Page 85 of Faking the Shot
Valentina: I sent you links to several articles where they’re assuming we are. At the bottom I’m asking how you want me to handle it.
Kaden: As my PR you should know. As my future fiancée . . . well just say yes and move on.
Valentina: We’re not engaged.
Kaden: Wasn’t that where we were heading?
Valentina: Sure, but I don’t think it is necessary. Plus, people are going to know I’m divorced.
Kaden: And?
Valentina: I have the feeling Steve might try to have his fifteen minutes of fame if this blows out even more.
Kaden: What can he do?
Valentina: I don’t know, he is a very petty man.
Kaden: Let him try and he’ll find out what I do with anyone who threatens what’s mine.
Valentina: (sighs) I might need to hire my own publicist in case this blows up.
Kaden: Hire Kimmy (laughs hysterically)
Valentina: You don’t like her, do you?
Kaden: I never did. There’s something about her that . . . yeah, I really don’t like.
Valentina: I’ll search around just in case I need a publicist.
Kaden: Hey fiancée, the team meeting is over. After practice, can I take you to lunch?
Valentina: I’m not your fiancée.
Kaden: You will be soon, I’m just giving you time to adjust and accept it.
Valentina: ((eyeroll emoji))
Chapter Forty-Five
Valentina
And Sometimes, You Need to Push Past The Defensive Zone
The problem with therapists is they’re entirely too good at waiting.
Dr. Stephanie Wright sits across from me, her posture perfect, legs crossed, not a single sign of impatience on her serene face. Her office smells like lavender, the kind of scentthat’s supposed to calm you but only makes me hyper-aware of my inability to relax.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she says, her tone as soothing as the decor—a palette of soft grays and creams that practically screams, “Let’s chat over a cup of herbal tea.”
I cross my legs and adjust my blouse, trying to buy time. “Well, I’ve been . . . busy. Really busy. Work’s been?—”
“Valentina.” Her gentle interruption comes with a smile that suggests she’s heard this tap dance before. “This is your eighth session. You can’t keep going like this. Last time, we agreed we’d talk about more than work today.”
I mean, part of my job is dealing with this very hot, infuriating hockey player who kisses like he’s trying to suck the life out of me and fucks me like . . . okay, that’s not something I want to bring up to her.
Reluctantly, I sigh and lean back into the plush armchair that’s both too comfortable and weirdly judgmental. “Okay, fine. Let’s talk about Steve. My ex-husband. The man who decided I wasn’t his forever but, apparently, early-twenties yoga instructors are.”
Dr. Wright nods, jotting something down in her pristine notebook. “How does that make you feel?”
