Page 16 of Perfectly Grumpy

“At least your family wants you there,” he comments quietly. “My family always seems like they’re too busy for me. Sometimes I think they prefer it when I stay away.”

“Really?” I ask. “Tate, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

“No, it’s okay.” He shakes his head like it’s no big deal, even though I can see it bothers him. “Is that why you don’t want to go?” he asks, studying me, taking it all in without judgment.

“My mom died eight weeks after the last reunion a year ago,” I admit. “And I’m bracing for the usual questions—how I’m doing, why I’m still single and whether I’m still making those ‘cute little videos’ for work.”

He pushes his plate aside. “Do they even know what you do?”

“Not really. My dad and sister try.” I shrug. “Most of my family is usually more interested in who I’m dating.”

“So…” He leans back, studying me. “Who are you dating? Anyone I know?”

I shoot him a look. “I don’t date guys I work with. More specifically, hockey players.”

Tate nods, like he’s filing away that information. “So, basically, no one’s intrigued you enough to be worth the hassle.”

I scoff. “That’s not what I said.”

He points his fork at me. “But that’s what you meant.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he’s looking at me with that little knowing smirk—the one that shows he enjoys getting under my skin, pushing back against the assumptions others just accept.

I focus on my laptop. “It’s just not smart to date someone you work with.”

Tate sets his fork down. “I get it. If it’s not worth the risk, why bother?”

There’s something in the way he says it that feels like he pulled the words from my dating playbook. Not that I have an actual book, but if I did, that line would definitely be on page one.

“Exactly.” I glance away from his pointed gaze and turn back to my computer. “Now, enough about my life. Back to your PR problem.”

He crosses his arms. “Okay, what do you need me to do to fix my mess?”

“I want to start with a motorcycle photo shoot.”

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Come on, Tate. You promised to consider my ideas, and the NHL commissioner’s big on motorcycle safety. We get a few shots of you on a bike, give a shout-out to his charity—it’s all a win.”

He looks around the coffee shop. “Well, I can’t right now.”

“Next week?” I try.

“I’m busy.”

“For how long?”

“The rest of my life.”

“Tate,” I say. “Let me put it in terms you’ll understand: There’s a defensive side of PR called damage control. But there’s also an offensive side—winning people over before they turn on you. Right now, the NHL is interested in you, but the big guys at the top want marketable. The kind that gets jersey sales up and influences ticket sales.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “So what? You want me to start cracking jokes in post-game interviews?”

“Oh, we’re going way beyond that,” I say with a grin. “A campaign that shows you as fun-loving and delightfully charming. You said yourself that you happen to be very fun underneath that stone face.”

“Well, I lied,” he deadpans. “I’m painfully boring.”

I lean in, eyes narrowed. “Nice try, Sheriff, but I know the truth. The NHL is watching you. And they need a reason to believe you’re worth the risk.”

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