Page 35 of Slapshot Bride

Diane Mercer in her early forties, tall, in a charcoal blazer that costs more than my first month of rent in college, catches my eyes the moment I walk in.

She's at the small round table in Coach’s office with two folders in front of her and her phone face down. From the look on her face, I know it’s not going to be pretty.

It’s one thing to be scolded by Coach Brennan and it’s an entirely different ball game to have Diane sitting on the issue. My ass is about to be handed to me, red hot.

Coach is leaning against the front of his desk with his arms crossed. He looks tired.

“Sit, son.”

I sit.

Diane opens the first folder.

“Three photos. All taken yesterday between four-twelve and four-fourteen, outside the back lot of Valentina Vega’s boutique on Robertson. Two by the same paparazzo, one by a freelancer who appears to have been tipped off. They are blurry. They are angled. Your face is half-turned and shadowed by a cap. The woman’s face is slightly visible from the side, a piece of hoodie and her hair. The headlines so far are speculative.

Sinclair’s bride seen with mystery sports figure. Is Riley Brooks hiding out with an athlete? No one has used your name in print yet.”

I exhale slowly, clasping my hands on my thighs.

She closes the folder. “My estimate is that someone confirms your identity in the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours, unless something more interesting happens in this town first.”

I remain quiet, waiting for her to drop it. Her look says it all, but I can tell she’s trying to be cordial.

“So…” She folds her hands, eyes burning into mine. “Here is what I need from you.”

“Diane…” I manage but she cuts me off with a single raised hand.

“Let me finish. No statements. No press contact. don't answer your phone for any number you don't recognize. don't post anything to any account, public or private, that contains her, any reference to her, or any reference to your home. No public appearances with her. And I’m assuming she’s hiding in your home. We’ve seen the news Easton. So, If you absolutely have to leave the house with her, you don't leave it together. I don't want to see one more frame of the two of you in the same shot until we have built a story to put underneath it. Clear?”

“Clear.” My voice is tight.

“Good. Next, no confirmations and no denials, on or off the record, to anyone. The story we want to tell is that there is no story. Every time someone gets a confirmation or a denial, they have a thread. Threads get pulled.”

“Got it.”

“Lastly,” She leans forward. “You don't, under any circumstances, comment on Preston Sinclair. Not on a podcast, not on the bench, not in the parking lot of a Whole Foods. Preston Sinclair has personal relationships with three of the major editorial desks in this city and a financial interest in a fourth. We are not picking that fight. Not for press, not for sport, not for sympathy, not for righteousness. And not even for you, Easton. Are we clear?”

I nod. The tightness spreads, my chest constricts.

She exhales. Some of the steel goes out of her face.

“For what it’s worth,” she says more quietly, “I'm sorry. This is a mess for everyone involved. For you. For the team. Especially for the team.”

Coach uncrosses his arms.

“Son. I'm not going to do the speech. You know what is at stake. This isn't about you. It's about a roster of careers and an organization that has put a lot of money behind this season. Whatever you have got going on at the house, you handle it. I don't want to know the details, I don't want to meet the woman, I don't want her name in this building. You understand me?”

I nod again. His gaze hardens.

“Yes, Coach.”

“Good.”

I'm halfway out of the chair when I sit back down.

“One question. What if she's not safe?”

Diane and Coach look at each other.