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Had to hand it to them. The title was catchy, and a clicky title did more damage—or repair—than anything else. The rest of the article was pointless, dredging up the same claims from the other one, but that was two articles in a week. We needed to go on the offensive and build some positive rapport.

Monroe’s fingers rapped on his biceps, his foot tapping in time with them. Two more seconds and I’d be at a level of overstimulation that led to yelling and throwing shit away. And I didn’t think the Stars would love it if I started taking the photo collage of past players off the wall and tossing them.

A chunk of blue polish landed on the lacquered table. I brushed it away. “Sit your ass down. I’m tired of watching you.”

He stopped, peering down at me. “Don’t you mean tired from watching me?”

“Nope. Tired of looking at you.”

Lie.

The real problem was I couldn’t stop thinking about him, and having nightmares about him…plus maybe the occasional dream that I’d never admit to.

Monroe cracked his knuckles and plopped into his seat next to me, shifting his weight to get comfortable. I bit my tongue, keeping the smart-ass comments begging to escape from spilling out.

“What’s the deal with this next one?” He picked up the final sheet, rubbing a hand over the short stubble on his chin. “She a failed popstar who’s trying to sing the national anthem at our game or something?”

I ignored the irritation in his tone. He needed to be in a good mood—okay, that might be asking a lot—a marginally more pleasant than usual mood for the final interview.

“No…” I dragged out the word, grabbing my copy of her information. “Lauren is a sports analyst. Worked on a few local channels and has a pretty popular online presence and podcast catering to female sports fans.”

“Hm.” Monroe’s hum of approval had my stomach dipping. “Well, that actually sounds pretty promising. Says here she was a former collegiate athlete at Texas Tech. That’s pretty cool.”

Another dip.

“Okay, well, that’s enough about her. We don’t know if she’ll work out.” I snatched the paper from his hand, ignoring his confused look. “Let’s talk about what we know is happening. You’ve got press coming up, you’re throwing the opening pitch for the San Jose Miners in July, and⁠—”

“Why?” His lips curled, and it irritated me that my eyes shot right to them.

“Why are the pretty ones always dumb?” I mumbled, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Hey—”

I held out a hand to stop his pointless protest. “With or without a relationship, we can’t work the public’s opinion of you if you’re never in the public eye.”

“Fine,” he bit out, elbows resting on the top of the long table. A muscle in his arm flexed, pulling at the shirt cuff. He needed bigger shirts…

That reminds me. I pulled out my phone. “I’m going to make sure they have a jersey with your last name on the back.”

He sighed, like the weight of this topic exhausted him.

Boo hoo. Cry me a river.

Oh no, I’m rich and hot and get to be up close and personal with other hot men in tight pants.

“When is all this shit?” His deep grumble reminded me we’d been talking. “We might be in the offseason, but it’s still busy with hockey for me. I give the guys a few weeks off the ice, but then we’re back at it.”

I nodded, jotting down a reminder of that. “I put it on the Google Calendar. Put in any days you’ve got hockey stuff going on so I don’t schedule you for image stuff.”

“Google what?”

I sighed. “Give me your phone. Not only am I doing your PR, apparently, I’m your personal assistant, too. Don’t you have someone who helps you with this?”

He shrugged, passing it to me. “My mom usually tells me about any non-hockey things, but she’s gone for her yearly summer vacation.”

“I hope you’re paying that woman well.” I flashed the screen toward his face so it’d unlock.

“I’d pay her more if she let me. She deserves the world.”