So it didn’t help much when Paul found him in the green room, pacing and working on aforementioned teeth breaking, and said, “Hey. Can I talk to you?”
The answer was a blatantno. Before they had to work together, Nate hadn’t minded Paul’s company. They weren’t ever going to be best friends, but they were both amiable enough, or so Nate thought.
But ever since Paul stepped into Aubrey’s shoes, Nate’s general tolerance for the man had taken a nosedive. Still, he couldn’t exactly have a temper tantrum in front of him. He didn’t want to bedifficult. He knew well enough what happened to bad sports in hockey—in the media as well as on the ice. So he worked on pulling his shoulders down from around his ears, straightened his spine, and affected an open, inviting posture he absolutely did not feel. “Sure,” he said. “What’s up?”
Paul closed the door behind him and scratched behind one ear. He reminded Nate of a mangy dog.
Then Nate second-guessed himself. That wasn’t fair to dogs.
Damn it. He was going to shred his reputation for being easy to work with, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“So, I know the whole point of the show is for us to have some spirited discussions.” Paul helped himself to one corner of the single sofa in the room. “Or did I get that wrong?”
In that moment Nate utterly despised him. “You didn’t get it wrong.”
Paul spread his hands. “Okay. Then maybe you can help me understand. The point of the show is spirited discussions about topics hockey fans care about. So how come every time I try to start one, you act like I just pissed on the flag or something?”
A vicious, insistent throbbing started up at the base of Nate’s skull and then immediately migrated to his temple and frontal lobe.
Nate had only ever been in a handful of hockey fights. He prided himself on his equilibrium. He hadpatience.
Or heusedto have patience until he had to work with Paul. “Paul. Seriously?”
Paul made another, broader shrugging gesture, as though he truly did not understand. “What? Like, I never got the impression you wanted to wring Chase’s neck during the show, no matter how hard the two of you went at it”—Nate grimaced internally at the word choice; Paul didn’t know they were dating, and Nate sure as fuck wasn’t going to tell him now—“but me? You fucking hate my guts, dude.”
If I do, it’s your own fault.He took a deep breath. “Aubrey and I debated the finer points of hockey contracts, pros and cons of trades, play styles.”
“Isn’t that whatwedo?” Paul challenged.
“It’s whatItry to do,” Nate clarified. He was pissed now, and Paul was literally asking for it. “Youwant to talk about whether women’s hockey has merit! You want to talk about whether it’s okay for guys to use homophobic slurs on the ice, Paul, you fucking asshole. It’s the twenty-first century, and I’m gay, in case you forgot.”
Paul gaped as though it had never occurred to him that his shitty homophobic behavior could offend Nate. “Oh, come on. You don’t think I believe that, do you? It’s just entertainment.”
Just entertainment. Nate’s frustration, Nate’s pain—? “Entertainment?” Nate thundered. “You’re gonna let every queer kid watching a stupid fucking talk show abouthockeyknow the game isn’t for them, that the game itselfhates them, because it’sentertaining? JesusfuckingChrist.”
“Hey,” Paul protested. “Take it down a notch. Queer kids aren’t exactly our target audience.”
Nate’s jaw dropped. He could not come up with a single thing to say.
Paul either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “And look, you think I don’t know what I’m doing? You think the name Mitchell is a coincidence? My father’s on the network’s board of directors. When I came to him three months ago with the idea for the show he was all. Over. It.”
Theideafor theshow? “The show that wasalready on air?” Nate said. “Wow, I hope you didn’t strain yourself coming up withthatone.”
Of fucking course. Nepotism at its finest.
“I think I’m done here,” Nate said coldly. And he walked out of the arena and hailed a cab.
“Where to?” the driver asked without giving him a second glance.
“Airport,” Nate said shortly. He wasn’t spending another second in Paul’s company.
THERE WEREa lot of calls he needed to make, but he didn’t want to talk in the car. He felt like he needed some small measure of privacy, and as contradictory as it might be, the airport seemed like a better place for that.
He checked in and went through security, then found an out-of-the-way seat near a coffee cart—at this time of night the airport was sleepy anyway—and sat down to dial.
Despite the hour, his dad picked up on the second ring. “Nathan?” he said. “It’s a bit late, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be on a plane?”
“I’m at the airport,” Nate answered. “Sorry for calling so late.”
