Page 19 of Something to Prove
And Walker didn’t like it. He fidgeted with the sleeve on his to-go cup, lips pursed unhappily. “I understand your consternation, but you should take me up on my consultation offer. I can help, you know.”
“No, thanks. Send me questions, and we’ll set up an appointment.”
“Wait.” He snagged my practice jersey and twisted on the bench. “To do this right, I’ll need three appointments.”
“You get one and?—”
“Two. One will take place at my office and the second will be in the locker room. I’ll request permission with the athletic department to use approved game footage too. I run a professional operation—every i is dotted and every t is crossed,” he continued in a rush.
“I bet.”
Walker puffed up with indignation. “The purpose ofWhat’s New, Smithton?is to positively highlight the community. Your story is uplifting and exciting and it’s a great opportunity?—”
“For you to use me. For a story, for redemption. I get that.” I crumbled the bakery bag into a fist-sized ball and stood. “I’mnot thrilled about it, but since I’m calling the shots now, I’ll let it slide. I’ll be in touch. Later, Woody.”
“My name is not Woody,” he gritted through his teeth.
I winked and made my exit, feeling mighty smug.
That went well, if I did say so myself. Very well.
CHAPTER 8
WALKER
Ty Czerniak was a monster.No, he was an overgrown man-child, high on his warped idea of power.
Terrible questions. Try again.
As if requesting me to revise a hundred questions over the past few days was somehow…fun. I growled at my cell and pushed it out of reach to avoid throwing it across the room.
Grr!I blew out an exasperated breath and retrieved my phone.
It’s customary to begin with standard noninvasive queries and end with something personal.
Three dancing dots later, Ty responded with a thumbs-down emoji.Boring. No one cares if I won a trophy in Mighty Mites.
Yes, they do. That question establishes how long you’ve played hockey without asking directly. It stays.
He sent a warning sign gif.Whoa, Nelly. Who has two thumbs and gets final say? This guy.
I gave up, scrolled for his number, and tapped Send.
“I didn’t know we were doing the talking on the phone thing,” Ty answered in greeting.
“We’re not, but I don’t have the mental spoons required to continue an inane text thread with you.”
“All right, but I gotta warn you…this is gonna cost you a few minutes off the clock,” Ty said in a lilting tone.
“It will not,” I huffed through my teeth.
“Will too.”
I bit back another “will not,” and reminded myself to stay calm as I massaged the bridge of my nose. The jock was officially under my skin in all the worst ways. It was time to try another tactic.
“If you don’t like my questions, perhaps you should write a few and text them to me.”
The line went quiet for a beat. “Cool. I can do that. It’ll be a long list, though. I’ll bring it to the interview.”