Delayed Call
Page 22
“Gladly.”
He didn’t even look at her. She looked back to the cameraman, but they were messing with something and weren’t ready yet. Standing with her hand on the mic, she chanced a glance at him, but he still wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at his phone, typing violently with his jaw tense. She wasn’t sure what was wrong, and she absolutely hated that she wanted to know. She didn’t like this guy; it didn’t matter what was wrong. He probably had one of his hos cancel on him, and he was calling the next one. Maybe the second one was sick, and he had to call his third string.
Poor Vaughn.
Rolling her eyes, she let out a sigh as Travis held up his fingers, counting them down just as the questions came up that she needed to ask.
But she ignored them, her eyes on the camera as she said, “I’m Brie Soledad, here with Vaughn Johansson. Thanks for doing this, Johansson.”
“Anytime, Ms. Soledad.”
His eyes met hers, and she was stunned for a moment. The brown of his eyes was usually so dark, but there were flecks of the most beautiful caramel at that moment. Swallowing hard, she looked at his nose, trying to remember her questions. She had worked on them all morning on the way to the compound. She was ready to impress. Why, she wasn’t sure, but she was!
“The Blackhawks are playing some incredible hockey after a slow start, but they’re number one, while we’re trailing in the number two spot. These next two games are crucial to set the tone for the rest of the season. What is the plan going into the game tomorrow night at the United Center?”
“Well, Ms. Soledad, it’s to go in there and win. We know what we need to do: we need to play a solid sixty minutes, get shots on goal, and watch our zone. From what I heard today, Monroe is getting the start. So we need to protect our goalie and give him a clear view so he can stop what he needs to. And we need to screen their goalie to get some pucks in the back of the net.”
She nodded, though she was uneasy with the way his eyes stayed on hers. “Is that your plan?”
His brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“Is it your plan to play your average thirty-three minutes on ice, fully, and get as many shots as you can on goal?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Have you worked on your shot? Because your wrister isn’t getting them in the way it usually does.”
His eyes darkened. “Is that right, Ms. Soledad?”
“It is, and our fan base, along with myself, we’re wondering what your plan is to get them in.”
“Guess I’ll have to take a class from you, for starters, and maybe then I’ll score.”
She’d wanted to fluster him, make him feel stupid the way he had her. But now, as they stared into each other’s eyes, she wasn’t sure who was flustering whom. “I think that would be a good segment right there, don’t you, boys? Brianna Soledad giving me lessons on my wrister?” Laughter rang loudly in his voice while Brie held his gaze. Looking back to her, he smiled. “Anytime you want to do that, let me know. I’ll be there.”
For some reason, her lips stopped working as Vaughn turned and left the little interview room. Even a room over, she could hear his laughter, and she felt like a complete dumbass.
That backfired like a motherfucker.
“You didn’t ask any of our questions,” Travis said, and she nodded.
“I wanted to ask something better.”
“Well, that was worthless because we can’t use any of it.” Glancing away, she felt her tears burning her eyes. “Plus, everyone already beat him up about his wrister, and if you would have read our questions, you would have seen that.”
Raising her head, she looked at the prompter and read what Travis had said.
How do you feel about everyone saying your wrister is off?
Great. Fucking great.
It was off, but she didn’t want to be like everyone else and beat him up over it more. She had wanted to impress him a bit because she knew he was only off from trying to score so hard. She wanted him to say that, because that was good hockey talk. When a player was desperate, they got sloppy, and if she hadn’t known that before, she knew that now. She was the sloppy reporter, and because of that, she was now the douche.
That didn’t sit well with her.
At all.
Even if she didn’t like him.
At all…
Holding his stick out, Vaughn flexed his wrist back and forth, moving the stick to make the blade go the way he wanted. As he looked down the shaft, his mind was full of all the questions all those reporters had kept asking.
Do you feel your signature wrister isn’t your shot anymore?
You haven’t scored on a wrister in seven games. What’s the problem?
You were signed to this team because of your sick wrister. What is wrong?
At first, he didn’t care; he wasn’t the least bit worried about his signature wrister. He was in a bit of a dry spell, scoring-wise, so when he was on the ice, he was just trying to get a goal. He didn’t care how it went in or what he had to do to get it in there, only that it went in, which is what he told most of the reporters during media day. But saying the same thing over and over again just sucked, and then he started to doubt himself. Which he did not like doing. He was always sure of himself—yeah, he didn’t think shit through—but in the end, he knew what he was doing.
And then Brie Soledad happened.
He hadn’t expected that from her. He fully expected to go in there, get asked two whack-ass generic questions and then leave. Their little exchange in the concourse had been fun, witty, and he loved how quick on her feet she was. If she reported the way she went back and forth with him off camera, he’d never want to skip a media day ever. But when he went in there, he was pissed about everyone doubting him. And then it went to hell when he learned she thought the same. He could take a beating; that wasn’t it. Words didn’t bother him the way they did some because they were just words. Actions were what mattered to him. It was easy to do something or say something, but what mattered was how you acted after, and those reporters were nothing to him. They didn’t define his career. He did. The only people who mattered when it came to his career were him and Elli Adler.
That was it.
Yet, Brie’s words hurt.
And that fucking sucked.
Swallowing hard, he twisted his wrist, sniping the little sock ball toward the wall. It sent Tricksie into a frenzy as she rushed for it, bringing it back before dropping it and looking up at him, her little tail going wild.
He didn’t even look at her. She looked back to the cameraman, but they were messing with something and weren’t ready yet. Standing with her hand on the mic, she chanced a glance at him, but he still wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at his phone, typing violently with his jaw tense. She wasn’t sure what was wrong, and she absolutely hated that she wanted to know. She didn’t like this guy; it didn’t matter what was wrong. He probably had one of his hos cancel on him, and he was calling the next one. Maybe the second one was sick, and he had to call his third string.
Poor Vaughn.
Rolling her eyes, she let out a sigh as Travis held up his fingers, counting them down just as the questions came up that she needed to ask.
But she ignored them, her eyes on the camera as she said, “I’m Brie Soledad, here with Vaughn Johansson. Thanks for doing this, Johansson.”
“Anytime, Ms. Soledad.”
His eyes met hers, and she was stunned for a moment. The brown of his eyes was usually so dark, but there were flecks of the most beautiful caramel at that moment. Swallowing hard, she looked at his nose, trying to remember her questions. She had worked on them all morning on the way to the compound. She was ready to impress. Why, she wasn’t sure, but she was!
“The Blackhawks are playing some incredible hockey after a slow start, but they’re number one, while we’re trailing in the number two spot. These next two games are crucial to set the tone for the rest of the season. What is the plan going into the game tomorrow night at the United Center?”
“Well, Ms. Soledad, it’s to go in there and win. We know what we need to do: we need to play a solid sixty minutes, get shots on goal, and watch our zone. From what I heard today, Monroe is getting the start. So we need to protect our goalie and give him a clear view so he can stop what he needs to. And we need to screen their goalie to get some pucks in the back of the net.”
She nodded, though she was uneasy with the way his eyes stayed on hers. “Is that your plan?”
His brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“Is it your plan to play your average thirty-three minutes on ice, fully, and get as many shots as you can on goal?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Have you worked on your shot? Because your wrister isn’t getting them in the way it usually does.”
His eyes darkened. “Is that right, Ms. Soledad?”
“It is, and our fan base, along with myself, we’re wondering what your plan is to get them in.”
“Guess I’ll have to take a class from you, for starters, and maybe then I’ll score.”
She’d wanted to fluster him, make him feel stupid the way he had her. But now, as they stared into each other’s eyes, she wasn’t sure who was flustering whom. “I think that would be a good segment right there, don’t you, boys? Brianna Soledad giving me lessons on my wrister?” Laughter rang loudly in his voice while Brie held his gaze. Looking back to her, he smiled. “Anytime you want to do that, let me know. I’ll be there.”
For some reason, her lips stopped working as Vaughn turned and left the little interview room. Even a room over, she could hear his laughter, and she felt like a complete dumbass.
That backfired like a motherfucker.
“You didn’t ask any of our questions,” Travis said, and she nodded.
“I wanted to ask something better.”
“Well, that was worthless because we can’t use any of it.” Glancing away, she felt her tears burning her eyes. “Plus, everyone already beat him up about his wrister, and if you would have read our questions, you would have seen that.”
Raising her head, she looked at the prompter and read what Travis had said.
How do you feel about everyone saying your wrister is off?
Great. Fucking great.
It was off, but she didn’t want to be like everyone else and beat him up over it more. She had wanted to impress him a bit because she knew he was only off from trying to score so hard. She wanted him to say that, because that was good hockey talk. When a player was desperate, they got sloppy, and if she hadn’t known that before, she knew that now. She was the sloppy reporter, and because of that, she was now the douche.
That didn’t sit well with her.
At all.
Even if she didn’t like him.
At all…
Holding his stick out, Vaughn flexed his wrist back and forth, moving the stick to make the blade go the way he wanted. As he looked down the shaft, his mind was full of all the questions all those reporters had kept asking.
Do you feel your signature wrister isn’t your shot anymore?
You haven’t scored on a wrister in seven games. What’s the problem?
You were signed to this team because of your sick wrister. What is wrong?
At first, he didn’t care; he wasn’t the least bit worried about his signature wrister. He was in a bit of a dry spell, scoring-wise, so when he was on the ice, he was just trying to get a goal. He didn’t care how it went in or what he had to do to get it in there, only that it went in, which is what he told most of the reporters during media day. But saying the same thing over and over again just sucked, and then he started to doubt himself. Which he did not like doing. He was always sure of himself—yeah, he didn’t think shit through—but in the end, he knew what he was doing.
And then Brie Soledad happened.
He hadn’t expected that from her. He fully expected to go in there, get asked two whack-ass generic questions and then leave. Their little exchange in the concourse had been fun, witty, and he loved how quick on her feet she was. If she reported the way she went back and forth with him off camera, he’d never want to skip a media day ever. But when he went in there, he was pissed about everyone doubting him. And then it went to hell when he learned she thought the same. He could take a beating; that wasn’t it. Words didn’t bother him the way they did some because they were just words. Actions were what mattered to him. It was easy to do something or say something, but what mattered was how you acted after, and those reporters were nothing to him. They didn’t define his career. He did. The only people who mattered when it came to his career were him and Elli Adler.
That was it.
Yet, Brie’s words hurt.
And that fucking sucked.
Swallowing hard, he twisted his wrist, sniping the little sock ball toward the wall. It sent Tricksie into a frenzy as she rushed for it, bringing it back before dropping it and looking up at him, her little tail going wild.
