“Key interviews across the next two weeks. Some national, some local. You'll be looped into several social campaigns, mental health in youth hockey, sustainability, and the newsponsor rollout. And as I said, the first formal press event is tomorrow morning.”
“When?” he asks, eyes still on the screen.
“Nine am sharp. Conference Hall. Podium, seating for the press. It’ll be handled by Andrew, he manages direct media interaction.”
He squints, scanning the calendar. “Of course. Andrew.”
“But I’ll be prepping you beforehand, first this afternoon, then,” I add, tapping the earlier slot. “An hour and a half prior. One-on-one interview, just me. Controlled. It’ll give you a chance to warm up before facing the mob. Oh, and I’ll arrange for Riley to also give you some coaching later. She’ll let you know what time.”
He turns to me now. We’re stupidly close. My screen's glowing, the air's thick, and we're almost touching.
I lower my voice just a bit. “You’ll need to handle the pressure. This isn’t just about wearing the ‘C’ on your chest,” as my eyes flick to his pecs.
He stands suddenly, not harshly, but like he needs air. Or distance. Or maybe the opposite. “Yes. I understand,” his voice is tight. “I can do this.”
I stand too, and there’s a pause. We’re facing each other now. Too close.
“You also need to understand what leadership means,” I drop my voice, my words feeling like they’re walking a tightrope. “You’re not just performing on the ice anymore. You need to constantly rally your teammates. Off the ice, too.”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Mine drops to his.
We’re close. So close. Just a few inches and—
Knock-knock.
We snap apart. Like we’ve been caught robbing a bank.
“Come in!” I call, too quickly.
The door swings open. My dad steps into the office like he owns it. Which, technically, he does.
“Coach,” Blake says, startled. His hand flies to his hair in a panicked move, messing it up worse.
“Dad!” I blurt out, just as horrified.
He glances between us like he’s walked into a different kind of locker room.
I don't know where to look.
Blake looks like he wants to escape through the window, and the scent of his cologne is still stuck in my lungs like a bad decision.
“I was told I’d find you in here,” Dad says to Blake, glancing between us with that dominant coach expression that he's honed to perfection over the years. “Meet me in my office. I want to have a word.”
“Okay, Coach,” Blake steps away from me like I’m radioactive and walks around the desk.
I pretend not to notice how fast he makes it to the door.
Dad watches him go, then turns to me with a raised brow. “So, how’s it going?”
I lift my chin and flash my best boardroom smile. “Everything’s under control.”
He nods. “Good. Well, carry on. Oh, and don’t plan on going out anywhere tonight. I’m taking my little girl out for a meal. My treat.”
“Actually, Dad,” I sigh. “That’ll be nice. What time?”
He’s already halfway out the door. “I don’t know, about eight-ish?” And then he’s gone.
