Page 130 of Puck Your Feelings
"What does this mean for the team dynamic—"
"It means we're going to keep winning games and looking hot doing it. Next question."
A woman in the front—I think she writes for one of the sports blogs—tries a different angle. "Kane, how are you feeling about your father's potential response?"
Kane opens his mouth, and I squeeze his hand.
"Here's the thing," I cut in before he can speak. "You want the inside scoop, the exclusive details, the behind-the-scenes drama?" I pause for effect. "Tune into the podcast."
"The podcast," someone repeats sarcastically.
"Ice Cold Takes," I confirm. "Available on all streaming platforms. Subscribe, rate, review. We accept fan mail and baked goods. Kane's particularly fond of those protein cookies, if anyone's feeling generous."
"Riley—" Kane starts, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
"We're not doing press today," I continue, addressing the crowd. "You want our story? You get it the way we tell it, on our terms. So." I spread my arms wide. "Tune in, fuckers."
"You can't just—" the blog woman protests.
"Can and did. It's called controlling the narrative. Kane here just taught me that." I glance back at him. "Right, babe?"
His ears go red at the pet name, but he's definitely smiling now. "Right."
"Excellent. Glad we had this chat." I start walking backward, pulling Kane with me. "Tell your friends. Tell your enemies. Tell your weird aunt who comments on all your Facebook posts. We're going viral, baby!"
Wall's voice carries from somewhere behind the journalist cluster: "You’re already viral, you dramatic bitch!"
"Even more viral, then!" I shout back. "Super viral! The viralest!"
"That's not a word!" Groover adds.
"It is now!"
Kane's laughing now, and it's the best sound I've heard all day. Better than the buzzer, better than anything.
We make it through the tunnel, leaving the reporters behind, and Kane stops, turning to face me.
"You didn't have to do that," he says.
"Do what? Advertise my podcast? That's just good business."
"Shield me from them."
I shrug. "Yeah, well. You handled your dad. Figured I could handle some nosy journalists."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then he leans down and kisses me again, slow and sweet and perfect.
"Thank you," he murmurs against my mouth.
"You're welcome. Now can we please go? My ass is freezing, and I need to check if we broke the internet."
We walk toward the locker room, still holding hands, and I pull out my phone with my free hand.
"We definitely broke the internet," I report.
Kane looks over my shoulder at the screen, and his smile gets wider. "Good."
"Good," I echo.
