“Let them talk. My work speaks for itself.”
“Does it? Because you’ve been here two weeks and you’re already handling a crisis involving your father’s player. That’s going to raise questions.”
“Then I’ll answer them with results.” I stand and gather my things. “The media training starts Tuesday. Nine AM. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He stands too, and I realize he’s got at least three inches on me. Maybe four. “Where’s this youth hockey thing?”
“Downtown rink. Saturday at ten. I cleared it with Coach Enver?—”
“Your dad.”
“—with the head coach,” I correct. “You’re excused from morning practice.”
“How nice. The coach’s son making decisions about my practice schedule.”
My blood boils at that. He’s testing me, seeing how far he can push.
“The head coach approved the schedule change at the GM’s request,” I say. “I don’t make decisions about practice. I coordinate community appearances and media obligations. If you have a problem with that, take it up with Bob Marshall.”
“Relax. I’m just messing with you.” He moves toward the door, and I catch myself watching the way he moves. Confident. Easy. Like someone who’s completely comfortable in his own skin.
I need to stop noticing things about him.
“Masterson.”
He turns back, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. “Yeah?”
“Don’t be late Saturday. And wear something that doesn’t make you look like you just rolled out of bed.”
“What if I did just roll out of bed?”
“Then lie about it. These are kids. They want to see their hockey heroes looking the part.”
“I’m nobody’s hero.”
“You are to them. Act like it.”
Something shifts in his expression. The cocky grin fades, replaced by something more serious. Almost vulnerable.
“Is that what you think? That I should be some kind of role model?”
“I think you already are, whether you want to be or not. What you do with that is up to you.”
He studies me for another long moment, then nods. “See you Saturday, Noah.”
It’s the first time he’s used my first name instead of “PR guy” or “Coach’s son.”
I hate that I notice. Hate more that it affects me.
“Saturday,” I echo.
He leaves, and I’m alone in the conference room with my notes and my completely inappropriate observations about a player I’m supposed to be managing professionally.
I stuff my things into a briefcase, head back to my office, and try to focus on work.
But I keep thinking about the way he looked at me when I told him he was a role model. Like it mattered what I thought. Like maybe he wanted to live up to that.
This is a problem.
