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Maggie is laughing so hard there are tears in her eyes. "That is epic! Did he actually go through with the audition?"
"He did!" Jaime confirms. "I never heard if he made it on the show, but just knowing I sent him on that journey is satisfaction enough."
"Remind me not to get on your bad side," Maggie jokes, wiping her eyes. “And here I thought you were all sugar, no spice.”
Jaime shrugs and takes a sip of her own wine, still smiling. "All is fair in love and war."
"That is iconic!" I proclaim.
We all dissolve into laughter again. My cheeks hurt from grinning so hard. It feels amazing to be silly and bond over tales of ridiculous men.
Maggie tops off our glasses one last time. "To sisters from other misters!"
I clink glasses with my friends and add, “To Operation Take Down Owen!”
8
OWEN
Ugh, what time is it? I blindly slap at my nightstand until I find my phone. 10:32 am. Crap. I've got seventeen missed calls and twice as many angry texts. Lovely. Nothing like waking up to an avalanche of rage from your agent and coach first thing in the morning.
I flop back against my pillows and rub my eyes, trying to shake the cobwebs from my brain. Last night was a gong show. That whole mess with the stolen trophy, staying late to file a police report, not to mention working on that stupid blog post with Emily. Okay, that part wasn’t so bad. Right now, my head is throbbing like a jackhammer.
Reluctantly, I call my agent, Isaiah, back. He picks up on the first ring, yelling before I can even say hello. "Where the hell have you been? I've been calling all morning!"
"Sorry, I overslept," I mumble, stifling a yawn.
"This is unacceptable, Owen. That robbery is all over the news and we need to control the story. I need you in front of the cameras ASAP."
The thought of facing the rabid media horde right now makes me shudder. "Can't we push it to this afternoon? I'm exhausted."
Isaiah scoffs. "Don't be such a prima donna. Shower, get downtown, and spin this properly. We can't have people thinking you're somehow involved."
"Involved? You think I had something to do with the trophy being stolen?"
"I don't know what to think! Get your ass in gear and fix this." He hangs up abruptly. Charming as always.
I stare up at the ceiling, tempted to pull the covers back over my head and hide from the world for a few more hours. But I know Isaiah will just keep harassing me if I don't face the music.
With a groan, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, hoping the hot water will help me feel slightly less like death warmed over. I've got a raging tension headache building behind my eyes and my muscles ache from being tossed around the ice by those Quebec goons last night. The last thing I want to do is slap on a happy face and make nice with the reporters. I can deal with them after games. This is bringing on a pain in my chest I haven’t acknowledged since I was a teenager.
Ten minutes of yoga followed by my morning meditation calms me down. Then, after getting dressed, I make a smoothie with extra protein powder and check the 20 increasingly impatient texts from Coach Knight. He wants me downtown at the arena ASAP. Ugh, fine. Apparently, the execs are breathing down his neck. I chug the smoothie as I head out the door, its chalky sweetness coating my throat.
The bright winter sunlight pierces my eyeballs like shards of glass as I drive downtown. I slip on my aviators, but they only provide minor relief. By the time I pull into the underground parking garage, it feels like my brain is throbbing against my skull. Maybe I've got a concussion from that fight with Lemieux. Would serve Isaiah right if I puked on his fancy Italian loafers during the press conference.
I meet Coach and Isaiah in the media room. Coach's gray mustache is quivering like an angry caterpillar as he lectures me about responsibility. Isaiah shoves a cup of coffee into my hands, telling me to drink up. I choke down the bitter sludge and try to pretend I'm paying attention to whatever Coach is droning on about.
After what feels like an eternity, the reporters start filtering in. Isaiah ushers me to the table at the front of the room, the bright camera lights shining directly into my already throbbing eyeballs. The Titans’ owner, Malcolm Chase sits at the end of the table so he can get up and address the room from the official team podium for his opening statement before going back behind the table. He’s all composure and poise in his three-piece suit and stoic expression. The tone of his voice soothing—almost lulling. Like flu medicine.
Then the floor opens up for the Q&A. I paste on my best media-ready grin as the first question comes flying at me.
"Owen, what can you tell us about the robbery?"
I repeat the same story I told the cops last night about hearing a noise and finding the smashed case. They keep peppering me with questions, but I stick to the script, feigning shock and outrage. After twenty tedious minutes, Isaiah finally ends the torture session and I make a beeline for the exit.
I'm almost to the parking garage when my phone rings again. Please don't let it be Isaiah demanding round two with the reporters. But it's not him—it's Nancy from the exec office.
"Owen, I just wanted to check in after the madness this morning. How are you holding up?" Her voice is warm with concern.
