Page 45 of Hot Damn
The violent urge surprises me. Physical altercations have only even been inspired on the ice, or in defense of Whit.
This woman, one I claim to dislike, is pulling on instincts previously reserved for my daughter. And let’s be honest, I don’t think Cami needs me to protect her. She’s fully capable of doing it herself, and if she can’t she’s smart enough to find someone or something that can.
“Wait until he leaves.” Her voice is low even though Kenneth is too far away to hear anything we say.
Quietly we watch him get into a car parked across the street. It’s a beater, a little worse for wear than the car I bought Whit, and it sparks an idea.
“Do you think he let the air out of Whit’s tires?”
“Before today I’d have said no. Now I’m not so sure. I’ll send his picture to our PI and see if he can get a connection between what happened to Whitney’s car and Kenneth.”
“He’s driving?—”
“I took a picture. I’ll send that to Amos too.”
Tipping forward, I peer over her shoulder. Sure enough, she’s got her phone out and she’s zooming in on Kenneth’s car and snapping photos rapidly.
Once he’s out of sight, she spins around and faces me. “Here.”
I look down to see she’s holding out her keys. “What are those for?”
“Go get Whitney, bring her back here. I’ll have Cal bring the car to you.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I don’t like that he was here. It’s strange to see a reporter on your doorstep when I know the Rogues put out the word to all media outlets that players are off limits unless they go through official channels.”
“So what you told him is true, the org decides who we speak to?”
“You didn’t get the email?”
“I...” I shake my head. “No. I haven’t checked my inbox since before getting on the plane this morning.”
“Okay. Well, basically you’ve all been banned from talking to the media, and that includes influencers and bloggers, until further notice. Nat’s on a tear. She’s pissed but not at the team, or the media really, but it is what it is, and she calls the shots on these things.”
“You don’t get a say?” It’s the first time I’ve brought up her involvement with the team.
Her mouth opens and closes. With a shrug, she says, “It’s not my place?—”
“Bullshit. You own the team.”
She sucks in a breath, her eyes going wide as her eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “Right. Okay, yes, I’mpartowner.”
“You don’t advertise it.”
“No.”
“Why not? Why keep it a secret?”
“It’s not a secret. I’m not involved in the running of the team, frontend or back. I’m a quarter of KAW and that’s it.”
“So you don’t care about the team?” I know she does, but I want to poke at her. Find out why she stays away from something the others seem so proud of.
“I do.” Her gaze skitters to the side. “I’m just not a sports fan.”
“But one of your best friends played hockey her whole life. Went to the Olympics.”
“Yes. I’m aware.” Her eyes are back on me and I can see she’s moved back into defense mode after that brief display of vulnerability.
