Page 6 of Perfectly Grumpy

“No, thank you,” she replies, ignoring him. “Stick around for a group shoot after practice. Staged photos. Shirts—and everything else—stay on.”

A few of the guys groan.

I pretend not to hear because Lauren already knows how I feel about pictures.

“Tate,” she says, locking her gaze on me. “I need to talk to you.”

I do a lazy pivot and skate back toward her. “Is this about me skipping the last shoot? Because I’m still waiting on that gorilla suit. Felt like a missed branding opportunity.”

“No,” she says, folding her arms. “This is about your talent for making the front page of the newspaper.”

I coast to a stop near the boards. “I swear I haven’t corrected anyone’s grammar since…the last incident.”

“So you haven’t checked the news today? Or been interviewed by any journalists recently?”

I pause, tapping my stick against the ice. “Oh, yeah, there was that voicemail from theSully’s Beach Sentinel, but I never called them back.”

Her jaw drops. “Tate! When you get a call like that, you’re supposed to notify me immediately for a press statement.”

I shrug. “I didn’t think it was important.”

“He lives in a fantasy world with elves and fairies,” Leo says under his breath as he skates by, whacking my arm with his stick. “Wouldn’t notice if the arena caught fire mid-practice.”

“That’s not true,” I protest. “I readThe Wall Street Journalevery morning.”

“Well,The Wall Street Journalwon’t help you with this,” Lauren says, whipping out her phone. She taps the screen and holds it up, showing me the local news. “Apparently, you insulted the NHL commissioner’s wife at the gala.”

I squint at the tiny words on her phone. “Who?”

She stares at me. “The cat lady, Tate.”

“Oh. That one.” I pause. “She tried to climb my leg. The cat, not the lady.”

“I know that,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose like I’m her worst PR nightmare. I already know Lauren’s probably three steps ahead, mapping out damage control scenarios. She’s saved half the team from their own idiotic statements at one point or another, including me, more times than I’d care to admit. It’s impressive, really.

She drops her hand and tilts her head. “What I don’t know is why you didn’t tell me about it.”

“Didn’t think it involved you.”

“You told her that cats shouldn’t be allowed out in public if they couldn’t keep their paws to themselves.”

“In my defense,” I say, leaning on my stick, “that cat molested me.”

Lauren sighs. “And you used the wordmolested…in front of the commissioner’s wife?”

“I didn’t know she was the commissioner’s wife!”

She closes her eyes, inhaling deeply like she’s praying for patience. For a split second, her professional mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of genuine worry beneath the frustration. It’s not just about the PR disaster—she actually cares what happens to me. The realization is both surprising and strangely comforting.

“Tate, you can’t just offend someone, ignore the press, and hope it disappears.”

I shrug. “Worked fine for the cat.”

I reach for her phone to skim the article but she yanks it away. “Let me guess,” I say. “She had some very pleasant things to say about me.”

“Pleasant isn’t the word I’d use,” Lauren says. “She took her story to the local newspaper, and now you’re the bad guy.”

She begins reading:

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