Page 32 of Oh, Puck!
"Everyone needs practice."
"I've been doing interviews for ten years. I think I know how to handle a microphone."
The room goes quiet, but Josie doesn't flinch.
She just tilts her head, those stunning green eyes sharp behind the glasses. My brain instantly remembers that look. The way they glazed over, pleasure-drunk, when she was spread beneath me.
"Then it should be easy for you to demonstrate your abilities."
Yeah. You know all about my abilities, don't you.
"Fine." I stand, the chair scraping against the floor. "What do you want me to do?"
She gestures to the front of the room. "Come stand up here. Like everyone else has." A few chuckles murmur around the room. "Then I'll ask you a few questions, and you just answer them like you would in a real interview."
I make my way to the front, stopping a few feet from her.
"Ready?" she asks, smiling way too sweetly at me.
"Hit me, princess."
She smirks at the nickname, then picks up a microphone from the table, holding it like a reporter would. The cameras start to roll, and I don't know if this is actually being recorded or not, but her voice shifts like this is authentic as hell.
"Captain Morrison, thanks for joining us today. Big game coming up this weekend. How's the team feeling?"
I swallow hard, my palms suddenly sweaty.
"Good. We've been working hard in practice. Ready to get back on the ice."
"Any particular strategies you're looking to employ against the Riptide?"
I shrug. "We're gonna play our game. Stick to the system and trust the process."
Classic hockey clichés. Safe. Boring.
Josie's eyes narrow slightly, like she knows exactly what I'm doing.
"And what about the rumors that this franchise is on the verge of folding? Any truth to those?"
I stare at her. She stares back, unblinking.
"That's not a real question," I say slowly.
"It could be. And as the captain of the team, if they're going to ask anyone, they'll ask you. So, Declan… how would you answer it?"
Every eye is on me. My heart hammers against my ribs, not from the pressure, but from the woman delivering it.
I hate this.
I hate that she hasn’t evenmentionedthat night, hasn’t acknowledged the fact that I know exactly how we connected that first night. I know how she feels. How she tastes.
But she doesn't have to mention it.
This whole fucking performance is a reminder.
A reminder of what she’s trying to do here.
"I'd answer it with a question," I say, my voice dropping. "I'd ask the reporter where they got their information, and why they're more interested in spreading rumors than covering the game we're about to play."
