Page 5 of Perfectly Grumpy

Delilah leans toward me. “Apparently, the commissioner’s wife struck up a friendly chat with Tate. Asked what he thought of the new league initiatives.”

“And?” I ask, not wanting to hear how Tate answered. Because I already know.

“He went on this calm, very detailed rant,” Delilah says. “Something about them being short-sighted and designed to impress people who care more about photo ops than actual gameplay. Then he added, ‘Probably his wife’s idea.’”

I groan and drop my head.Where in the hockey was I?

Oh, right. There was that brief moment when I’d had to drag Jaz out of the gala to make her prop up her swollen ankles. She’d insisted on wearing heels while pregnant, and I couldn’t, in good conscience, let her go all night without putting her feet up.Brax was in the middle of wooing a bunch of sponsors for next year, so he couldn’t take her himself. So I stepped out for all of twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes.That’s all it took for Tate to implode a year of my PR efforts.

The man cannot help himself when it comes to hockey policy. He knows every rule, every clause buried deep in the league handbook—and has opinions about them all.

My stomach plummets as I think about how awful this is going to look if the press finds out, wondering if even my PR superpowers are enough to save a man who manages to be bothinfuriatingly stubborn and distractingly handsome at the same time.

“Oh, that wasn’t even the worst part,” Delilah goes on, her eyes gleeful with the kind of joy only reserved for other people’s dirt. “Apparently, the commissioner’s wife brought her cat last night—on a leash.”

I can’t help my unpleasant grimace. “Yes. That was an unexpected detail. But it’s the first time the commissioner has ever come to the gala, and he specifically requested we accommodate her pet.”

Delilah leans in, clearly relishing telling me everything. “Well, according to Leo, the cat kept trying to climb Tate’s leg like he was a scratching post.”

Jeneva cackles. “Girl, I’d climb that man too if I had nine lives.”

“Andthen,” Delilah says, like she’s pounding the final nail in my career’s coffin, “he told the commissioner’s wife—to her face—that cats shouldn’t be allowed in public if they couldn’t keep their paws to themselves.”

I blink. “Please tell me he didn’t.”

“Oh, but honey,” Delilah says, patting my hand like she’s at a funeral. “He did. Then he added—and I quote—‘Your cat molested me, ma’am.’”

Jeneva is howling now, smacking the table. “The man got molested by a cat. I can’t breathe.”

“And just to be clear,” I ask deliberately, bracing myself, “he actuallysaidthe word?—”

“Mo-les-ted,” Delilah confirms solemnly. “By her feline. That’s the word he used.”

“Oh, that’s bad,” I say, shoving my computer into my tote like it’s on fire. “Thank you both for the heads-up. I should probably take care of this.” With words. And damage control. And possibly a bribe.

Delilah hands me another napkin like it might help.

“I mean, media storms are technically my forte,” I ramble,slinging the bag over my shoulder. “But I also like to avoid them when they involve NHL royalty.”

Jeneva snorts into her coffee. “Too late for that, sugar.” She slaps theSully’s Beach Sentinelacross my table. “You haven’t seen this morning’s paper?”

Right there, across the top is the headline:Hockey Player Insults Commissioner’s Wife.

THREE

Tate

When she strides into the ice rink during morning practice, she’s got trouble written all over her face—and it’s aimed straight at me. But there’s something almost endearing about the way her forehead scrunches when she’s on a mission, the little furrow I’ve come to recognize as her “what am I going to do with you, Tate?” expression.

Was it the email where I sent a pie chart comparing our social media engagement before and after her “fun captions”? Or maybe it was the time when I submitted feedback on her marketing survey and added the comment, “I’d rather take a puck to the face.”

Lauren Williamson looks every inch the relentless PR professional, with her brown hair pulled back into a slick ponytail and a mouth that could either obliterate your career or make your whole day with just one smile. She’s beautiful. Who else could get away with calling me an “uncooperative gorilla” over email and make it somehow seem weirdly flattering? And now she’s glaring at me like I personally offended her—and I don’t even know why.

“What’s up, Lauren?” Rourke asks as he skates over to her with a grin. “Here to take my picture? I can take my shirtoff, if you want.”

Of course he’d offer to strip for a photo. Rourke’s a walking flirt with a hockey stick.

---