Page 91 of Traded

A few muffled guffaws sound. Nate rolls his eyes. He’s wearing the same black tee and lanyard the rest of us have on, signaling us as the hired help for the benefit of the hundreds of people descending on the Furnace today. “Always a pleasure to work with you, Vanessa. Anyway. You all have tasks distributed to you alongside timings. Our job today is to get every player everywhere they need to be on time, and without any issues.Ideallywithout any fighting. But if it happens, make sure you’re close to a camera. The senior team has a separate schedule tosupport individual players depending on their tasks, but flag one of us if you need to.”

Ness sniffs and folds her arms. No black tee for her. She doesn’t remove her signature red blazer foranyone. “Ideally not me. I won’t care.”

More laughter. The atmosphere here is laid back. Sponsor Day is hard work, but generally pretty fun. Leaning against a pillar at the back, I feel my skin tear away from my nail, the pain fleeting.

Would’ve been nice to feel it, but the best I can summon is a healthy dose of apathy. I look down at the call sheet again, searching for my name against the long list of interviews, photoshoots, content filming and advertising slots.

It doesn’t take me long to find it.

I find Lauren speaking to Nate at the front of the room after he dismisses us, pushing against the flow of black heading out. Holding up the paper, I wait a few seconds before cutting in. “Hi. Sorry. I need to swap with someone.”

There’s no way I’m spending this much time with anyone from the Aces. “Carter will lose his shit if I’m paired with Boone.”

“You’re only with Mercer when Carter’s there too.” Lauren double checks her own sheet. “He and Boone have that joint press conference last thing. I figured you’d want to be around.”

She gestures at my uncomprehending stare. “You know, because of everything. But if not—you want me to change it?”

In case they tear each other’s heads off. Shit. She may actually have a point. I take a step back, already praying for the day to be over with. “Uh. No. Don’t worry.”

“Call if you need me.” She holds up her phone, and I get the sense that she actually means it. “Or if you need a break.”

I already need a break. Joining the stream of helpers, I make my way downstairs. The middle of the players center is full of hockey players, all of them suited and booted with pretty hair and glowering faces. To say this day isn’t their favorite isprobably understating it. The only exception is Jonas, who I’m pretty sure got up at four to primp.

Joining the queue, I wait for my turn. Each helper steps forward and calls their disgruntled players, vanishing into different rooms and floors. When it’s my turn, I steel myself. At least it’s not Boone. Not yet, anyway. “I need Benji Laine, Mackenzie Shaw, Austin Navarro, Dylan Rhodes and Noah West!”

Bad enough. Carter is already called up, buried somewhere in the building around us, but Liam glares at the floor as the others filter out of the crowd and head up the steps. Mackenzie grins as he reaches me. “Look who it is, Navarro. OurfavoriteTitan. Where d’you need us, Rosie?”

Benji gives him a sharp look as I consult the call list. “You all have sponsor slots scheduled for the next two hours. Meet and greets. Fifteen minutes each in the Gretzky suite, there are stations set up. Smile, look pretty, don’t talk about anything real and you’ll be fine.”

Noah looks horrified. They all do, actually. “Twohours?”

“Mhmm.” Taking pity on them, I decide to offer a bone. “I’ll keep you supplied with coffee and crumb-free snacks if you stay on time and don’t spill anything down your shirts. Otherwise we have to go back to wardrobe, and you all look too pretty to change.”

I can’t cope with the puppy eyes.

“Hear that?” Austin murmurs. “She thinks we’re pretty, Mac.”

Jesus. Even his voice is hypnotizing. Nothing about the smile he gives me says he remembers the elevator back in Chicago. My face flushes. “Let’s go. Day’s wasting’.”

It doesn’t get any slower from there. I nudge them from slot to slot, herding them into their media interviews and dodging the harried assistants trying to get increasingly flustered players to their own locations.

“Hey.” Mac catches me as I deliver him to his first network interview, his fingers skating across my arm to stop me abandoning him. “You know we’re not media trained, right?”

I stare at him, aghast. “You’re notmedia trained?”

“Ach, no.” He looks sheepish. “None of us are. There wasn’t exactly money to spare before Meridian stepped in. Our Sponsor Day last year was local radio and a few Costco sandwich platters.”

Shit. I did not, in fact, know that. I look into the room over his shoulder and drag Mac out of sight before he’s spotted. “Uh… you’ve got Callum Morris.”

Mac blanches. “CallumMorris? The sports anchor? What the fuck do I say?”

“This is an easier one,” I reassure him. “Callum’s very good. Very focused on the game, so keep your words on that and don’t let him draw you into any shit-talk. The ones to watch out for are the regional and national general anchors. They’ll ask you all sorts, try and draw you in on wider issues, but he just cares about the sport. Nice guy. Two kids in high school, married for twenty years. If you get a brain fart, repeat the question back to him or drink some water to buy yourself a bit of time. He won’t mind.”

“’Kay.” He blows out a breath. “Shit, I’m nervous. I mean, I’ve done post-game interviews and shit, but never one-on-one, you know? Feels like a spotlight.”

I find myself smiling. “You’ll be great.”

“Well, I can’t disappoint you now.” He steps inside, offering me a grin over his shoulder. I watch him stride over to Morris and shake his hand, any sign of nerves vanishing beneath a cool veneer of confidence I wish I could pull up as easily. Slipping inside, I hover next to the coffee table in case I need to feign a puck-related emergency and pull him out.