Page 2 of Wallflower
I flex my fingers where I rest my hands on my thighs, stretching them out before curling them into fists again. I don’t want to have to say this at all but it’s something I have to deal with, and I want our media relations team to have the right lines to feed to the press.
Around me, eyes dart everywhere but in my direction. I can feel the anticipation. It’s a bit like skating out onto the ice before a big game. Everyone waiting for the first hit. The first goal. The final horn. The crowd can smell blood, and these idiots are waiting for me to spill mine.
And it’s all there. Right on the tip of my tongue…
The team that took twelve of my best playing years recruited a twenty-something douchebag who stole my team and screwed my girl. Then they dumped me when I had a problem with that. They can go fuck themselves.
But saying those words out loud would be stupid, so I grind my teeth and spit out the same bullshit I gave to the press when I was waiting to get the hell out of Calgary.
“I’m grateful to the Calgary Crushers for buying out my contract and giving me the opportunity to sign with the San Francisco Fury. I wish my former team all the best for the coming season, but my focus now is taking the Fury all the way to the Cup.”
The words taste bitter, but ice is better than fire. Frost is preferable to flames. If I ever actually said all the things I want tosay, I’d lose all control, and nobody deserves to know how much the last year fucking hurt.
I glance around, and the only person who doesn’t look disappointed is Coach. What did these people expect from me today—a therapy session?
I run my tongue over my lips and look around for the drinks I asked for. Green juice. Protein shake. Hot black coffee. Iced vanilla latte. Freshly squeezed orange juice—no pulp. Iced water. I don’t know why I do diva shit like ask for six drinks when one would have been fine, other than the fact that keeping people on their toes also keeps them from getting too close. Six drinks, and there’s nothing on the table.
“Any chance of getting one of those drinks I asked for?” I say to the room.
Courtney’s the first one to speak. Of course, she is. “We had a little miscommunication this morning, but they’re on their way right now.” She snatches her phone from the table and taps out a message. “I’ll get an ETA while we continue.”
I grunt, and Coach clears his throat, shooting me a look that draws down his brows as well as the corners of his mouth. I’m too old, too rich, and too jaded to care about disappointing anyone, but like a reflex, I sit up straighter.
“Thank you, Chord,” he says, though he’s talking to everyone. “I think that means we’re all moving in the same direction—forward, not back. But let’s not sugarcoat this. We’ve got a lot of work to do. Playing for San Francisco won’t be anything like playing for Calgary. We’re rebuilding, and we’ve made a few bad contracts trying to do that, but I’m determined to turn things around, and we need a veteran to help us reach our potential. Our boys need an experienced captain—a leader and a mentor, on and off the ice. We needdepth.” Coach claps me on the shoulder. “That’s where Chord comes in. Sixteen years in this game, and nobody’s ever been better on the right wing. Hisdetermination and that famous wrist shot are going to take us to the playoffs next year. I guarantee it.”
Hell, yeah, I’m leading this team to the playoffs. And if karma has my back, I’ll be taking home the Cup.
“So.” Courtney smiles and leans forward with her elbows on the table. “There are just two items on our agenda for today. Let’s take care of those before we get to the points you raised in your email, shall we?”
My eyes dip to the generous swell of cleavage peeking out from the neck of her loose black blouse, and Courtney’s mouth tips up at having won a point. It takes all my strength not to roll my eyes, so I settle for a cool stare. If a woman flashes me her tits, I’m going to look. Doesn’t mean I’m interested. Doesn’t mean a damn thing.
Her lashes flutter—is she trying toflirt?—and I decide I don’t like this woman. I break her gaze by reaching for a glass of water that isn’t there.
Jesus Christ, what does a man have to do to get a drink around here?
“Fine,” I reply. “What do you need to—”
The boardroom door crashes open, and a woman falls through, righting herself and blushing brightly when she notices that everyone is staring. She’s tall and attractive but swimming inside baggy beige trousers that cinch in at her small waist and an open matching blazer that’s at least two sizes too big. Her dark-rimmed glasses are too large for her pretty, heart-shaped face, framed by strands of dark hair that have pulled free of her long ponytail, and she’s balancing a cardboard tray in each hand, both loaded with drinks.
Mydrinks.
Her big, anxious eyes land on me and widen briefly before she drops her chin and hurries down the length of the room. She keeps her gaze low as she sets the trays at my elbow and plucksthe cups from their holders. I watch with mild curiosity as she avoids looking at me, fumbling a little as she pulls at the drinks, and once the six paper cups are lined up in front of me, she practically bolts for the doors.
Around the table, the Fury team ignores her, which annoys me. Even an intern deserves a nod of acknowledgment.
I choose the iced water and take a long draw, but before the mysterious brunette can make her escape from the big, bad Chord Davenport, Courtney obnoxiously clears her throat and then stabs her finger at the end of the table. And when I think I couldn’t dislike the marketing manager more than I already do, the girl freezes like she’s frightened, gives a jerky nod, and sinks into the chair closest to the door. She unloops an ugly battered satchel from across her body, pulls out a notebook and pen, and hunches over the page like she wishes she could fade into the furniture.
Someone needs to tell her that’s absolutely impossible.
“Now, where were we?” Courtney waves her hand at the media relations guy, who wipes a bead of sweat from his brow and shifts in his chair. “Steve, would you like to raise your concerns with Chord?”
“Concerns?” I echo, forgetting all about the girl. “Whatconcerns?”
“We just… Ah, that is…” Steve looks around for help, which makes me huff out an irritated sigh, and Coach jumps in.
“Your relationship with the media could be better, Chord. They say you’re hard to talk to, and I think you’ll agree that you don’t give them a lot to work with in post-game press. It’s something we hope you’re willing to work on.”
He rubs a wide hand over his jawline, meeting my glare with solid confidence, and for the first time, I notice the lines around his mouth. The thinning hair. The experience in his dark browneyes that wasn’t there more than a decade ago. I breathe deeper as some of the tension leaches from my hands.
