

I wish Coach Bex thought that I was a card too. Then maybe we wouldn't be foes.

"I'm heading out. Tomorrow's column won't write itself. Have a good day, Adele."

"You too, honey," she singsongs as I make my way to the elevator.

The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside, my mind already racing with potential strategies. How do I gain the trust of a man who seems determined to see me as the enemy?

Chapter Three

Bex

The final buzzer of the game sounds, sending a wave of relief rushing through me.

One more game down, forty-two still to go before the playoffs.

That was a close game–too close, a real nail-biter that had us clawing our way back in the third period, but it’s still a win and worth celebrating.

Reeve played better than he did in practice, but I’ve seen him sharper on the ice and there was a goal that got past him that wouldn’t have earlier in the season—before the injury and whatever's going on with Keely. It has me wondering if I'm making the right call putting him in with the Stanley Cup on the line. Still, he played a solid game and pulled off a win.

By the time I step into the locker room, the energy is all wrong. The chatter of excited players should be heard as far out as the players tunnel but instead, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

I look around, expecting the usual scene: players pulling off their gear, celebrating, recalling outlandish plays and big hits, and icing down sore muscles. The sound of the team showers should serve as the background white noise to the dozens of conversations echoing throughout the locker room. But instead, half the team is still sitting on the benches, all eyes glued to their phones. Some of them are even chuckling to themselves as if whatever has their attention is amusing.

What the hell is going on? This isn’t my team. Have they forgotten that we still have a job to do? Our night isn’t over yet. We still have after-game interviews to get through.

Slade, our center, is hunched over his phone, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Even Lake, our left-wing and captain, who’s usually the first to hit the showers after a game, is sitting there with his feet up on a bench, phone in hand, grinning at something on the screen. Not a single one of them has noticed I’ve walked in.

"Am I invisible, or have you all suddenly forgotten how to act like professional athletes?" My voice booms through the room.

There’s a flurry of movement as the guys scramble to put their phones down. A few sheepish looks are exchanged, but no one’s in a rush to make eye contact with me. I don’t care if they’re celebrating the win; they’ve got the press waiting for their interviews, and I expect my players to be ready for it, not sitting around like a bunch of teenagers in a group chat.

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