Page 10 of Wrong Score

Yet another distraction I can't afford.

"A distraction?" she repeats, her tone sharp, eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about?"

"You know damn well what I’m talking about." I point at her phone. "That article. They’re all sitting around reading your little piece instead of doing their jobs. This is exactly what I warned Phil about when he told me he gave you full access to the team."

Should I have cursed? Maybe not, but the playoffs are on the line, and she needs to take this as seriously as I am. After all, the Hawkeyes fighting back from last year's loss of the Stanley Cup is the whole reason she's covering the team. But maybe she’d rather we failed. A dumpster fire of a season might make for better ratings.

Rowan’s eyes widen, and for a second, I think I’ve caught her off guard. But then she recovers, her expression hardening as she straightens her posture to appear taller as if she’s getting ready for battle.

"Oh, so now I’m responsible for your players being distracted? I didn’t realize publishing a simple article has the power to derail an entire hockey team." Her voice drips with sarcasm, and she tilts her head, giving me a look that’s equal parts challenge and exasperation. "Let me guess—next, you’ll blame me if they lose a game."

I take a step closer. "That’s not the point, and you know it," I growl. "This team needs to focus. They don’t need you turning everything into a joke. King of trash talk might be a headline to get social media viewers but it's not helping this team make it to the playoffs."

She glances around to see if anyone is watching us but everyone else is around the corner and a good few hundred feet away.

Her eyes flash with anger when the coast is clear. "A joke? Is that what you think I’m doing? I wrote that article because I respect this team. Obviously, you didn't even read the post, or you would have seen that I wrote about the work they put in, highlighting the different attributions that each player brings to the team– and yes, that includes trash talking. But I shouldn’t be surprised that you saw the headline and flew off the handle—per usual. If they’re distracted, maybe that says more about you coaching your team and keeping your team engaged than it does about me being a problem."

I stare at her, caught off guard by the fire in her voice. She’s standing her ground, meeting me head-on, and damn if it doesn’t piss me off even more. Because part of me knows she’s right. The article isn’t the problem—the problem is how easily my players are distracted. If we want to win this season, everyone needs to buy in, and that includes Rowan.

"Look, Summers," I say, my voice low. "I don’t care how witty you think you are. Keep your stories out of my locker room. I don’t need my players treating you like some kind of celebrity. This team has one goal—winning—and I won’t let anything get in the way of that. Not even you."

Rowan’s lips part, and for a moment, I think she’s going to tear into me again. But instead, she just stares at me, her eyes narrowing as if she’s sizing me up. "You’re right about one thing, Coach," she says, her voice calm but firm. "This team has one goal. But so do I. It’s to tell the story of this team’s journey—whether you like it or not."

With that, she turns on her heel and walks away, leaving me standing there, fists clenched at my sides, watching her long ponytail and hips sway side to side as she vacates our conversation.

Dammit.

Chapter Four

Rowan

The relaxing hum of the salon's pedicure massage chair vibrates through my body, easing away the tension from sitting on those stadium seats week in and week out. It’s a welcome distraction, especially with my first away game with the team looming just a few days from now.

Strings of Valentine’s Day twinkle lights and heart shaped cut outs fill the salon in every nook and cranny. The long rows of pedicure spa chairs are all full of clients getting their toes done for their holiday plans.

I might not have romantic plans for Valentine’s Day this year, unless you count the CSI marathon I have planned with my sister Jordan and my neighbors dog, Sherlock, but I couldn't pass up Autumn, Keely and Zoey's invite to get our pedicures before their dinner dates tomorrow.

I wiggle my toes in the warm, bubbling water of the pedicure bath, letting out a sigh of bliss. This is exactly what I needed after the last few weeks of insistent texts and emails from my boss wanting the Townsend story, and trying not to get caught talking to Reeve about Keely’s situation with her dad.

As far as I know, Keely still hasn’t told Phil or Sam about her dad, and if my boss ever finds out that I knew about that story and buried it, I’ll be looking for a new job. Even after putting my own ass on the line at work, I can't believe that Bex accused me of being the cause of Reeve’s performance issues out on the ice.

I thought after our non-interview success a couple of weeks ago that Bex and I would find ourselves in a better place. But his scowl in my direction has barely softened.

Which leads me to believe that the person who deserves performance issues is Coach Bex.

Unfortunately the level of concentration that Bex exudes as a coach, has me almost sure that he’s as intense in the bedroom as he is on the ice.

I wrinkle my nose and shake away the thought of Bex having sex. It's the last thing I should be thinking about.

To my left, Keely sits with her eyes closed, her usually cheerful face sporting an uncommon frown. On the other side of Keely is Zoey, who is trying to win a limited edition signed hockey stick on an online auction website for Brent’s Valentine’s Day present.

On my right, Autumn, the Hawkeyes in-house PR guru and Briggs Conley’s fiance, scrolls through a work email that just came up. Though it's technically a work day, Autumn and I both make our own schedules, and as long as Keely doesn't have a therapy session with a player for PT, she's usually free, too. For a weekday, the salon bustles with activity around us, the air filled with the scent of nail polish and chatter from the many conversations all happening around us.

"You okay there, Keely?" I ask, nudging her gently with my elbow.

Keely's eyes flutter open, and she gives me a weak smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just that I can't stop thinking about the text I got from my dad yesterday. I still haven't responded back."

Zoey’s head snaps up from her phone. "Your dad? As in..."

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