Page 111 of Brooklynaire
“Naturally.” He stands up. “I’ll go early and ask Pete to reserve the backroom.”
“Good plan. I’m going to find my intern and invite her.” Seems only fair, since I’ve been such a grumpy bear. The Tavern after a win is a goodtime.
Beringer gives me a fist bump and leaves. Texting Heidi Jo while I walk, I head slowly downstairs to the press conference, because I can’t stay away. It’s been days since I’ve seen Nate. The post-game adrenaline is still hitting me hard, filling me with optimisticglee.
I want to see his face, dammit. And apologizesober.
The usual mayhem outside the locker rooms doesn’t help calm me down. Players and family members are hugging and celebrating. The locker-room door opens and closes repeatedly as players emerge, freshly-showered, tocongratulations.
“Press room, people!” Georgia shouts. “This way. Threeminutes!”
My best friend’s job isn’t done for thenight.
“There you are!” Heidi Jo says, sidling up to me and snatching my phone out of my hands. “That’s enough screentime.”
“Hey! It’s you who’s been textingme!”
She shrugs. “Couldn’t behelped!”
“That is…”so irritating!I swallow down my displeasure. “The players are drinking at The Tavern on Hicks tonight. I came downstairs to inviteyou.”
“Oh!” Her face lights up. “I’m in. Do they have darts and a pooltable?”
“Sure?” I never play thosegames.
“I’m kind of a shark,” she says with agiggle.
“Can’t say I’m surprised.” Heidi Jo isn’t stupid. Justoverenthusiastic.
Georgia’s press conference is starting. She stands at the podium as the rear door opens behind the dais. Nate, Coach Worthington, O’Doul, and two other players step out toapplause.
I put two fingers in my mouth and wolf-whistle loudly, causing Heidi Jo to clap her hands over herears.
“Thank you for being with us tonight as we make our way toward victory,” Georgia says at the podium. “The club owner, Mr. Nathan Kattenberger, would like to thank you as well. Please hold your questions until after coach’s remarks. Thankyou.”
Georgia steps aside for Nate, who thanks his players and his coach for their impressive efforttonight.
I don’t hear a word of what he says, because I’m too busy giving him a laser-likecome hitherstare.I’m sorry I’ve been acting nutty, my eyes say. Or rather, they try. But Nate doesn’t happen to look my way. As a short person trapped against the back wall of a crowded room, my odds of being seen aren’tgreat.
“Mr. Kattenberger!” a female journalist calls out. Immediately I see Georgia’s eyes narrow, because questions are prohibited during the introduction. “Is it true that you have a personal grudge against the Dallasteam?”
I can’t see the journalist from where I’m standing. She may be vertically challenged, too. But many heads turn herway.
Nate’s eyes widen, and I feel a sudden chill on the back of my neck. “Personal? No.” He clears his throat in a very unNatelike way. “Though I hold a grudge against anyone standing between my team and theCup.”
Georgia pipes up. “We’ll take questions at theend…”
But the reporter cuts her off. “Did you buy a hockey team to get revenge on the Dallas player who stole yourfiancée?”
Wait,what?
“That’s ridiculous,” Nate says, each word a chip of ice. “I’ve been a hockey fan since I could talk. I bought a hockey team so I could bring major league sports back toBrooklyn…”
This woman must have a death wish because she cuts him off again. “Didn’t you walk in on Dallas captain Bart Palacioand—”
“Excuseme,” Georgia says, stepping in front of Nate and the podium. “You will hold your questions until after coach’s comments!” Her face is red andsplotchy.
And Nate? He turns the podium’s microphone off, turns around, and leaves theroom.
