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"Am I succeeding?" His voice is hard, low, a dark chocolate that coats my nerve-endings and slides into those parts of me I didn’t know existed. I shiver, take a step back, and this time, he doesn’t follow me, thank god. I put a little more distance between us, then do a slow turn, pretending to take in the entirety of the gym. "So, this is your hang out? I’d have thought you'd prefer the local butcher where you get to chop up the meat and gut little animals."
I look up at him in time to spot the crease between his eyebrows. "Have I made that bad of an impression on you?"
"Worse," I say with false cheer. "If it weren’t for the fact that I need this job—" I pop a shoulder.
"I’m not normally this—"
"Grumpy?"
"—this—"
"Growly—"
"—this—"
"Bad-tempered? Crotchety? Crabby? Prickly? Surly? Stripy? Churlish?"
"—this silent," he drawls.
"That, too." I hitch my bag over my shoulder, then pull out my phone and navigate to the planning app on it. "I’ve set up a joint calendar for the two of us so we each have access to the other’s appointments. I’ve also updated the information on our daily meetings.” I open the app to the meeting details and hold up the phone, “This is where you were supposed to be.”
"Where I was supposed to be?" He blinks without looking at the screen.
“Our daily meetings take place in the conference room at the offices of the London Ice Kings, above the rink. When I didn’t find you there, I was informed that the gym at the 7A Club was the next best option. Good thing I tracked you down because we need to finalize the PR plan for the team."
"PR plan?"
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. What is wrong with him? This shouldn't be news. "That’s what I’m here to do… The publicity for the London Ice Kings, and that includes the publicity for—"
He glances over my shoulder and his gaze widens. A flashbulb goes off. And before I can react, he’s moved to plant his body in front of mine and throw out his arm to protect me from whoever is there. I turn and peek around his bulk, and more flashbulbs go off.
"Stay behind me," he growls and shoves at me. I stumble and have to throw my arms about his waist to right myself. There’s the sound of running feet as whoever is taking the pictures moves to the side and continues to film.
"What the—? How did he get past security?" And we haven't even announced the line-up for the team. If this is the level of attention we’re getting at this stage, it makes my job both easier and more challenging, at the same time.
"Guys, how about a kiss?" The pap calls out.
"Eh? No, there’s nothing like that between us." I release him, and he races to the edge of the platform, jumps down and pounds toward the pap. "Stop, don’t—" I begin to say, but it’s too late. Rick grabs the camera from his hand and, throwing it on the ground, he brings his foot down on it.
There’s a crunching sound and the journalist yelps, "That’s my camera!"
"You’ll be reimbursed." He stabs his chin in the direction of the exit. "Now, it's time for you to get out of here." I grab his arm—probably a bit more roughly than necessary, but what-fucking-ever—and lead him out.
7
Rick
"How could you?" She turns on me.
We’re in the conference room adjoining the office at the Alexandra Palace Rink, which is the home ground for the team.
Last evening at the 7A Club’s gym, after the run in with the journalist, the security for the club caught up with us. They apologized for the slip up, and I told them off before handing the journalist over to them; but not before I watched her soothe the pap’s ego.Yes, he was in the wrong, but he was still a member of the press,she said. She wanted to ensure I hadn’t made an enemy of him. He could tarnish my reputation in the future, after all. That was her reasoning, all conveyed to me with an eloquent glare. Like I give a fuck.
My sense of right and wrong, honed by my time in the marines, told me the pap made a mistake. Worse, he took a picture of us—of her—without her permission. He infringed on a private moment, onherprivacy. Ergo, he needed to be punished. At least, that was my opinion.
Only, Ms. PR-Soothe-Things-Over hadn’t agreed. She proceeded to smile at him, and he positively preened under her attention. At which point, I wanted to kick him out of the gym—or, at the very least, kick him somewhere else—but she must have sensed my intention, for she turned on me with a livid glower which only served to turn me on. I excused myself and escaped to the dressing room of the gym, where I’d wanked out one.
By the time I’d showered, dressed and returned, she’d dealt with the journalist. I offered to drop her back home, but she laughed outright at that.
