Page 88 of Xander

Before I could make the call, his phone chimed, and I returned it to him. Xander arched an eyebrow at the screen.

“What?” When he didn’t respond right away, I asked, “Henry?”

“No. I was tagged in an Instagram post.” He tilted the phone, but I already knew what I was going to see.

It was the picture of me straddling Xander in an abandoned parking lot.

The room smelled like lemon cleaner. After the Instagram photo went live, Xander called his agent and his coach. Both of them agreed to a meeting, and we were now sitting in one of the administrative offices of the rink, where they kept track of all the player files and tax information for the building. The file cabinets were at my back and looked like relics from the 70s. Possibly they were. Bureaucracies tended to move at a slow pace.

Unlike social media.

I tucked my sunglasses into the collar of my blouse, straightening my clothes self-consciously as I studied the other two men in the room. His agent was a dark-haired man named Carl Ross—who went by Ross—and I knew his coach as Coach Foley.

“So, I think we all know why we’re here.” Ross looked at us. His glance seemed to home in on me and then linger for a few moments longer than necessary.

“Ross!” Xander snapped. “Your eyes seem to have a problem with wandering onto things not meant for them.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Carl shook his head, and Xander stared between us. “Sorry,” he mumbled, glancing down at the table.

Already, I could tell Xander was on edge. I didn’t understand him. Everything had been fine between us, sans his father trying to ruin his life. The unexpected shift in his mood was once more giving me whiplash. There was never an explanation for it, he would simply go from tranquil to beastly for no reason.

I focused on the other two less complicated men in the room. I looked into their social media profiles this morning to learn more about them. From the looks Coach Foley was giving me, he had done the same. I’d seen that expression on Xander’s teammate, Kai, and knew what it meant. He was aware of my relationship with Xander and wasn’t happy about it. In fact, he was pissed.

Coach Foley cleared his throat. “How are we going to handle it?” He spoke in a drawn-out way that was probably supposed to sound paternal but came off condescending.

“Let’s start with the lost sponsorship, eh?” Ross suggested.

I frowned. “Wait. What lost sponsorship?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? One of the team’s sponsors was a sports outfitter in New York. Family-owned chain, lots of hockey gear, big on family values. Not so big on whatever this is,” Coach said, gesturing between Xander and me. “When the photo went live, they sent me a Dear John and bowed out, costing the team thousands of dollars a year, not to mention the free gear.”

Fuck.

I ran my hands over my face and stiffened when I felt Xander put his hand on my thigh beneath the table.

“Okay. This can be fixed,” I started. “Let’s find another shop without as much of a social media presence. We can do some pro bono modeling with the players and have them share the pictures on their socials as part of a collaboration. I’m sure they’d be grateful for the boost.”

“What do you think this is?” Coach Foley broke in. “America’s Next Top Model? My boys are busy gearing up for the game. They don’t have time to prance around a runway for free.” His coach shot a black look at Xander. “The whole team shouldn’t suffer because of one person’s mistake.”

“Well, I’m open to suggestions,” I said pleasantly, trying to ignore Xander’s tightening squeeze on my knee. He seemed seconds away from exploding, which would only deteriorate the situation.

“Yeah, I got one,” Coach said. “Drop the puck bunny act. You two are related, and what’s happening here is disgusting⁠—”

My heart started beating erratically at the accusation, and at the same time, Xander growled, “She’s not a fucking puck bunny. I’m not going to sit in this room if you’re going to talk about her like I scraped her up from the gutters.”

His coach’s eyes flashed as if no one had dared to speak up against him, and they probably hadn’t. Players didn’t talk back to their coaches.

I had a feeling if Xander didn’t respect his coach so much, he would’ve pounced on him and was holding himself back with great effort. I patted his shoulder in hopes of calming him, which seemed to unwind the tense muscles of his neck marginally.

He took his hand away from my leg and folded both on the table in front of him. “If you want to talk solutions, I’m here for it,” he added, sounding less angry. “Otherwise, we’re leaving.”

“Maybe we can spin this,” Carl mused, desperate to break the tension. “Hockey is big with the female demo right now. Perhaps we can use Jordan to our advantage.”

“I can do whatever you need me to,” I said, equally eager to play diplomat. “But before we talk strategy, one thing you need to know about the article and the photo is that they’re filled with lies. It was my soon-to-be ex-husband’s doing, who was angry at my stepson for stepping in after he hit me.”

As I spoke, I rooted through my purse for one of my makeup wipes. The men gasped when I cleaned off my heavy-duty foundation, revealing the bruise splotching my cheekbone.

No matter how many times he saw it, Xander looked as if the sight pained him. I ran my fingers over it as if it cemented my truth.