Chapter Three

Bex

The final buzzer of the game sounds, sending a wave of relief rushing through me.

One more game down, forty-two still to go before the playoffs.

That was a close game–too close, a real nail-biter that had us clawing our way back in the third period, but it’s still a win and worth celebrating.

Reeve played better than he did in practice, but I’ve seen him sharper on the ice and there was a goal that got past him that wouldn’t have earlier in the season—before the injury and whatever's going on with Keely. It has me wondering if I'm making the right call putting him in with the Stanley Cup on the line. Still, he played a solid game and pulled off a win.

By the time I step into the locker room, the energy is all wrong. The chatter of excited players should be heard as far out as the players tunnel but instead, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

I look around, expecting the usual scene: players pulling off their gear, celebrating, recalling outlandish plays and big hits, and icing down sore muscles. The sound of the team showers should serve as the background white noise to the dozens of conversations echoing throughout the locker room. But instead, half the team is still sitting on the benches, all eyes glued to their phones. Some of them are even chuckling to themselves as if whatever has their attention is amusing.

What the hell is going on? This isn’t my team. Have they forgotten that we still have a job to do? Our night isn’t over yet. We still have after-game interviews to get through.

Slade, our center, is hunched over his phone, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Even Lake, our left-wing and captain, who’s usually the first to hit the showers after a game, is sitting there with his feet up on a bench, phone in hand, grinning at something on the screen. Not a single one of them has noticed I’ve walked in.

"Am I invisible, or have you all suddenly forgotten how to act like professional athletes?" My voice booms through the room.

There’s a flurry of movement as the guys scramble to put their phones down. A few sheepish looks are exchanged, but no one’s in a rush to make eye contact with me. I don’t care if they’re celebrating the win; they’ve got the press waiting for their interviews, and I expect my players to be ready for it, not sitting around like a bunch of teenagers in a group chat.

"What the hell's so funny, anyway?" I growl, stalking over to Brent who still has his phone open.

I swear to God if it turns out he’s smirking at a dick pic he sent his new girlfriend Zoey, I’ll be issuing a “no cell phones in the locker room” policy–effective immediately.

Brent, the team’s left-defense, glances up, his grin faltering as he shows me the screen. "Uh, Coach… It's Summers’ article. She posted this new piece about the team—"

The name Summers hits me like a punch in the gut. Of course. Of bloody course.

Now I wish it was a dick pic I’m having to deal with. Instead of having my team distracted by an article written by the pain-in-my-ass journalist running around this stadium with her “all access badge” like a free range chicken in a pantsuit and heels. I wish Sam was in here to witness the “Summers” effect on his team. Then he’d get what a liability she is in my locker room–physically, or otherwise.

"Summers?" I bark, snatching the phone from his hand. "You’re all sitting around reading an article from Summers when you should be getting your ass ready for the press?"

The article is right there on the screen, bold and witty, the title alone making my blood boil: “Between the Pipes and the Pucks: Which Hawkeyes Player Reigns Supreme as the King of Trash Talk.”

It’s a post on the social media account that I’ve heard was Rowan’s big idea–pushing the news outlet to go fully digital. The likes and comments are blowing up on their page. No wonder it got the team's attention.

I skim the first few paragraphs, feeling my irritation grow with every word. It’s classic Rowan—sharp, insightful, with just the right amount of humor to keep it light. The players love it, obviously, because she’s playing to their strengths, calling out their quirks in a way that makes them sound like legends. But to me? It’s a bloody distraction.

She might not be here in the flesh, but she’s got these guys wrapped around her little finger even without stepping foot in the locker room. And now they’re all too busy laughing at her clever little article to do their damn jobs.

I toss the phone back to Brent, my jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack. "Get dressed and get ready for the media. Now. All of you."

There’s a chorus of "Yes, Coach," but I’m already halfway out the door, heading for the press area, my blood pumping with irritation. She’s not even here in the locker room, and somehow, she’s still managing to distract my players.

My mind starts spinning as I stalk through the stadium halls, searching for Rowan. I know she’s here somewhere. She never misses a home game. Thank God Phil hasn’t required her to start traveling with the team for away games yet.

I knew she’d be trouble the moment that Phil told us that the Hawkeyes and The Seattle Sunrise are partnering up for an exclusive to build excitement for this season, and this proves my point. Not to mention that riveting article she wrote about me at the end of last season–her take on the way I coach my team. She should have kept her opinions to herself.

I round a corner, and there she is, standing in the hallway near the press room, talking to Reeve.

Rowan nods profusely but Reeve is shaking his head, and his body looks tense and rigid as he talks wildly with his hands. This is the second time this week that I’ve seen them in the hallways of the stadium in a heated conversation.

What is going on? I’ve never seen Reeve act like this about anything. Which has me drawing one conclusion.

Rowan must have dirt on Reeve, and whatever it is, Reeve didn’t want me to know about it a month ago. I doubt he’ll be any more forthcoming with it now.

A visibly pregnant Tessa walks up, resting a hand on her belly as she leans toward Reeve with a playful smirk. “You’re up, superstar. Press is waiting,” she says, motioning to the media room.

Reeve groans, his shoulders sagging. “Can’t they just skip me and focus on Conley? He’s the one who scored the game-winner. Or Powers?... He loves talking about himself.”

Tessa raises an unimpressed brow. “It’s not optional, Reeve. The media is chopping at the bit to talk to you. It’s your first game back since the accident. They want to hear from you.”

Reeve reluctantly turns and follows Tessa.

Then I see Rowan grab her phone out of her pocket quickly and Charles Albriet flashes on her screen in a text message. Her fingers fly across her screen.

“Spilling secrets to your boss, Charles Albright, are we?”

Whatever Rowan and Reeve keep discussing alone in the hallway will have to wait. I’m still fuming about my players who are just now showing up from the locker room, dressed and ready.

I stop in front of her, towering over her small frame, my chest still heaving with frustration. "Summers."

She looks up, blinking in surprise, and I watch the realization dawn on her that I’m not here for a friendly chat. "Coach Bex," she greets me, her voice polite, but there’s an edge there, like she knows something’s coming.

"You think this is funny, don’t you?" I snap, crossing my arms over my chest. "You’ve got half the locker room glued to their phones instead of doing their job."

Her brows knit in confusion, but there’s a flicker in her eyes—somewhere between irritation and defiance. It’s an expression I’ve come to recognize. She might play nice for the cameras, but behind that polished exterior, there’s a sharpness she doesn’t bother to hide around me. She locks her phone, slipping it into the front pocket of her black slacks that hug her toned legs, all the way down to her designer heels. Those heels should be impractical for a day at the rink, but she manages them effortlessly, like she was born to walk a tightrope in stilettos.

Her blonde hair is slicked back into a sleek ponytail, not a strand out of place, emphasizing her bright blue eyes, and full cherry red lips. Her press badge dangles around the delicate curve of her neck, almost taunting me, like a badge of honor for invading our space. Then she turns, squaring up to face me head-on. It's inconvenient the way the last button on her white blouse gapes open just enough that my six-foot two has a good vantage point. It takes all my willpower not to glance down her shirt.

Yet another distraction I can't afford.

"A distraction?" she repeats, her tone sharp, eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about?"

"You know damn well what I’m talking about." I point at her phone. "That article. They’re all sitting around reading your little piece instead of doing their jobs. This is exactly what I warned Phil about when he told me he gave you full access to the team."

Should I have cursed? Maybe not, but the playoffs are on the line, and she needs to take this as seriously as I am. After all, the Hawkeyes fighting back from last year's loss of the Stanley Cup is the whole reason she's covering the team. But maybe she’d rather we failed. A dumpster fire of a season might make for better ratings.

Rowan’s eyes widen, and for a second, I think I’ve caught her off guard. But then she recovers, her expression hardening as she straightens her posture to appear taller as if she’s getting ready for battle.

"Oh, so now I’m responsible for your players being distracted? I didn’t realize publishing a simple article has the power to derail an entire hockey team." Her voice drips with sarcasm, and she tilts her head, giving me a look that’s equal parts challenge and exasperation. "Let me guess—next, you’ll blame me if they lose a game."

I take a step closer. "That’s not the point, and you know it," I growl. "This team needs to focus. They don’t need you turning everything into a joke. King of trash talk might be a headline to get social media viewers but it's not helping this team make it to the playoffs."

She glances around to see if anyone is watching us but everyone else is around the corner and a good few hundred feet away.

Her eyes flash with anger when the coast is clear. "A joke? Is that what you think I’m doing? I wrote that article because I respect this team. Obviously, you didn't even read the post, or you would have seen that I wrote about the work they put in, highlighting the different attributions that each player brings to the team– and yes, that includes trash talking. But I shouldn’t be surprised that you saw the headline and flew off the handle—per usual. If they’re distracted, maybe that says more about you coaching your team and keeping your team engaged than it does about me being a problem."

I stare at her, caught off guard by the fire in her voice. She’s standing her ground, meeting me head-on, and damn if it doesn’t piss me off even more. Because part of me knows she’s right. The article isn’t the problem—the problem is how easily my players are distracted. If we want to win this season, everyone needs to buy in, and that includes Rowan.

"Look, Summers," I say, my voice low. "I don’t care how witty you think you are. Keep your stories out of my locker room. I don’t need my players treating you like some kind of celebrity. This team has one goal—winning—and I won’t let anything get in the way of that. Not even you."

Rowan’s lips part, and for a moment, I think she’s going to tear into me again. But instead, she just stares at me, her eyes narrowing as if she’s sizing me up. "You’re right about one thing, Coach," she says, her voice calm but firm. "This team has one goal. But so do I. It’s to tell the story of this team’s journey—whether you like it or not."

With that, she turns on her heel and walks away, leaving me standing there, fists clenched at my sides, watching her long ponytail and hips sway side to side as she vacates our conversation.

Dammit.