“You want me toread?” he blurts out.
“It’s not a deadly sin, Kyle.”
He studies me as if I’m a contagion, then, obviously uncomfortable which is hilarious, he shifts tacks.
“We rocked it out there,” Lewis murmurs, his gaze unfocused as the press wades in. “They’re late.”
Liam hitches a shoulder. “Gracie probably waylaid them.”
I snicker. “Looks like she’s telling them off again.”
“True. I know she’s pissed at Mack Finnegan.”
“Why?”
“For that piece about her showdown with Bradley.”
“I bet you loved that article.”
He winks at me. “I framed it. You know how hard it was for me not to get involved. But she’s annoyed.”
“Seeing her ream Bradley a new one made my year,” Lewis agrees—Coach hasn’t let up on him since that brouhaha in Russu.
“Made all our year,” Liam mumbles to which Lewis snorts.
“Agreed.” Lewis jumps to his feet and pulls on his pants, making sure to twist around when the press call out questions.
“Why are you flashing your butt at the press?” I inquire, well aware there are some hotties amid the crowd. “Or should that be towhomare you flashing said derrière?”
“Ah, fuck, Lewis. You don’t shit where you eat,” Gagné inserts, diving into the conversation headfirst. “You fuck one of them and screw ‘em over, your name’s gonna be mud.”
“Who said I’ll screw anyone over?” As he bends down, he winks at me.
I roll my eyes. “That adrenaline buzz you’re seeking will bite you in the ass.”
“Et tu, Brutus?!”
“Et who what now?” Gagné demands.
“BRUTE. Not Brutus. Jesus Christ,” I grumble.
Lewis mutters, “Heretical douche canoes.”
As I watch him wiggle his butt, I can’t help but notice that one of the reporters isdefinitelychecking him out.
Shaking my head, I focus on getting ready until I hear the others bitching about a fan.
“Why the fuck does she attend every game if she’s going to cheer for the away team?”
“Who are you talking about, McIsaac?”
He snipes, “Some chick who never misses a game.”
“But she always wears a jersey supporting the other side?”
“Yup.”
My brows lift. “That’s an expensive grudge.”