Page 42 of The Puckable Playbook

“Thanks,” he mutters.

He still doesn’t look up, so I drop my hand, shaking the odd feeling off. Maybe if we get the layout over with, he’ll finally notice me.

I stare at the project, and my brain starts clicking. “Why don’t you ask Aimee for that piece she’s been working on? Pretty sure she had something for you. Run with Flora’s piece on the side column, then our sports box… Oh, the hockey score is wrong. It was five to two, not four to two.”

“How do you know?”

“I was at the game.”

He peers up. We’re hunched over the laptop together, but I can feel his gaze on me. Slowly, I turn to face him. He cocks his head. “You don’t like sports.”

“Oh, I, um… Well, I was kind of coerced.” I push my glasses up my nose.

He studies me a moment, then takes out his phone. “I’ll text Dev to confirm.”

I could text a better source than that but whatever. While he’s busy, I switch the football score and the hockey score around, putting the hockey score on top.Ha.

“While he gets back to me,” he trails off as we start to work on the rest of the paper.

We go over each page, and I have the whole thing done in about half an hour. When we’re through, I shrug. “I think you get caught in the weeds,” I tell him. “You can’t do it wrong.”

“You’re a whiz,” he says in awe. “It’s like you have a sixth sense.”

He’s not even looking at me, but I feel his compliment down to my toes. I bump him with my shoulder. “Look who’s talking.”

It was supposed to be a playful gesture, but Clark stumbles into the chair next to him, and I watch in horror when he catches himself on it, flailing.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry!”

He blushes as he rights himself. “Maybe you should try out for the football team. You’d make a good linebacker.”

My shoulders slump, and I groan internally. Just what every girl wants to be compared to, a hulk of a man. I barely touched him!

His phone pings, and he peers down at it. “Dev says the score is right.”

“It’s not,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. “Here, I’ll text Zaiah.”

“Zaiah?”

“Zaiah James. He’s a winger.”

“You know a hockey player?”

“Mm-hmm. You know, the guy who was in here the other day?” While I’m talking, I text with Zaiah:

Hey, what was the score of the game yesterday? Need it for the paper.

Is this a cry for help? You were there.

I know but pretend I don’t because the sports reporter is saying something different, and I need proof to show Clark.

Just tell him you’re right.

I did.

Then?

Please text the score.

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