Chapter Two

Rowan

Before walking through the halls of the Hawkeyes corporate office only a few moments ago, I spent my morning staring at the email I received from my boss, feeling the weight of the words pressing against my chest.

"Rowan, we need an interview from Coach Bex ASAP. He’s a key figure in this season’s story, and you’ve got the best chance at getting him to talk. Make it happen."

Best regards,

Charles Albright

He makes it sound so easy. As if the grumpy arrogant head coach hasn’t made it his life’s mission to avoid me, dodge interviews, and treat me like I'm planning to load antifreeze in the Zamboni water tank.

Now I’m standing in Sam Roberts' office, watching the Hawkeyes’ GM across his desk. Despite Coach Bex’s agitated reaction to Sam’s news, Sam stands relaxed, hands on his hips, calmly waiting for Bex to finish his rant.

Bex is clearly unhappy that I'll be joining the team on away games starting in two weeks, but Sam is one of the most unshakeable GMs I’ve met in my years as a reporter—almost nothing ruffles him.

"Absolutely not, Sam. We only have eight more weeks to make it to the playoffs and you want to send a reporter with us for out of town games starting in two weeks? We can't afford any distractions," Bex says, leaning over Sam's desk.

Bexley Townsend.

Six foot two, two-time Stanley Cup winner, NHL Hall of Famer, and a former player for the Hawkeyes. Not that you could tell that the man was ever injured if you saw him out there on the ice during practice with the guys or in the gym lifting weights. You'd think he still plays professionally. He's in just as good of a shape as when he was playing, maybe even better, and he must have some kind of Benjamin Button disease because as much as I want his face to match his personality, he's inexplicably better looking with age.

And to add more to the man's bolstered ego, the gossip around the water cooler is that over his long career, he's turned down a full spread in Playgirl—twice. Not to mention that his sexy British accent could incinerate a woman’s panties. Bex is eighteen years older than me but has the grumpy disposition of my eighty-year-old neighbor Hans, who lives three doors down and gripes at me regularly every time I work from home while listening to true crime murder mysteries.

Each time I pass Hans in the halls these days, he tells me in a huff, "People should work in an office. Why is everyone now working from home? It's screwing with my nap schedule."

Get with the times Hans, it's a new age. No one wants to go outside anymore.

I'd like to respond with something similar, but I can't bring myself to do it. Hans has the cutest Boston Terrier that absolutely loves me, and when Hans has a doctor's appointment or needs someone to let Sherlock out for a tinkle midday, he calls me. Once a year Hans heads down to Portland to visit his daughter overnight, and I always volunteer to keep Sherlock for a sleepover.

We snuggle under a blanket on my couch and watch CSI Las Vegas together. I can usually guess who the killer is within the first ten minutes, but Sherlock doesn't mind… or at least he's never mentioned that it bothers him.

I'm too busy to have a dog of my own. The long hours, the travel—it wouldn’t be fair to the dog. So I borrow Sherlock when the very real ache to get my own fur baby arises, and I need to snuff it out. It's a temporary Band-Aid on a deeper wound that refuses to heal, but it’s the best I can do for now.

The truth is, the ache goes deeper than just wanting a pet. It’s tied to something I can’t have, something I’ve had to accept over the years. The doctors have all but confirmed that I’ll never have children of my own. Drew, my ex and I, tried everything, and now, with that chapter firmly closed, I’ve told myself to stop hoping for something I can’t have. No kids, no fur babies—just me, focusing on what I can control.

Sports journalism wasn’t my first dream. I wanted to write about art, about things that inspire people. But after everything that’s happened, I’m determined to make this work. It’s all I have left to build, and I won’t let it crumble. At least here, I can prove myself, show everyone what I’m capable of. And if I can secure this interview with Coach Bex, I’ll secure my position as a top sports reporter for The Seattle Sunrise .

For now, that’s enough. It has to be.

It dawns on me that maybe Bex and Hans share the same problem. Team practices are messing with Bex's nap schedule. That must be it.

Lack of sleep makes Bexley a grumpy boy.

Oh, how I wish it were that easy, but I suspect Bex's mood is his unfortunate default setting. And as far as I know, Bex doesn't have any cute puppy to force me to be nice to him for future play dates.

Instead, he'd like to see me sidelined from attending any away games, but neither my boss at The Seattle Sunrise nor his boss will allow such a thing to happen. Though if I’m wrong and Coach Bex has a bigger pull with Sam than I know, getting kept off the Hawkeyes jet could threaten my ability to do my job and prove to Charles that I deserve the head sports journalist position.

With every game, the Hawkeyes get closer and closer to the playoffs. The official NHL playoffs are within sight, and as long as the Hawkeyes boys can pull off eight more weeks of game wins, they'll have earned their spot in the Western Conference.

"Bex," Sam says evenly, "this arrangement was approved months ago. Rowan’s presence isn’t negotiable. The deal was that she will start to travel with the team as we get closer to the payoffs."

Sam Roberts' phone, dings and lights up on his desk. I catch the name WIFE on the incoming text. Wife?

He types a quick reply, a small smile tugging at his lips, then sets the phone down. I thought he was divorced.

A glance at his ring finger shows it’s bare—no indent or tan line. Not all men wear wedding bands, but for some reason, I’d expect Sam to if he were married. Could he be rekindling something with Penelope’s mom? With Penelope now firmly established as Assistant GM for the Hawkeyes, maybe Sam’s considering life after hockey.

I glance at Bex’s left hand, finding it clenched and also ringless. I know he has an ex-wife—his rookie-year marriage that ended quickly. The official “irreconcilable differences” didn’t reveal much, and while gossip columns hinted at infidelity, neither side confirmed it.

Spending so much time around Bex lately, I can take a wild guess why she walked away.

Still, Sam’s situation intrigues me. I make a mental note to dig into his future with the team. Penelope might know something about the WIFE contact on Sam’s phone, but asking her outright risks tipping her off. For now, this stays a solo mission.

"Non-negotiable?" Bex scoffs, running a hand through his irritatingly full head of dark brown hair. "We're talking about the future of this team, Sam. Every second counts. We can't have some reporter poking around, disrupting our players' focus. Asking what animal they most closely identify with or what they wanted to be when they were five years old."

"Hey!..." I interject. I've held my tongue for long enough. "I’ve never asked a question that the fans don't gobble up. The players like the questions, too. It lightens the mood during an interview, and the fans enjoy hearing about their favorite players."

I'm a professional, not some tabloid vulture, and I already know that Phil Carlton wants me on that jet in two weeks, which means that Bexley Townsend is going to have to deal with it.

I've had full access to the team since Thanksgiving, far beyond the typical media room privileges my press badge grants most reporters at the Hawkeyes stadium. Yet, over the past four months, I’ve kept my presence scarce, sticking to game highlights and brief interviews with one player a week to keep the fans engaged.

Bex acts as if I'm hounding his players daily for sit-down interviews—it's not like that. He should know since he lives, eats, and breathes this place. I don't think I've ever stepped into the Hawkeyes stadium without Coach Bex being in the building. If I hadn't already seen his office and saw for myself that there isn't any evidence that he has a cot stashed in the corner and lives here full-time, I'd wonder.

He should be happy that I'm doing my job so efficiently. The ticket and jersey sales have increased since The Seattle Sunrise has created a special segment each week for just the Hawkeyes team. Meaning that his attitude towards me is completely unprovoked.

Okay, maybe not completely. There is the matter of the article I wrote about him earlier this year, before I knew I would land this huge opportunity and have to work side by side with him.

As a reporter, I don't usually worry about hurting a player or coach's feelings, especially since I report what is factual or observed firsthand. If I had known that the most senior sports reporter at The Seattle Sunrise was going to have his appendix rupture out of nowhere and my boss would choose me to fill in for him, I would have rethought writing an article about the versatility of Bex's resting asshole face. Maybe then he wouldn't be attempting to block my access to the team and effectively making it look like I can't do my job.

The article wasn't untrue, but it didn't paint him in the best light.

And I might have made a reference to the similarities between Coach Bex and a very large bridge troll.

The thing is, I'm not even close to the first reporter to write spot-on observations about Coach Bex's prickly disposition, and I doubt I'll be the last. In the column, I also wrote that despite his personality shortcomings, he's still arguably one of the best coaches ever to lead an NHL team.

Sam clears his throat, stepping in. "This isn't just about the team, Bex. It's about the franchise. The publicity from this coverage could be invaluable. Tessa is already seeing a rise in social media following and Autumn is getting more requests for product placement within the stadium. Not to mention that sales are up."

"Publicity?" Bex practically spits out the word. "We're here to win championships, not gain followers."

Sam looks to me and then back to Bex. "And we can do both," he counters, his tone patient but firm. "Phil Carlton himself signed off on this. The Hawkeyes have a chance to connect with our fans on a deeper level. Let them see the human side of our players as they fight for the cup."

Bex's jaw clenches, and I can almost hear his teeth grinding. "The human side? These are professional athletes, not reality TV stars. They need to focus on their game, not chit chat about their zodiac sign with a reporter who will turn around as soon as she gets her promotion and return to labeling us all as..." he turns his head to glare at me with a lifted brow. "What was it that you called me in that article? Oh right, a bumbling bridge troll with the approachability of a rabid porcupine and the social graces of a feral cat at Sunday brunch." Bex's eyes narrow as he finishes the quote, his voice dripping with disdain.

I knew it!

I knew this is why he's had it out for me since the minute I stepped on the Hawkeyes property with a shiny new full-access badge.

It's a grudge.

Sure, I know that Bex doesn't like reporters. I've been in the press box long enough and in the after-game media frenzy where Bex barely sits for his allotted time to take questions from reporters. I could see it in his eyes the second I walked into the stadium four months ago with Sam, a shiny new badge around my neck that gives me more clearance to this place than any other reporter has ever had, and he wasn't happy with the new arrangement.

It was a look of disdain across his sharp nose, strong jaw, and deep hazel-green eyes.

My boss expects an exclusive interview with every player on this team—including the head coach who hasn’t taken a one-on-one interview with a reporter in over twenty-five years— not since his rookie year and subsequent divorce. Charles is practically foaming at the mouth to get this Coach Bex’s story on paper.

"Make it juicy," Charles said, his tone dripping with anticipation when he first gave me the exclusive Hawkeyes story. " Dig into the failed marriage, the divorce, his reputation on and off the ice. We’re talking the inside scoop, Summers. The kind of story that makes headlines for weeks."

This is where I should back down.

But I just can't.

I shrug, meeting his glare with a sweet smile. "For the record, I compared your leadership style to a bridge troll, not you personally. It wouldn’t be fair for me to make an assumption about the man behind the coach since you refuse interviews for me to find out. It would seem none of your fans know you personally either." I place my index finger on my chin in fake contemplation. "And although you recited that article beautifully, I have to correct you on one small error. I do believe the reference I made was "the social graces of a disgruntled honey badger at a garden party." It's an easy mistake, though; anyone could have made it. And you're welcome. That article was purely poetic and completely free of charge."

Sam coughs, trying to hide his smirk. Bex glares harder, his lip twitches and I half expect him to snarl. "You’ve got jokes. But it’s hard to take you seriously when your biggest claim to fame is calling out athletes from behind a keyboard. Must be nice, throwing shade behind the safety of the plexiglass."

"Bex..." I hear Sam warn under his breath, but Bex's eyes stay glued to mine.

I resist the urge to flinch under Bex's narrow stare. Instead, I lift my chin slightly. "Well, it’s great to know that you're an avid reader of The Seattle Sunrise . Didn’t expect you to be such a fan of my work. Should I autograph the article for you? I could frame it, and you could hang it on the wall in your office. It would add some much-needed personality and humor to the otherwise charming bare beige walls. And just to be clear, staying safely behind the Plexiglas is the perk of my chosen profession."

Bex growls while fighting the urge to throttle me. "Don't flatter yourself, Summers. The last thing I want is anything from you, including your autograph. I'm relieved you plan to stay on the spectator side of the ice, though. You can also keep your opinions of my coaching style to yourself. If I want to hear a more half-baked take on my coaching style, I’ll go to social media, where I can find all the insightful critiques from the knobheaded followers you've added for us. Thanks again for that, by the way."

The readers of The Seattle Sunrise are not knobheads. Or at least I don't think they are. I'm not British but I know an insult when I hear one and I'm assuming that's what he meant.

Sam clears his throat, preparing himself to diffuse the tension. "Okay, you two, it's time for a cease-fire. This conversation is getting out of hand, and I have stayed hopeful that you two could hash out your differences like grown adults, but it seems that you can't. The decision has already been made for this to happen," Bex turns back to Sam as if to make another plea, but Sam holds up his palm to Bex, indicating that he's not interested in hearing anymore. "Look, Bex, I understand your concerns. But I do think that your reasoning is unfounded. Everything that I have seen shows that Rowan is capable of doing her job, and I’ve only received positive reactions from players on the team at how she conducts her interviews. You're the only one with an issue of her presence around here. This is happening whether you two can get along or not, but I strongly suggest, for both of your careers," he says, glancing between us both, "that you two find a way to work together this season. Rowan will be joining the team for any home and away games that are required for her to keep her boss and our boss happy. That means that I expect everyone to cooperate fully. Her presence won't interfere with practices or game prep. She'll follow all team protocols."

Bex's nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. For a moment, I think he might actually explode. But then his shoulders slump slightly in defeat.

"Fine," he growls. "But she stays out of the locker room, off the ice, and away from the players during warm-ups and cool-downs. And if I catch even a whiff of her disrupting my team during game days or knocking on their hotel room doors in the middle of the night—"

My eyes flare the second he insinuates that I would ever be unprofessional or blur the lines of personal ethics.

"Please tell me that you didn't just suggest that I would—"

"That's offensive," Sam says, coming to my aid. "Rowan is a professional, here to do her job--that's it. Don't make me get involved further."

Sam didn't need to step in like that. I would have put Bex in his place if I had to but it's nice to know that Sam has my back. I work in a predominantly male-driven workplace. It's not the first time a man has made comments about women in the locker rooms, or worse. I'm not saying that there aren't women who haven't taken advantage of a close proximity to a good-looking, well-paid athlete but working in the field of male sports, you realize how many of them are walking STDs.

And with the infidelity and divorce rate so high, I'm not the least bit interested.

The memory of Penelope's teasing voice at Keely's Hawkeyes Girl Club initiation comes back to me.

"Don't worry, we have plans for you next."

I shake the thought. She must have had too many sticky buns before I showed up and was tripping on a sugar rush.

"I didn't mean to offend you..." I hear Bex say under his breath like a spoiled brat who was just reprimanded by the principal.

Yes, he did mean it, but I doubt Bex is the kind to apologize for anything so I'll take it for what it is.

I clear my throat softly, drawing both men's attention. "I want the team to win just as much as you do—it makes for a better come-back story which is just as good for your career as it is for mine. I'm here to document, not disrupt."

Bex shakes his head, disagreeing with what I said. "With all due respect, Summers, you can't possibly understand the pressure these players are under. Every distraction, no matter how small, could cost us everything we've worked for."

Before I can respond, Sam's phone buzzes. He glances at the screen and holds up a hand. "It's Phil. I need to take this." He looks at us as if disappointed in us both. "We'll continue this discussion later. For now, the arrangement stands."

Bex lets out a deep sigh, but he gives a nod to Sam as Sam takes the call. As we turn to leave, he stops at the door and fixes me with a hard stare. "Keep your reporting on the game, Summers and we won't have a problem."

I meet his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. "Crystal, Coach. I'm here for the story, nothing else."

He grunts, seemingly unconvinced, and stalks out of the office. I follow, my mind racing with the meaning behind his words. Does he really think I'm here to mess with his players or their chances at winning the Stanley Cup? My ability to garner my boss's attention enough to throw me another big story like this hinges on the Hawkeyes winning, which sadly, is one thing completely out of my control.

Yes, technically, my job is just to report on the story, but reporting on Hawkeye's big comeback will gain me more favor than a loss for the team. And God help me if they lose before the playoffs. Then my story dies too soon for me to gain momentum at work.

I want the Hawkeyes to go all the way. Just as bad as Bex wants it.

As I step into the reception area, I hear a familiar voice. "Wow, that was intense. I could practically feel the testosterone radiating off Bex from all the way over here."

I turn to see Cammy, Sam's assistant, and Seven Wrenley's daughter, grinning at me from behind her desk. Her brown hair pulled up in a messy bun with a pencil through it as if she'd just walked out of an all-nighter study session for a college exam before coming in for work.

"You heard all that?" I ask, feeling a mix of embarrassment and frustration.

Cammy nods, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Hard not to. It got a little heated in there, huh?" She asks.

I blow out a breath. "I know that the article I wrote last year isn't doing me any favors, but is he always like this? I mean, it can't be that he doesn't see how he's perceived out on the ice."

I watch as Cammy stuffs mailers in envelopes for Briggs Conley’s Kids With Cancer Gala coming up in a couple of weeks.

"Don't let him get to you, Ro. He can be finicky, but it's nothing you can't handle."

I give a small smile at her attempt to lighten the mood. "Thanks, Cam. I just feel like I’m fighting against more than just his issues with me. I get the feeling I represent everything he hates.”

Cammy shakes her head. "You’re probably right. That man wouldn't give Mother Theresa herself a chance if she showed up wearing a press badge. It's not personal. Well, not entirely personal."

The article I wrote—I know. It's as personal as it gets.

I nod, grateful for her support anyway. "Thanks, Cam. I'll do my best."

As I walk out of the office and head down the long hallway of the Hawkeyes corporate offices, my eyes catch sight of Coach Bex walking towards the lobby. Even from this distance, I can see the tension in his broad shoulders, the barely contained energy in his stride. I can't help but wonder what experiences have shaped him into the man he is today – a man who seems to view my presence as a threat to everything he's worked for.

Dread and anticipation fill my belly when I realize that he and I are about to ride the elevator down together, but just as he makes his way into the lobby, he glances over his shoulder to see me, and then turns the corner instead of heading straight for the elevator right in front of him.

I make it out of the hallway with just enough time to see the emergency stairwell door in the right corner of the lobby close shut.

I startle at the sound of Phil's assistant's voice coming from her desk, not realizing that she's back from lunch.

"He must have needed to work off some of that energy. I've never seen him so flustered," she says.

I turn to her, wanting to tell her what happened in Sam's office, but she was at lunch when I came up, and she probably didn't even know that Bex and I were in a meeting with Sam. It was an impromptu, last-minute meeting and not on Sam's agenda. It's better not to start gossip if she doesn't already know that Bex and I went toe-to-toe a minute ago.

Plus, for Bex's prickly personality, everyone here loves him and I'm the new girl. I don't want to make any more enemies than the one I already have.

"Let's hope he pops out the bottom with a fresh new personality."

Adele must think I'm teasing because she gives a good throaty laugh.

"Oh, Ms. Summers, you are such a card."

I wish Coach Bex thought that I was a card too. Then maybe we wouldn't be foes.

"I'm heading out. Tomorrow's column won't write itself. Have a good day, Adele."

"You too, honey," she singsongs as I make my way to the elevator.

The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside, my mind already racing with potential strategies. How do I gain the trust of a man who seems determined to see me as the enemy?