Page 34

The mutters of disapproval escalate, mixing with a few stifled laughs. Assistant Coach Brad is turning crimson, the veins in his neck pulsing like he’s a kettle about ready to blow. I place a hand on his arm, giving my head the slightest of shakes.

“Not the first dick I’ve seen, boys. And not the first penis, either.”

Dalton covers a snort with a fake cough.

Trent’s grin slips a fraction. He’s the new hotshot on the team, the youngest and one of the few with a truly concerning rap sheet of bad decisions.

At twenty, he’s already made the news for starting two bar fights despite being underage, fucked his way through an impressive number of infamous partners leading to several features in the tabloids about how the hockey prodigy broke up two high-profile marriages this year.

Not to mention several unethical hits on the ice.

Busy guy. When reading the profiles, I had pegged him as the team’s problem child, even without Dalton’s warning during our meeting.

In reality, Trent doesn’t disappoint. He’s a cocky shit, but the man puts asses in seats and has a goldmine of talent.

“Trent Belanger,” I say, tilting my head to the side. Pointedly, I give him the kind of appraising once over douchey guys are always slinging women. “Unless you’re aiming to partner with some nudest colonies, keep it covered.”

“Yeah, well, the ladies love it.” He drawls with a puke-worthy wink. Still, despite the confident words, Trent winds the towel around his waist.

“Yeah, well, the ladies lie,” I say in the same tone, lobbing his words back at him.

“Leave a little to the imagination next time. You don’t want to underwhelm a woman right out of the gate.

Also, take note, the only person in this room impressed with this pitiful power move right now is you.

Get dressed, we’ve got work to do, and you’re wasting my time. Press room in five minutes.”

I turn and walk away without a second glance.

By the time the guys file in, it is creeping toward eleven. Ramona has already texted five times asking how the morning is going. I mute her after sending a placating Good, will send a report when done with kick off. Not like a dick pic would show her how successful the morning has been.

“Find the packet with your name on it and take a seat,” I instruct as they enter.

The guys lumber in, most looking less than enthusiastic.

It isn’t unnoticed that Trent is a no show.

While I expect Trent to put up a fight after being put in his place, a small prick of frustration hits my nerves that the coaches are absent, too.

I guess they feel like the PR training sessions are beneath them.

That will be remedied when I drop off their packets by hand later.

I placed Dalton’s in the back row, allowing us as much breathing room as possible.

If he’s hurt by the gesture, he keeps it off his masterfully neutral face.

He has the complacent expression almost perfect, but the instant his eyes lock with mine, sparks flare, stealing my breath. I force myself to look away first.

Clearing my throat, I continue. “Each packet is based on the questionnaires you filled out yesterday. They’re tailored with a PR plan, potential sponsorship opportunities and training requirements.”

“This is a waste of time. Trent had the right idea. I’m headed to the weight room.

” A younger guy with a hulking build, shaggy black hair, and a missing tooth says from the middle row.

I clock him. Adam Caderwall, twenty-two, is known for being hot-headed.

He’s from North Dakota and just had a baby with his high school sweetheart out of wedlock.

Not that I care, but some conservatives have not been very kind on socials about it. Like it’s any of their business.

“You do that, Caderwall. Bet your girlfriend would way rather have a jacked man than the financial security of you signing a one-year contract with Adidas for an additional three hundred thousand. That’s only a college fund for your new son.

” I turn my attention to a blonde baby-faced guy in the front row.

“Masters, you interested in endorsing Adidas?”

“You bet your ass I am! That new green Lambo is calling my name!” Masters throws his head back, crowing with a fist pump.

Caderwall glares at his teammate, flipping him the middle finger, causing a round of jeers and whoops. Dalton’s watching me with an approving grin that’s way too distracting.

“Let’s be clear,” I shout, then drop my voice, forcing them to quiet down if they want to hear me.

“Anyone unwilling to take my feedback and work on it can kiss my sponsorship support goodbye. Your team’s owners hired my company to improve your brand and land more sponsors, both for the benefit of the team and to line your own pockets.

I don’t need all of you onboard to get that job done.

Hell, we can do it with a few select VIPs while the rest of you just show up on the ice, play, and look pretty.

I’m not your personal assistant. I am not your sponsorship bitch.

I do not work for you. This relationship is a byproduct of a contract signed above your pay grade.

If you have issues, take it up with the owner and the coaches.

I’m sure they’d love to renegotiate your contracts.

” The excitement buzzing in the room deflates.

“That said, I would rather see each of you benefit and help advance your careers in a way that won’t end if you’re injured or when you want to retire.

Adam, are you good with those terms, or would you like to join Trent? ”

Caderwall stands stock still in the middle of the aisle, dark brow furrowing as his honey complexion flushes pink, not wanting to back down, but also knowing he’s been put in the metaphorical corner. His weight shifts a few times, the lower corner of his lip pinching between his teeth.

“Sit your ass back down, Caderwall. We all know Veronica will murder you if you fuck up a big sponsorship deal.” Dalton says.

The atmosphere lifts as there’s a fresh round of jeers when Adam plops down in a seat, packet in hand, muttering something that sounds like an apology.

Dalton gives me a nod, raising his eyebrows as if to say carry on, ringleader.

Not your monkeys, but this is your circus.

The rest of the meeting goes better than expected.

I don’t have to call out anyone else, and most guys show genuine interest after reviewing their lists of potential sponsors.

After making everyone number the potential sponsors in ascending order from most desired to least, I begin shoving each of them into the hot seat for interview training, opening the floor to the entire team to drill their teammates with questions.

It devolves into a game of pushing buttons, which is exactly what I want.

It’s clear I have my work cut out for me.

Five players stand out as model voice-boxes for the team, three of which currently have little to no press coverage.

While their lead scorer, Aden Johnson, is about as articulate as a stoned slug.

Dalton, of course, is one of the standouts. The man would make Ted Lasso proud.

“Your team fucked up tonight. Who’s at fault for your loss?” Halston James asks.

“Damn, James. Harsh dude.” Caderwall eyeballs the rookie.

“Legit question, man. I had a prick from the Times ask me that once after a college game.” James nods.

“I’ve been asked similar questions and worse.” Dalton agrees from the hot seat. “The key is keeping your cool.”

“Or ignoring the asshole.” Caderwall murmurs.

“Ignoring those types of questions isn’t always an option.

It only takes one jerk to ask the question everyone wants answered.

Once that question is out, others will press for your response.

The more you deflect, the more they’ll push.

” I interject. “The art is in making them come off like the prick and making you and your team look good. Dalton, care to answer?”

My heart flutters as Dalton leans into the mic on the table, eyes fixing on me.

“Who’s at fault for our loss?” Dalton repeats the question.

“In part, I am. As Captain, I take responsibility that I could have done more to lead my team. This wasn’t our best played game.

But instead of looking for an individual to blame, I see growth opportunities for us to work on together.

We’re a team. Which means we win together and we lose together.

Mistakes were made as a whole. It’s clear we have work to do, and when we learn to work together more cohesively, we’ll play better.

At this level, if an individual is struggling, it’s because his team failed him.

I won’t throw a man under the bus for a headline. Next question.”

“Damn.” James nods in approval.

“And that’s why he’s Captain.” Caderwall agrees.

“Tell me why that’s an excellent answer?” I ask, forcing the guys to dredge up the training points I went over earlier.

“He repeated the question.” Daws, the backup goalie, shouts.

“He pitched us as a team,” James adds.

“He took responsibility.”

“And…” I press.

“And he told the guy to fuck off with all the class of the Prince of England,” Caderwall says to a rumble of laughter.

A grin splits my face. “Exactly! Journalists who push questions like that want you to get pissed, to lash out. If you call out a teammate, they win. If you cuss a reporter out in a room full of cameras, they win. You storm out in a huff, they win. Dalton was able to call the guy out as a dick without saying it. Effectively shutting down that line of questioning.”

“You mean like how you shut down Trent and then Caderwall’s tantrums earlier?” Kris, their starting Right Defenseman, shouts from the back row, earning a death glare from the man in question and applause from the rest of his teammates.

I don’t bother hiding a smile. “If you can control the loudest voices in the crowd, you can control the room. Okay, that’s a wrap for today. Leave your top sponsor choices on the table in the back so I can start outreach.”

Before they make their escape, Dalton says into the mic, “And that, boys, is why this woman is in charge of you uncivilized jocks. If you’re smart and let her in, she just might change your life.”

“And our bank accounts!” Someone else shouts, but I don’t look to see who said it as the guys clear out of the press room.

“Can I have a moment of your time, Jenna? I’ve got a few questions about my packet.” He stands, saying this loud enough for the straggling teammates to hear. Ever the professional.

“Sure, I’m all yours.” The words fall out before I realize what I’m saying.

Dalton’s eyebrows rise as the last guy leaves, the door shutting behind him with a snap. God damn it, every fiber of my being wants to jump this man and the look he’s giving isn’t helping.

Fuck, keeping this professional is going to be so much harder than I thought.