Page 103 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“Uhh, yes, Ms. Monroe,” the man says. His head bobs. “I do.”
“I assumed so.” Juliet claps her hands and turns to address the press pool. “I think you’ll find today’s focus is on the team’s performance metrics and playoff positioning. Unless anyone else would prefer to discuss something as unimportant as my looks?”
The guy flushes red and fumbles with his notepad. The other reporters snicker, and I have to bite back a grin.
She’sterrifying. Against my will, I’m impressed.
Juliet catches my eye across the media scrum and lifts her chin like she’s daring me to cause trouble. I smirk back at her. Something passes between us. Some kind of challenge or acknowledgment that we’re both enjoying this game.
“Okay. With that rule in mind, let’s bring out a few players to talk to you. We have Alexander Thorne and Beck Tate, the team captains. Jett Huxley, goalie. And Hunter Huxley, right wing.”
We file out dutifully, sitting at a long table set up with mics. Each of us takes turns fielding questions about the game: Thorne gets asked about managing ice time and keeping the forecheck aggressive. Beck fields a question about locker room morale after a rough first period. Reporters asked Jett how he handled the high shot volume in the second and whether a screen affected the tying goal.
Then the mic comes to me. A reporter asks if my line is finally finding chemistry and whether I was gunning for a Gordie Howe hat trick when I dropped the gloves.
I get in and out with the bare minimum number of words. Juliet is watching me, ready to jump in if there is even a whiff of a journalist asking a bullshit personal question about my life. But maybe because of her apparent readiness, there is not a single question that crosses the line. I would love it if I didn’t have to answer journalists at all.
But in a world where that’s not possible, I’ll accept having Juliet standing nearby, ready to pounce. I feel protected.
Huh. That’s a first, for sure. No one has ever whipped reporters into line for me before.
“All right.” Juliet cuts in before anyone asks another question. “I think that’s enough. We should really let the Havoc go change. Have a great game, guys.”
A warm feeling glows in the pit of my stomach at her words, especially when she makes eye contact with me. Her eyes sparkle.
Juliet is changing the PR game, here. The team has never received public support like this before.
“Hunter!” the photographer calls out. “Can we get you and Juliet for some shots?”
I look at Juliet, arching a brow to ask whether that’s okay with her. She beckons to me. Damn if I don’t rush over to where she’s standing, quick as anything. She slides into position next to me like we’ve done this a thousand times. Her hand finds my arm. Even through my shirt, I can feel the warmth of her palm. I slide my arm around her waist and pull her against my body.
“Smile like you’re not plotting my murder,” she murmurs under her breath.
“Who says I’m not?” I tease.
“You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best and you know it.”
Her cheeks glow pink, which is as much recognition as I’m going to get. The cameras click and we pose, answering a few questions about our supposed upcoming wedding. Okay, Juliet answers them, lying smoothly. She’s rehearsed this.
Afterward, as we’re walking away from the media area, Juliet says, “You didn’t scowl once.”
“I could’ve killed that reporter from KCPZ,” I say, my eyes burning into hers. “No one talks shit to you.”
“Except you, apparently.”
“Except for me,” I agree. “You did a good job of dressing him down, but I’d be more than happy to wait outside his house and break every one of his fingers for you.”
She laughs, a little shocked. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Honestly, I’m just pleased you didn’t implode. I’m impressed.”
I huff, but there’s something warm in my chest at her approval. It’s ridiculous, but her saying she’s impressed hits harder than any crowd applause ever could.
Breaking the journalist’s fingers still sounds appealing, though.
We’re heading toward the locker room when Connor comes barreling around the corner, not watching where he’s going, and crashes straight into me. His coffee goes flying, splashing all over my shirt and the floor.
“Shit, sorry, Hunt. I’m so sorry, man. I wasn’t looking where I was...” He’s already scrambling to grab napkins, his face flushed with panic.
