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I’m not distracted any more, not pissed off. I am supremely focused on one thing, and one thing only—serving up shark fin soup.
Only after the game, when the Megs are crying in their locker room and their coach is having an aneurysm, will I unpack why I’m letting Rowan mess with my head like this.
17
ROWAN
What an incredible last-minute goal.The crowd is still shouting and cheering, and happiness sings through my veins.
I hold up my hand for a high five.
Cecelia obliges.
“Suck it, Megs,” she shouts, and I burst into laughter.
Never in a million years would I have imagined those words coming out of her elegant mouth.
The Megs are skating off, shoulders slumped, defeated. Whew. I was genuinely worried for a while there.
The adrenaline’s wearing off now, though, and I yawn. “Well, I’m ready to stagger on home,” I say. “What a rush that was. All that screaming wore me right out.”
“Not so fast, grandma,” Cecelia chides me. I groan. A hockey puck to the face is nothing compared to how much it hurts to have a sixty-something-year-old woman call me grandma. “We’re going to head down the hall, where the guys sign stuff after the game. That way, they’ll know we were here for them.”
“They already saw us,” I groan. “Well, Mason and Beck definitely saw us. They were practically right on top of us.”
Cecelia shakes her head. “We need to show our faces to the team. Have I mentioned how incredibly important they are to us as a client?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “No, never.”
She’s already moving away. “Suck it up. Let’s go.”
“I’m putting chocolate on your desk tomorrow,” I threaten.
“Thank you. I’ll give it to my daughter. That little witch can eat her weight in sugar and not gain an ounce.”
With a sigh, as usual, I acquiesce and follow her, letting her lead me down a scuffed hallway. When we reached the guard, we show our badges and he steps aside. I feel a jolt of alarm at the sight of a small crowd of paparazzi buzzing around the hallway, brandishing their cameras. They aren’t usually allowed back here for the meet-and-greets.
Cecelia and I exchange looks of dismay. Our goal is to manage all media exposure, and not have the press climb all over anyone on the team unless the team member has been prepped first and we’re standing by their side.
“What are they doing here?” I demand of the guard. He glances at them, bored. “They were given clearance.”
“By whom?” Cecelia asks, wrinkles deepening in her forehead as she frowns at them.
The guard shrugs. “Not my business. Above my pay grade. I was told to let them in, so I did.”
“Not cool,” I mutter to Cecelia.
We step away from him, and Cecelia digs her phone from her purse. “I’m calling Ralph,” she says, sounding annoyed. I nod in agreement. The owner needs to know about this. She dials, then curses and glares at her phone. “No damn cell reception here.”
As she shoves her phone back in her purse, a beautiful woman emerges from a doorway, with a miffed expression on her face, and walks towards us, graceful as a gazelle.
It’s Lexi Caton.
Mason’s ex. Well, that’s just awesome.
And my God, is she lovely. Slender as a swizzle stick, with the most glorious mane of chestnut hair. I’m reasonably self-confident about my looks—unless I’m in a room with someone like her.
“Lexi. Lexi.” The paps swarm her like flies on honey. “What are you doing in the wives’ room?”
