Page 87 of Hot Damn
“Still, it’s better to know if we should prepare for anything she might come up with.”
“True. But you don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
Dad eyes me sideways and chuckles. “You proved that a few days ago when you single handedly scared off Kenneth Dupre.”
“I don’t know if I scared him off as much as he knew he wasn’t going to get what he wanted and cut his losses.”
“Ms. Nelson?”
Looking up I find a security guard in front of us. “Yes.”
“If you’ll follow me.” At my raised eyebrow he explains, “I’m to escort you to the locker room.”
“We don’t need an escort.”
“Not usually, no, but with the press being held back from both teams, things are a little contentious through the public areas and we have to traverse a small section of that to reach the private elevators to the basement levels.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” I offer the man a smile in the hope of lightening his dour expression. It doesn’t work but my smile remains all the same.
Dad leans closer to whisper in my ear, “He takes his job seriously.”
Tipping my head slightly and talking quietly out the side of my mouth I say, “Ray probably put the fear of god in him.”
“Ray does that without trying.”
“He does.” I grin. “It’s why Nat hired him.”
“You mean convinced him to work with the Rogues org exclusively.”
“Same thing.”
Dad chuckles as we leave the deserted hallway leading to the private suites and enter the chaotic melee that is the concourse between this side of the arena and the other.
“Wow. He wasn’t kidding.” Dad’s arm unlocks from mine so he can wrap it around my shoulders and tug me tight against his side. “Might have needed more than one guard.”
“We’ll be fine. Just keep your head up and eyes to the front.”
“I know how to deal with a room full of executives, I can deal with this.”
“Sorry. I forgot I was raised by a shark.”
“Two sharks. Don’t discount your mom’s abilities.”
Someone slams into my back and pain stabs through my right side, making me stumble forward. Dad’s arm barely keeps me upright, but somehow, I manage to stay on my feet.
I must have cried out because the guard turns back, his eyes narrowing on something—or someone—behind me. Next thing I know, he’s at my side, him and Dad flanking me, as we all but run toward the door that will give us access to the private elevators.
The guard waves a card over a sensor before shoving the door open. Rushing through into the corridor one the other side, the noise and chaos instantly silences when the door snaps shut behind us.
“I’m sorry. I’ll radio the security room to have them review footage and have that reporter removed from the arena. At the very least stopped from entering the press conference.”
“Reporter?”
“He had a press pass around his neck.”
I look at Dad. “Did you see him?”
“No.” Dad’s frown digs deep grooves into the flesh around his mouth and across his forehead. “I was too busy keeping you from falling when you pitched forward.”
