Page 21 of Scoring Grey

“I wouldn’t say I don’t agree with your thinking, but we still have to sell tickets and fill stadiums when the team…” His eyes meet mine in an unspoken understanding; he’s not putting this season’s shortfalls all on me. I’m doing that. “Isn’t doing it on skill alone.” He takes his seat and steeples his fingers. “The press kit Greenlight outlined is supposed to get us there.”

“I disagree. Having a camera following us around will not increase sales. This isn’t a reality TV show. This is hockey. I’m not doing it. I’ve always been private and plan to keep my personal life personal.”

“You’ll do it,” he says, tapping his forefingers together. “You’re a free agent at the end of the season, and if you expect to keep playing the sport you love, you need to soften your image, become relatable, and make people fall for you so you have something when your game is only mediocre.”

“Mediocre?” I question, running my thumb across my bottom lip in irritation. “Are you serious? Out of all the people I thought weren’t blaming our position on me, you were one of them.”

The word mediocre sucks, but it’s only the icing on the cake when it’s paired with the words “free agent” and “end of season.” Combined and coming from his mouth, they hit differently. It’s one thing to think about walking out and leaving all this behind on my own choice. It’s another to have the option taken away, and after Eloise’s revelations about her inheritance, I feel a little more pressure to keep what I have going. She’d never be a pauper by any means, but I also want to be the one to take care of my family.

“Now hold on.” He leans his elbows on his desk. “There’s no I in team. This doesn’t all fall on you. That’s not what I’m saying, but I will say I’m not here to shoot rainbows up your ass. You’re playing well, but we both know your backhanded fake shot hasn’t lived up to its legend, and you’ve missed a quarter of the shots you’ve taken at the net, which is average. You’re not average…” He picks up his stress ball. “Or you weren’t.”

I cross my arms and try to hear his words, not the ones my brain quickly wants to run away with, the ones that have felt like chains I’ll never break.

“And before you start scheming ways to get out of this or feed Blair lies. Don’t.” His tone has my eyes darting to his. He points his finger at me. “You’re uncomfortable, and that’s good. Comfort is your enemy. It doesn’t push you to improve. It allows you to stay complacent. If that girl out there made you uneasy, then that’s the exact demon you need to conquer. Whatever it is might be the one thing holding you back from reaching your full potential. Conquer the beast and set yourself free.” He tosses the stress ball at me, and I catch it. “Do you know her?”

I nod. “I do.”

“I see,” he says as he rubs his jaw. “Then, as I see it, you have all the more reason to cooperate. Blair accepted the job, which tells me she has a score to settle. Feeding her lies won’t resolve it. Only truth can do that.”

I don’t know what vibes he got that gave him the impression Blair has a score to settle with me, but he’s not wrong. I furrow my brow as the words I just read in my playbook resurface.

“We were having a good time, and then you had to use the restroom…”She knew damn well I didn’t leave to use the restroom. I was so caught up in my feelings for Eloise I didn’t hear them for what they were. A lie. I didn’t tell her I was going to the restroom, and we weren’t having a good time.

“If that’s all, I have somewhere I need to be,” I say with renewed vigor. He nods, and I head out of his office. You can’t score from the penalty box. If I want to win, I have to play this game, and because I know the stakes, I won’t lose. Game on, Blair Wyndham.

7

CALLUM

“Blondie, can you come help me with something really quick?” I call out from my bedroom.

“I’m not falling for that, Cal. You’re not going to catch me walking in on you half-naked. I know you just got out of the shower.”

I smile. She knows me well. That is something I’d pull, but not now. I have something else up my sleeve. “I promise I have pants and a shirt on. Just get in here.”

Putting a painting studio in the corner of my living room was the best money I’ve ever spent. Eloise might not be staying in my condo yet, but that easel puts her right where I want her more than not. When I came home from practice pissed as hell, my mind divided between my past and present, I was instantly calm the second I saw her delicate form in front of the windows with a paintbrush in hand, doing something I know brings her joy.

I hear her sigh when she enters the doorway to my room and comes up empty. “I’m in the closet.”

“Cal, I swear. I’ll call off our deal if your—” Her words die when she sees I didn’t trick her. Instead, she finds me standing in the mirror, holding up ties.

“Bow tie or skinny tie?”

She smiles, her eyes slowly raking down my form, drinking me in the way I hoped they would before she comes closer and says, “Neither.” Then, stepping in close, she reaches into the tie drawer I’m standing next to and pulls out a cravat. The personal shopper I hired to buy my suit when I made the team four years ago purchased those. I haven’t ever worn one.

“I don’t know how to tie those. The one time I tried, it looked like a neckerchief, and I looked ridiculous.”

“Well, then I guess it’s a good thing you asked for my help. I happen to know how to tie one.” She pulls out the navy blue cravat and shakes it loose, effectively unfolding it. Her eyes hold mine as her fingers find the top two buttons of my dress shirt. “The key to styling this correctly is tucking it in.” When her hands slide up my collar, and her skin grazes mine as she pulls the material away from my neck to accommodate the cravat, my entire body sizzles. She’s touching me, and my body can’t help but react. My hands find her waist, and I pull her closer. “Cal,” she warns.

“I’m just ensuring you can reach me and get the right angle. I’m the captain. I need to look the part.” I try to play it cool as though my appearance is my only goal, but she knows it’s not. She continues her task and doesn’t ask me to remove my hands, which have my thumbs gently caressing her softness until she tucks my cravat and her fingers catch around something else.

“Is this necklace one of your superstitions? If you take it off, you believe you’ll lose the game?” she asks as her fingers run over the metal of the class ring I wear around my neck.

“Something like that,” I answer as I debate saying more.

“Why do you wear it around your neck and not on your hand?”

“I stopped wearing it on my hand the day the Gladiators clinched a playoff seat in our division.”

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