Puking My Hockey Rival

Chapter 11

LUCA'S POV

The tiled room was silent, smelling faintly of citrus.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror for a fraction of a second before speaking into the phone.

“Is there a point to this, or are you just calling to talk trash like you always do?”

“I watched the stream for twenty minutes,” Ronan replied, unhurried. “You didn't touch her shoulder once. Not even for the cameras. Even the gossip reporters are starting to write about the lack of chemistry, I'm just giving you a heads-up.”

I gripped the edge of the sink, my knuckles going white against the marble. “Are you calling because you're keeping tabs on my media training, Calloway, and since when did you start caring enough to give me a heads-up about anything?”

A brief pause hung on the line. When Ronan spoke again, his voice had dropped to an even deeper timbre.

“You're making this even more big of a deal than it is.”

“Are you jealous?” I asked before I could stop myself, the sarcasm tasting sharp and reckless on my tongue.

A dry, low scoff echoed through the speaker.

“And what exactly would I be jealous of?” Ronan sneered.

“Right. Because your obsession with my relationship is just some…”

“Relationship,” he cut muttered, cutting me off, then chuckling like that was the funniest thing ever.

“Did you think about what I said?” Ronan asked, his voice suddenly serious again.

I frowned, my reflection staring back at at me, with lines of exhaustion I hadn't noticed until just now. “About what?”

“About us meeting up to... talk.”

“To talk?” I echoed, the words feeling heavier than they should have in the quiet of the bathroom.

“Mmhmm,” Ronan murmured, the sound vibrating low in my ear. “Unless of course you have something else in mind…I'm open to different options.”

The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we spent forty hours a week pretending wasn't there. I felt a sudden, sharp jolt of heat pool low in my stomach, an instinctive, traitorous tightening that had nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the way Ronan's voice sounded when we were alone in the dark.

The memory of the tunnel, the cold concrete against my back as I kissed him and he kissed me back, the heavy weight of Ronan's hands, the absolute refusal to let go…they all flashed behind my eyelids with dangerous clarity.

I could feel myself getting excited at the possibility, at the sheer probability that we could…

No!

That train of thought terrified me more than anything else ever had.

I pulled back hard, slamming the door on the thought before it could take root.

“Gotta go, I'm busy,” I said, my voice snapping back into the controlled, professional tone I used for everyone else on my team.

“Wait, you haven't given me an answer,” Ronan replied.

“I have a meeting to finish, and I don't have time for this right now. I'll get back to you later,” I said.

“Luca…”

I ended the call without waiting for the rest of it.

The screen went black, my reflection staring back at me. I sighed before I turned on the tap, cupped my hands under the rushing stream of cold water, and splashed it directly over my face.

The shock of it bit into my skin, cooling the heat in my chest.

I grabbed a paper towel, dried my face with sharp, efficient motions, and looked back at the mirror.

“Get your s**t together, Luca. You have a career to protect.”

I took a slow, deep breath, let it out through my nose, and unlocked the door.

When I re-entered the conference room, Diane didn't look up from her tablet right away. She just slid a fresh portfolio across the table, her tone shifting seamlessly back into strategy mode.

“You’re back, good,” she said, her eyes scanning the notes as I pulled my chair back out and sat down. “Because we need to lock down the timeline for next week's public appearances. We're looking at a joint charity dinner in downtown Chicago on Tuesday, followed by a casual coffee run near Millennium Park on Thursday morning.”

She looked up to meet my eyes, “and when I say casual, I mean casual…like ‘jeans and white tank’ casual. Think Harry Styles and Zoe Kravitz…the photographers will already be tipped off for the Thursday slot, so I want you and Sienna looking relaxed. Natural.”

“Yes ma'am,” I replied with a mix of sarcasm and seriousness.

Diane sighed, “ If we play this right, the narrative shifts from manufactured PR to organic development by the time the Boston series rolls around. Are you picking up wiarbi I'm dropping?”

I picked up my pen, my fingers steady, and forced an understanding smile onto my face as I nodded. “Yeah,” I answered, my voice entirely even. “I'm picking it all up.”