If they hired a new publicity director by nine AM on Monday, she wouldn’t even be surprised.
And that picture. Ugh. Georgia really didn’t want to see her eighteen-year-old smiling face on a newspaper’s website. She didn’t have the yearbook on hand, but she guessed the picture the reporter referred to was the one with Leo’s arm encircling her shoulders as they sat on the bleachers before a pep rally. Georgia remembered that picture well. It captured two heads tilted together like a couple of lovesick fools, their smiles wide. Youthful enthusiasm practically rose up off the page. It was a portrait of a happy, easygoing moment before she’d known what real life was like.
That picture was taken just a few months before her attack in Florida.
Georgia did not want to see it plastered everywhere. She didn’t want to see it at all. And as ornery as she was about Leo’s hot mic error, she’d bet cash money that Leo didn’t want to see that picture, either. He didn’t need the distraction, and if he had a girlfriend, that bit of public speculation was going to make things awkward at home.
At least he’d learn a valuable lesson about mics and press conferences.
After draining her coffee, she finished responding to every last e-mail. To be fair, many of the questions and interview requests were for her father and the team’s general manager. At least the announcement of the new head coach was getting some of the attention. She made a few notes to ask her father to return the most pressing calls to Sports Illustrated and ESPN.
Now what to do about all the requests for Leo? It was easy to grant access for something like a photo shoot. But interviews were trickier if she wanted to downplay the incident at the press conference. Interest in a player ought to be a good thing. Georgia’s job was to channel public interest in the team and its players. A publicist was there to amplify the team’s brand and message. But the fact that Leo had seemed to threaten the team captain made this a delicate situation. She would need to ask O’Doul to sit down with a few journos, too. Maybe he could give an upbeat interview about how great the rookies were fitting in . . .
Someone tapped on the office door, startling her. “Come in!”
The door swung open to reveal none other than the big man himself, Nate Kattenberger. “Afternoon,” he said while Georgia’s stomach dropped. “You’re holed up at your desk on a Saturday?”
She cleared her throat. “Lots of media inquiries. The Times wants to talk to you and Hugh about your choice for coach.” Also? A dozen professional gossips want to upstage your multimillion dollar decision with a story about my high school boyfriend.
He shrugged. “Okay. You can set something up. Shouldn’t you be down at open practice?”
Why yes, I should. But Georgia had been avoiding the rink today, even though open practice was a good time to reach out to loyal ticketholders. She usually liked to stop in and make sure the staff was handing out the game schedules she’d had printed.
“Of course, I’m heading there now,” she lied, getting to her feet and grabbing her clipboard. She wasn’t about to look like a slouch in front of Nate. And while she was down at the rink, she’d remind the players about the benefit dinner they’d be attending in a week’s time.
Nate held open her office door. She followed him out into the corridor. Their path took them through the lobby and down a tunnel built from brick and glass block, toward the brand-new practice arena that Nate had built here on the edge of the Brooklyn Navy Yard.
Her high-ranking companion didn’t say anything as they walked together. At first, working for a man like Nate had been intimidating. But his casual ways had eventually won her over. Today he wore his trademark hoodie and sneakers. Of course, the hoodie was a cashmere model from Bergdorf, and the sneakers were Tom Ford.
His silence made her feel a little edgy, though the stress may have been all in her head. With Nate you never knew what he was thinking. He might be inventing the next bit of software that changed the way your cell phone connected to the Internet. Or he might be deciding which global aid nonprofit would most benefit from a hundred million dollar grant.
Or? He might be trying to decide how to break the news of her demotion.
“That was quite a gaffe Leo Trevi made at the press conference yesterday,” he said eventually.
“I’m sure sorry it went down like that,” she said quickly, as her stomach dove toward her knees.
“I know.” He actually chuckled. “At least it wasn’t a boring press conference.”
Georgia would have preferred that. But since they were having this carefree chat, she probably needed to confess something. “Um, as it happens, Leo Trevi and I dated in high school. So there’s, uh, going to be a picture circulating on the gossip rags.”
Nate gave her the side-eye as he held the rink door open for her. “A compromising picture? Your father won’t like that.”
“God no.” She took a very deep breath and let it out. “No—one of the reporters dug up our high school yearbook.”
“Ah.” Nate chuckled. “So it’s just bad hair and a cheesy caption. The team has survived worse publicity.”
His relative indifference to this circus was not what she’d expected. “Uh, true,” she stammered, passing him as the icy rink air enveloped them. “And I’ll, um, set up that interview with the Times.”
“Excellent. Chin up, Georgia.” He gave her an unreadable grin and walked past her.
So she might survive the week after all. Who knew?
Camera bulbs flashed as Nate made his way through the crowd and into the guts of the training facility. Fans were almost as curious about him as they were about the players. Though practice had already ended, and the rink staff were busy making sure that bystanders stayed behind the velvet ropes separating the public area of the rink from the lockers, treatment rooms, and gym. Last year they’d found some puck bunnies waiting naked in the team hot tub after an open practice, so constant vigilance was necessary.
Georgia pulled up the hood on her sweatshirt just in case any of the bystanders were with the media and happened to recognize her from yesterday’s press conference. Then she approached the staff members guarding the entrance, where a lengthy line of patient fans waited to see who’d emerge to sign autographs.
It was a rink employee they called Old Bob who unhooked the rope for Georgia as she approached. “Hello, sweetheart.”
“How was practice, Bob?” Did either my father or the captain come to blows with my ex-boyfriend on the ice?
“Lookin’ good, Miss Georgia. I like our chances against Tampa tomorrow night.”
Whew. “So do I. See you there, all right?” Leaving the crowd behind, she walked quickly down the brightly lit hallway. She passed through another set of doors and proceeded toward the locker room. But she stopped just outside it.