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I’m calmer now, but I’m quickly back to my state of irritation when Hayden arrives through a back door and a) he looks amazingly hot in a dark gray suit, and b) his very presence makes me think about what I did last night.
Worse yet, I kind of want to do it again.
“What’s up your ass?” he asks when he steps toward the table, and I brush past him to place a bunch of Sharpies next to a pile of eight-by-ten glossy photos of him on the ice in his uniform.
“Youare what’s up my ass,” I snap without even thinking about how that sounds.
Shit.
I mentally smack my forehead.
Grinning, he steps closer to me and murmurs in a husky tone, “That could be arranged. Would you like that, Addison? You strike me as the kinky type.”
Gulp.
“Get away from me,” I hiss, “before I call and report you to human resources.”
He stumbles back so fast it’s like I slapped him.
Feeling bad, because this is just what we do all the time, I tell him, “I wasn’t serious. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” He starts messing with the Sharpies, careful not to make eye contact with me. “I apologize as well. What I said was inappropriate.”
I release a frustrated breath. “Aw, man, we are just never going to get along, are we?”
Finally raising his eyes to meet mine, sadness in his pretty pale blues, Hayden states matter-of-factly, “Probably not.”
I just shake my head before I walk away to talk to the photographer, who just arrived.
When the event gets underway, it’s like nothing ever happened. Hayden signs a ton of autographs and takes several selfies with fans, his smile and interactions all genuine.
I also am professional. I check in with the photographer on shots I’d like for him to get, and I make sure Hayden is comfortable.
When he needs water, I get it for him.
When the glossy photos of him run out, I replace them with more.
When he needs to take a bathroom break, I keep the fans occupied by passing out complimentary magnetic team schedules.
Everything runs so smoothly that the hours fly by.
The line dwindles, and Hayden signs a final few autographs.
The store then closes its doors, and the photographer leaves.
We begin to wrap up.
I notice there’s only one employee remaining, and he’s giving us a lot of space. That’s good; it means we can talk.
“That went well,” I say to Hayden as I collect the markers and the remaining photos to place in my tote.
“I think so too,” he agrees as he shrugs on the suit jacket he took off about halfway through the event when it got too warm in the store.
He’s being cordial, so I think our earlier argument is forgotten.
In an effort to keep the peace, I say, “You were so nice to everyone. I think they all felt like they got to know you a little better as a person, not just as a player.”
“I’m just playing the game, Addison,” he says with a shrug. “Just playing the game.”
