“Try to control yourself,” she spat at him, and he chuckled.

“Maybe you should get a bigger box, you don’t even reach my chest.”

She glared because she did reach his chest. Asshole! “Don’t worry about my box.”

“Don’t worry about me controlling myself.”

At an impasse, she glared back at the camera as the director counted down. She tried to fix her face, but damn it, he drove her crazy. Insane. Ah, she didn’t like him!

“Welcome back. I’m Brie Soledad, here with Vaughn Johansson,” she said before turning to looking at him. “Johansson, tonight was a tough one. We had over forty shots on goal, but no one could score. What do you think went wrong?”

With his face expressionless and his eyes on her naughty damn blue eyes, he barked, “We didn’t do anything wrong. We went out and played our hearts out. Sometimes you can’t score, it happens. Not our fault the goalie was basically taking up the whole goal and we couldn’t get past him.”

That wasn’t so bad. Sweat dripped down the side of her face—thankfully, not the camera side. “You, yourself, had twenty-one chances to score. Why do you think it didn’t hit the back of the net?”

Annoyance filled his eyes, and she knew these questions were inane, but she didn’t get to choose them. They were essentially written out for her, and she was supposed to expand on them. But there was no expanding with Vaughn Johansson. She was in and out with this prick. “Price was there. Nothing I can do. I tried, we all tried, and tonight wasn’t our night.”

For some reason, she asked, “How do you put this game behind you?”

“Like I do any game we don’t win. I leave that shit on the ice, and I move on.”

Her eyes widened at the word choice he made before she cut her eyes to the director, but Russell just motioned her on.

Shit.

Clearing her throat, she read the question and moaned inwardly. This wasn’t going to go over well. “That’s all you can do. How are you preparing for the next game against the Hawks to ensure a win?”

Something flashed in his eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was annoyance or what, but he glared as he answered. “Like I do fucking everything thing else. I go home, I rest, I come and practice, and I get ready. I’m not a fucking robot. We aren’t made to win everything. Thankfully, our boss is working her ass off to make us a Cup-contending team, but we aren’t going to win them all. We aren’t perfect, and to assume so is asinine.”

Before she could mutter anything in response, Johansson asked, “Who writes these questions? Surely you’re not this dumb?”

And with that, he walked away. Her eyes widened more as she looked to the camera. She sucked in a deep breath, her cheeks reddening with color. “I’m Brie Soledad, wishing you a wonderful night.”

And she prayed to God the fans of the Assassins had one, because she knew from that moment on, she wouldn’t.

After waking up with the headache of all headaches, Brie decided that the half of a bottle of vodka she drank the previous night wasn’t her smartest move. She had no choice, though. She had to forget that interview, the ass-chewing she received from Russell, and then the phone call from Elli Adler. Apparently, according to Russell, it was her job to control Vaughn Jo-FuckFace, while Elli Adler apologized for Vaughn’s blowup and promised it wouldn’t happen again. It made her feel a little better, but at the same time, she just couldn’t stand that dude. He was such a prick. Yes, the questions sucked, she agreed, but where was his professionalism? Was he raised in a barn?

Goodness!

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Brie closed her eyes as the eerie silence of the exam room made her want to scream. Rod sat beside her, playing on his phone as she had a mini panic attack. She wasn’t worried she would lose her job, Elli Adler had promised she would not only speak with Russell but Jo-FuckFace too, but she hated looking ill-prepared on camera. It was hard enough being a woman in an all-male sport, where male reporters got ahead because women apparently didn’t know shit about a man’s sport. It didn’t matter that she grew up in the rink, that she loved hockey and knew everything about it. That she went to the best journalism school, Syracuse, where she was top of her class and was almost always the lead anchor for their channel. She covered all the sports because people loved to listen to her talk. And she wasn’t a dumb blonde like he made her out to be. She was amazing, damn it!

Vaughn Jo-FuckFace wasn’t going to ruin her.

“Hey, Brie. I need to talk to you.”

She exhaled loudly before looking to her baby brother. Like her, he had bright blue eyes that sparkled so sweetly. His light blond hair was shaggy, into his eyes, though she begged him to cut it. His face was round and full of life, and boy, did she love him. So damn much. “Yes, Rodney.”

“Rod. I’m a man.”

“Yes, of course, Rod. What’s up?”

“I want to talk to you about moving.”

She groaned, letting her head fall back. He hated the assisted living place she had him in, but she couldn’t afford anything else. Yes, that was her fault, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it. She made great money, but she was still paying off all her mother’s debts and her hospital bills. She had been concerned about having enough money to cover the new rent she was about to owe. But with the building Elli Adler had just bought for her players, she insisted Brie take the discounted rent too. Really, she’d be stupid not to. She was paying one-quarter the actual rent of the apartment she was about to live in. And she prayed, she prayed so hard, that maybe Rod would get well enough to move in with her. Or that she hit the lottery and could hire private care.

Either would be great.

“Rod, we’ve discussed this. I can’t afford it, and you need the extra help.”

He held his hands up, much larger than her own, as he nodded exaggeratedly. “I know, but this place… I can get a sponsorship. At least, that’s what the guy said.”

Her face scrunched up. “What guy?”

“The guy who came to visit me at my home. He was cool.”

“When? Who?”

“I don’t know. His name is Nate Way, and his place is called NateWay. He said he can get me a sponsorship to live there. It’s like my own house. I need this, B. I need to get out of the old folks’ place and with my kind of people. I’m dying in there—”