Page 102 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I frown. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Says here it’s from your fiancée.” He hands me the tray with a grin that suggests he thinks he’s delivering something romantic. There’s a paper bag on the tray with a note written in Juliet’s neat handwriting, complete with a smug little heart drawn next to it.
I can’t help it. I grin like an idiot at the stupid little heart. No one else in the world could make me do that. I tip the guy and shut the door, shaking my head.
Plucking the note off, I read it.
Wanted to make sure you’re treating yourself right on the road. Good luck in your game today. I’ll see you tonight.
XO, Monroe
My lips twitch. This is exactly what a real fiancée would do for her hockey player husband-to-be.
Inside the bag is my exact go-to breakfast order. Scrambled eggs, hot sauce packets, crispy turkey bacon, fresh fruit, and black coffee so dark it could strip paint. She got my order down to the specific brand of hot sauce I always ask for.
How? I’m not sure. I haven’t ordered it in front of her. She must have gotten my order from the team’s chef or something. I can’t help but smirk. Juliet’s not even in the room and she’s already controlling my day.
The coffee is perfect, rich and dark, which pisses me off because I don’t want to be impressed by her attention to detail. But I am. Because most people don’t pay attention to shit like this. Most people don’t care if I eat breakfast or survive on energy drinks and spite.
I text her:How did you know my exact order?
She writes back quickly.
Juliet:To quote you,I pay attention. It’s my doting fiancée impression. You like?
Yes, I do like it. More than I should. Classic Juliet. Do something thoughtful, then respond to my questions with a joke.
Me:For a PR nightmare, I feel very well taken care of.
Juliet:I’m very good at my job, Hux.
Hux. The nickname slides against me, pleasantly slick.
I can see that she’s good at what she does. Eating quickly and dressing, then catch the team shuttle over to the stadium. I don’t see Juliet for over an hour while the team runs through puck-handling drills, line rushes, and two-on-two scrimmages. It’s a relatively light day with a press scrum after practice.
It’s time for Juliet to show us what she’s made of.
I’m at the arena watching her glide around in those ridiculous heels like a tiny dictator. She’s running point in the press pool, telling a pack of reporters where to stand, what video to shoot, and when to shut up. Her voice has a firm, velvet quality that makes grown men listen without questioning why.
I’m standing off to the side, catching my breath, watching her work with interest.
“Let’s go over topics that are and are not appropriate for the press to ask the Seattle Havoc players.” Juliet’s brown eyes take in the press pool. She looks perfectly groomed in her navy skirt suit, paired as always with that sexy-ass red lipstick. “Anyone who asks anything outside the parameters we’re about to establish will be kicked out of the pool… permanently.”
Atta girl. You teach those bloodthirsty journalists how to heel.
The reporter, some middle-aged dickhead from a sports blog, says something about a pretty little thing playing dress-up. I can’t hear exactly what he says, but Juliet’s spine goes rigid.
Everyone straightens up, curious about how she will respond. Her eyes narrow; the temperature in the room drops by ten degrees.
She doesn’t even blink. She snaps her fingers, points at him, and says, “I’m so glad that you brought that up. The number one rule for being in this room is thatyou willrespect the team. That means the players, the managers, the coaches, and even off-ice talent… like me. This is your only warning. The next infraction will mean you to call your boss and explaining to him how the Havoc’s PR just banned your entire channel from the press poolforever.”
The man gapes at Juliet while she looks at him expectantly.
“I’m sorry, did you have anything you wanted to say in response?”
He swallows and shakes his head. “No…”
“You can address me as Ms. Monroe.” She cocks her head, waiting. “Don’t you want to be on my good side?”
