Page 10 of He Has Charm

Opening up my tablet, I angle it to carve out extra space between us. “What do your friends call you? Maddox?”

“My family calls me Mad. My teammates call me Knight. Or they used to.” He shrugs, but I see the shadow of sadness cross his features and realize he’s lost all his friends from the team in one fell swoop and I doubt he even had a chance to say goodbye. I know it happens all the time in professional sports, but that doesn’t make it any less of an adjustment to lose your friends and your home and start over.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure your new teammates will catch on.” My hand reaches out and pats his knee. The gesture of comfort is automatic and it’s so ingrained that I don’t realize I’m touching him until the heat of his bare flesh scalds my hand. His eyes meet mine in surprise and he smiles with appreciation, not one of those innuendo-implying smirks. But I snatch my hand back and look away too fast to deserve any credit for his appreciation.

As I busy myself with emails, the sparkle of my spike sandals made for evening wear catches my eye. The strappy glitter is so not appropriate with this business suit. Shit.

“Killer shoes,” he says.

“They’re all wrong, but my sneakers would be even more wrong—or maybe—”

“No. I veto the sneakers. One of us wearing sneakers is all we can get away with for a press conference. We can’t have the reporters thinking I’m repped by a gym teacher, can we?” I suppress a smile.

“You’re keeping the broken shoes?” he continues.

“They were my favorites. Eventually I’ll get them fixed.”

“Do they still have shoe cobblers around? Might be tough to find a new heel like that.”

“I’ll figure it out. Least of our problems.” I get myself back to business, feeling only slightly off wearing the glittery shoes with my business suit. I pull a sheet of paper from my bag to go over.

“Here are your talking points for the press conference.” I hand it to him. “Study it and don’t stray off topic, don’t ad lib, and do not ramble. Fewer words are better.”

“Got it.” He looks at me askance. “You know I’ve done this before, right?”

“You’ve faced down a scandal at a press conference to save your career before?” I arch a brow.

“Touché. Not exactly. But I’ve never had a problem handling the press.”

“Until now. They’ll be out for blood today, to use you and any scintillating details they can wring out. You’re big, juicy, salacious story, a ticket to a payday for them. You’re no longer Maddox Knight, hockey player. You are Maddox Knight, hot scandal. Remember that and do your best not to give them anything, of course while being cooperative and pleasant.”

“Well, fuck,” he says. “How long do you suppose the press conference will run? I’m not sure I can take the torture more than a few minutes before they pull a full confession out of me.”

“Ha ha. Take this seriously. Please.”

“Don’t worry, St. John. I’ll follow your lead.”

“I won’t be saying a thing. You’re on your own.”

“Exactly. I can handle it.” He stares at me with a strange combination of amusement and seriousness wavering on his face and my heart speeds up. I’m counting on him and I hope he’s right.

“Yes, you can.” I decide I need to believe in him or drive myself crazy. And I’m already crazy enough just breathing him in.

Four

Maddox

At the press conference

Before Harper’s little pep talk I hadn’t been worried about the press conference, hadn’t given it much thought. Now? Let’s just say having the shit spelled out didn’t improve my outlook, and so I find myself marching toward the door of the press room in the Garden with Coach Larry Green, the Brawlers’ management and owners, and a medium-sized lump of anxiety that I’m working on swallowing down before I get behind the podium. Harper follows slightly behind me and, in spite of the fact that these men are all part of my new team, I feel like Harper is the only one truly on my team at the moment.

* * *

Standing sandwiched between the owners, Feeney and Todd, and Coach Green at a mic-filled podium in front of a packed press room with more than fifty reporters, bloggers, and cameras of all kinds, I shift past the aforementioned lump and into game mode. This is the me I usually reserve for ice time where I’m serious, as focused as the devil on sin.

Feeney introduces me with reserved praise for my scoring ability as the extra punch the team needs to get to the cup this year. The PR lady, Mary Delaney doesn’t roll her eyes, but I can see that she wants to grab the microphone away from the newish owner and hit him on the head with it. Or I could be projecting my own inner desire. Which remains well hidden by my game face. Feeney extends his hand in my direction and steps aside. Coach gives me a warning look. And with that, I take center stage in front of a podium with too many mics to count at a glance and the goddam flash of lights nearly blinding me.

“I already love Boston because you all have as much passion for hockey as I do.” I smile and the shouted questions begin. Delaney steps up and points at one reporter and the others settle back to wait their turn.