Page 24 of Pucking Dirty

I stare at her in awe. "You're an evil genius."

"Thanks." She pretends to buff her nails, smirking. And then she sobers. "Seriously, work with them for long enough, and you learn how to manage them and the furor around them. Nash is easy. He has a good head on his shoulders and doesn't make waves. People like him. They trust him. If I tell them that he did X for Y reason, they believe it because, nine times out of ten, it's true."

"And the tenth time?"

"You're the tenth time, Emilia." She laughs when I gape at her. "Like I said, he doesn't make waves."

Until now. Until me.

I glance back out at the ice to see him vanishing through the tunnel, a ref hot on his heels.

Maybe I'm not the only one falling.

Crap.

The game is intense. I spend most of it on my feet, screaming at the top of my lungs. Jordan and Diego spend more than their fair share of time in the Sin Bin.

Surprisingly, Nash doesn't get sent in for removing his jersey, but he does spend a few minutes in for aggressive play. Officials are all over him the entire game thanks to his little show before the horn even sounded. But we still manage to pull out a win, sending the entire arena into chaos.

By some miracle, my dad doesn't notice my jersey. If he knows what happened, he's too preoccupied with the game to mention it. Between the action on the ice, discussions with the coaching staff, and discussions with the guys on the bench, he barely has time to breathe.

Alice and I hug it out as the guys celebrate on the ice. But I feel Nash's eyes on me the entire time. When we break away, my suspicion is confirmed. He's staring right at me, looking like he wants to climb the boards and devour me.

I gulp, shooting him a congratulatory smile.

He winks back before he's swept up by his teammates.

"I need to get down to the Press Pool," Alice says. "Do you want to come with me?"

"I actually think I'm going to go down to my office for a little while," I murmur. The Press Pool is the last place I want to be right now.

"Come on," she murmurs, looping her arm through mine. We join the throng spilling into the aisle, but instead of headingtoward the exits, we head toward a door leading onto the ice near the players' tunnel. A member of security lets us through.

"How in the hell do you strut across the ice in those shoes?" I mumble, impressed as Alice sashays on her stilettos like she was born on the ice. Meanwhile, every step I take has me worried I'm going to faceplant in front of the entire arena.

"Do something long enough and you become a pro."

"Tell that to every adult on the planet still trying to fold a fitted sheet."

"That isn't a job, Emilia. That's torture. Different concept," she says, tossing her head. "Fitted sheets weren't meant to be folded. They were designed to annoy the hell out of us."

I laugh quietly. The more time I spend with her, the more I like her. She's gorgeous, with big hazel eyes and flawless ebony skin. She's also sassy as hell, which I fully support. And it's obvious she loves this team and this sport. She is as protective of the guys and their reputations as she is the team and its reputation. She knows her shit.

"Ugh." Her grip tightens on my arm suddenly. "Charles Montaque is heading this way."

My stomach quivers with anxiety. Charles Montaque is one of the biggest investigative sports reporters in DC. My dad hates him because he's a snake. He says he'll smile in your face and then stab you in the back without hesitation. Not exactly the guy I want to see right now, especially not when I'm in the jersey Nash literally took off his own back to give me.

I glance up, confirming that he's heading toward us, dressed in a dark suit and tie. He's in his mid-forties with carefully gelled hair and blue eyes. I suppose people probably think he's handsome, but he just looks like a problem to me.

"Just let me do the talking," Alice instructs as he quickly closes the distance between us. "I know how to deal with him."

"Alice! Just the publicist I was hoping to see." Charles grins, his blue eyes flickering from her to me and then back. "And who is this?"

"Charles," Alice says, her tone cool. "This is our new staff psychologist, Emilia. Emilia, this is Charles Montaque."

"Hello," I murmur politely.

"Emilia," he says, cocking his head to the side. "Lariat's daughter?"

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