Page 9 of Wrong Score

"What the hell's so funny, anyway?" I growl, stalking over to Brent who still has his phone open.

I swear to God if it turns out he’s smirking at a dick pic he sent his new girlfriend Zoey, I’ll be issuing a “no cell phones in the locker room” policy–effective immediately.

Brent, the team’s left-defense, glances up, his grin faltering as he shows me the screen. "Uh, Coach… It's Summers’ article. She posted this new piece about the team—"

The nameSummershits me like a punch in the gut. Of course. Of bloody course.

Now I wish it was a dick pic I’m having to deal with. Instead of having my team distracted by an article written by the pain-in-my-ass journalist running around this stadium with her “all access badge” like a free range chicken in a pantsuit and heels. I wish Sam was in here to witness the “Summers” effect on his team. Then he’d get what a liability she is in my locker room–physically, or otherwise.

"Summers?" I bark, snatching the phone from his hand. "You’re all sitting around reading an article fromSummerswhen you should be getting your ass ready for the press?"

The article is right there on the screen, bold and witty, the title alone making my blood boil: “Between the Pipes and the Pucks: Which Hawkeyes Player Reigns Supreme as the King of Trash Talk.”

It’s a post on the social media account that I’ve heard was Rowan’s big idea–pushing the news outlet to go fully digital. The likes and comments are blowing up on their page. No wonder it got the team's attention.

I skim the first few paragraphs, feeling my irritation grow with every word. It’s classic Rowan—sharp, insightful, with just the right amount of humor to keep it light. The players love it, obviously, because she’s playing to their strengths, calling out their quirks in a way that makes them sound like legends. But to me? It’s a bloody distraction.

She might not be here in the flesh, but she’s got these guys wrapped around her little finger even without stepping foot in the locker room. And now they’re all too busy laughing at her clever little article to do their damn jobs.

I toss the phone back to Brent, my jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack. "Get dressed and get ready for the media. Now. All of you."

There’s a chorus of "Yes, Coach," but I’m already halfway out the door, heading for the press area, my blood pumping with irritation. She’s not even here in the locker room, and somehow, she’s still managing to distract my players.

My mind starts spinning as I stalk through the stadium halls, searching for Rowan. I know she’s here somewhere. She never misses a home game. Thank God Phil hasn’t required her to start traveling with the team for away games yet.

I knew she’d be trouble the moment that Phil told us that the Hawkeyes andThe Seattle Sunriseare partnering up for an exclusive to build excitement for this season, and this proves my point. Not to mention that riveting article she wrote about me at the end of last season–her take on the way I coach my team. She should have kept her opinions to herself.

I round a corner, and there she is, standing in the hallway near the press room, talking to Reeve.

Rowan nods profusely but Reeve is shaking his head, and his body looks tense and rigid as he talks wildly with his hands. This is the second time this week that I’ve seen them in the hallways of the stadium in a heated conversation.

What is going on? I’ve never seen Reeve act like this about anything. Which has me drawing one conclusion.

Rowan must have dirt on Reeve, and whatever it is, Reeve didn’t want me to know about it a month ago. I doubt he’ll be any more forthcoming with it now.

A visibly pregnant Tessa walks up, resting a hand on her belly as she leans toward Reeve with a playful smirk. “You’re up, superstar. Press is waiting,” she says, motioning to the media room.

Reeve groans, his shoulders sagging. “Can’t they just skip me and focus on Conley? He’s the one who scored the game-winner. Or Powers?... He loves talking about himself.”

Tessa raises an unimpressed brow. “It’s not optional, Reeve. The media is chopping at the bit to talk to you. It’s your first game back since the accident. They want to hear from you.”

Reeve reluctantly turns and follows Tessa.

Then I see Rowan grab her phone out of her pocket quickly and Charles Albriet flashes on her screen in a text message. Her fingers fly across her screen.

“Spilling secrets to your boss, Charles Albright, are we?”

Whatever Rowan and Reeve keep discussing alone in the hallway will have to wait. I’m still fuming about my players who are just now showing up from the locker room, dressed and ready.

I stop in front of her, towering over her small frame, my chest still heaving with frustration. "Summers."

She looks up, blinking in surprise, and I watch the realization dawn on her that I’m not here for a friendly chat. "Coach Bex," she greets me, her voice polite, but there’s an edge there, like she knows something’s coming.

"You think this is funny, don’t you?" I snap, crossing my arms over my chest. "You’ve got half the locker room glued to their phones instead of doing their job."

Her brows knit in confusion, but there’s a flicker in her eyes—somewhere between irritation and defiance. It’s an expression I’ve come to recognize. She might play nice for the cameras, but behind that polished exterior, there’s a sharpness she doesn’t bother to hide around me. She locks her phone, slipping it into the front pocket of her black slacks that hug her toned legs, all the way down to her designer heels. Those heels should be impractical for a day at the rink, but she manages them effortlessly, like she was born to walk a tightrope in stilettos.

Her blonde hair is slicked back into a sleek ponytail, not a strand out of place, emphasizing her bright blue eyes, and full cherry red lips. Her press badge dangles around the delicate curve of her neck, almost taunting me, like a badge of honor for invading our space. Then she turns, squaring up to face me head-on. It's inconvenient the way the last button on her white blouse gapes open just enough that my six-foot two has a good vantage point. It takes all my willpower not to glance down her shirt.

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