Page 63 of Triple Power Play 3
“My hair isn’t wet and in my face.”
“Still, they know better than to touch me.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. This is going to be a disaster.
Jax steps up to the mic, and the cameras flash. I stand to the side with my arms crossed over my chest. I rarely hang around when players are interviewed, but my presence may ease his agitation.
Patty, head of PR, signals a reporter to begin.
Some sports journalist gets to his feet. “Hi, Jackson. Congratulations to you and your fiancée on your engagement.”
“Wife.” Jax clears his throat. “We’re married.”
“Wow!” More cameras flash. “Congrats.”
He offers a sharp nod. “Thanks.”
“You were double-teamed against Boston. During your last breakaway, what made you think you could waltz through the defense like that?”
Jax glances my way. “Is this a trick question?”
Laughter rings through the room. They want a cocky, provocative sound bite from him, ideally a jab at the opposing team.
Instead, he says, “There were three or four defensemen, if you count the goalie. It’s my job to get past the defense, and it’s the defense’s job to try to stop me. If I balked every time I was guarded, Coach wouldn’t be very pleased with me.” His lips curve into a crooked smile full of secrets.
“You seem to have a close relationship with Coach Blackwood,” says the next reporter.
Jax doesn’t even attempt to hide his devilish grin. “You could say that.”
More laughter. The tips of my ears burn, and I clench my jaw. I’m about to have a heart attack. Someone needs to shut this down—immediately.
I glare at Patty, and she shrugs.
There’s a list of subjects reporters are instructed to avoid, such as Jackson’s relapse. They’re not invited back if they don’t, so they’re obliged to meet our demands. Why am I not on that list?
Because you’re his coach, and he’s a player. How would they restrict questions involving that relationship?
I’m on the verge of calling this whole thing off when Jax says, “Coach would go to bat for any of his players. That’s the man he is. You don’t get any better than him.”
My gaze connects with his. He gives me that longing look again, and I lose my breath. My world tilts. Panic must be written all over my face, because his expression sours. During the rest of the interview, he remains short and dismissive.
On the way home, it’s quiet in the car, and I can tell he’s annoyed with me. He stares out the passenger-side window, his knee jumping. I release the gearshift and grab his leg to stop him from fidgeting. “We’re fine. Just be careful of what you say. I don’t need to be fired.”
“Whatever,” he grumbles. “Like that’ll ever happen.”
“I’m serious. Not all of us have unlimited money. This is an opportunity of a lifetime for me.”
A cocky smirk plays on his lips. “What? Being with me?”
My God, I nearly roll my eyes. “Coaching you. We’re heading to the playoffs.”
“You’ll always be my coach. You’ll be the only coach I ever have. If they fire you, I walk. It’s that simple. We’ll be sitting at home doing whatever the fuck we want with the unlimited moneywehave.”
Well, shit. What do I say to that?
A notification dings his phone, and I remove my hand from his thigh as he pulls it free of his pocket. He scrutinizes something on the screen while I make my way down the Pacific Coast Highway. The ocean view is unlike anything I’ve seen in New York. I can understand why they love it here.
“Motherfucker,” he mutters.
