Page 69 of Mile High Coach

I haven’t seen her at any of the other games, and for good reason. She probably knew exactly what my response would be to seeing her. It’s just like her to wait until the final game of the Stanley Cup to sneak in here and try to get an interview with me, act like everything is fine.

Like she didn’t do her best to break Lovie and I apart, like she didn’t receive the photos and decide to attack us online. For a while, I gave Constance preference because she’s a local Baltimore reporter, but maybe that meant she got a little too into local reporting. Forgot about privacy.

True, she wasn’t the one whotookthe photos. Jared suffocated under an avalanche of HR complaints when people in the company started coming forward against him. Nobody could ever prove that he was the one who submitted the pictures of Lovie and me to the press, but the complaints were enough to get him fired, and hard enough on his reputation that each time I check on LinkedIn, he’s still#OPENTOWORK.

Even if Constance wasn’t the one who either followed us to the market, or just happened to be there to snap the photos, she still doesn’t deserve to be here tonight. And I also happen to know that there’s no way in hell she was given a press pass to get in—PR wants her nowhere near us, not anymore.

When she catches my eye, she has the gall to wave in my direction, trying to get me to come over to her. I raise an eyebrow and turn away, shaking my head as I pull out my phone and shoot off a quick text.

I could go over there—give her the energy she wants, tell her off in front of the cameras. It would be fun, but it would also get the new PR girl on my bad side, and that’s the last thing I want. She’s actually cool.

So, instead of making an ass of myself in front of the cameras, I reach out to security.

Five minutes later, Jay appears, adjusting his belt and walking straight toward her. He walks slowly, so it takes her a second to realize who it is approaching her. I scoot a bit closer so I can make out what they’re saying, as the arena is only getting louder with each passing minute.

“Sorry,” Jay says, shaking his finger at her. Because he’s a genuinely nice guy, sometimes people struggle with taking him seriously as a security guard—then he has to pull out the big guns. That’s what I’m hoping will happen. “Can I see your press clearance again?”

“Jason,” Constance flirts, leaning forward, “You know me”

“Sorry,” Jay says, even as she tries to look past him, to me. “Do you have that pass on you?”

“I’m trying to get an interview.”

“Sorry, ma’am. No press clearance, no interview. We gotta get you out of here if you can’t show me some identification.”

“Ma’am?” she asks, voice shrill, as though that was the most egregious part of what he said. As she complains, Jason herds her backward, walking her and her camera guy out of the press area and toward the door. “How old do you think I am?”

I’m still chuckling when I hear another voice calling after me, and this time, it’s only half-unwanted.

“Clark.”

I turn, see the three of them standing together, looking out at me with varying expressions on their faces. Brad looks nervous, Eliza looks hopeful, and Rachel looks…almost giddy?

Rachel steps forward the moment I make it over to them, looking up through the side of the stands at them. She kneels down, and when she does, I can see how she’s an exact combination of Eliza and Brad—Eliza’s hazel eyes, Brad’s reddish brown hair. His nose, her cheekbones.

This is what Lovie and I are doing, right now. Creating a person that’s a little of both of us. Instantly, I long for her, but force myself to focus on this interaction, right now.

“Hi,” Reachel says, clearing her throat and glancing up at her dad. “I know this is weird because of the whole…y’know, thing…but I was hoping you’d be able to sign this for me?”

“Oh.” I blink and take the Blue Crabs poster from her, surprised. “You’re a Crabs fan?”

“No,” she admits, laughing, “I hate sports. But my best friend loves you guys. She couldn’t be here—she’s in Cape Cod for the summer. Totally rich.”

“Rach,” Eliza says gently, touching her daughter on the arm, and they share a look that shows time stretching out, all the times in the past this specific look has been shared.

“Right,” she says, clearing her throat and watching as I sign the poster, handing it back to her. When she has it, she squeals another thank you, then immediately turns and pulls out her phone, presumably to tell her friend about the autograph.

“Thanks for that, Harry,” Eliza says, reaching out and touching my hand for a moment, “And thanks for getting us tickets. It’s really special.”

“Of course.”

Eliza turns to follow her daughter back up to their seats, and Brad lingers, his eyes on me as he clears his throat, “Yeah, thanks, man. For the tickets, and for being so nice to Rachel.”

I shrug, spare him a quick glance, “Hey, not her fault her dad’s an asshole.”

Brad laughs, “Still not ready to let it go?”

“Check back next year. Same time, same place.”

---