Firebird (The Firebird Trilogy #1) Read Free Page B

over the throng of reporters who thrust phones and digital recorders in his face. He’d be the Earthquakes’ new spokesperson, like it or not. A square-jawed, high-cheekboned model’s face, TV-ready. Borealized eyes in a dramatic shade of green, a Greek nose, black hair rare for northwestern Russians, who were usually blond. An impertinent quirk of his lips at one corner, daring someone to ask him a stupid question. Five-o’clock shadow that, along with the deep scar on his right cheek, complemented his bad-boy image. Not that she was looking. Stephanie jockeyed for position and with a firm grip on her phone raised it toward him.
    “…and we obviously didn’t play the way we wanted to, but it takes time. We all want this team to succeed as much as you do.”
    “Do you think Coach will be in the hot seat this season?”
    “I’m not commenting on that. Everyone knows he’s a good coach. We just need to play our game, tighten up defensively, and stop giving up so many chances.”
    “How do you feel about coming to a struggling team after the name you made for yourself in Buffalo and winning the Cup there two seasons ago?”
    “I’m grateful for every day I get to play professional hockey.” Lips tight, teeth gritted. Lying through them.
    Then his gaze fell on her. They held each other’s stare, compelling her to endure the turmoil in his expression. Not the hostile, challenging glare he leveled at everyone else in the media, but despair the depths of which she could not begin to plumb. The truth, for those endless seconds, of what he thought she had done to him, before he hardened his stare and repaired the inadvertent damage to his wall. His body had gone still until he wiped his thumb across an invisible smudge at the corner of his mouth. He puffed out his chest a little in a subconscious, primal display of alpha-male dominance.
    “Stephanie Hartwell.”
    Her heart crawled into her esophagus at the sound of her name on his lips. “Um…hi.” Wow, so professional. She might as well have been sixteen again.
    “Thank you,” he said to the other reporters and edged his way out of the crowd toward her. His damp hair dribbled water down his neck.
    “Coach’s press conference in five,” someone shouted, and the media swarmed out of the locker room.
    “My agent told me you were coming,” he explained when the noise subsided. He raised his baseball cap, scrubbed a hand over his forehead and thick, black hair, and jammed it back down. She was grateful he did not attempt to shake her hand. The memory of their first meeting was too potent in its resonance. “I didn’t think people still read print.”
    You didn’t used to be an asshole. “How’s the eye?”
    “Fine. He had it coming, so it was worth it.” He crossed his arms. Already closing himself off. “My agent said you want an exclusive story.”
    “On your terms, of course. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”
    “Good. You probably wouldn’t want to hear it. Listen, Stephanie, this is no offense to you, but I don’t know if—”
    “This is a good idea. Yeah. But I need this story, so…”
    Those eyes searched her face. Her soul. “You can still do it. Finish my sentences.” He dropped his arms to his sides.
    Unable to hold his stare any longer, she fiddled with her phone and stuffed it into her purse. Not like this. Not after so many years. Yet her emotions rose to the surface like a bloated, waterlogged corpse, in defiance of everything she’d done to stamp them out. “Alex—”
    “I don’t go by that name anymore.” He shook off whatever had passed between them and tapped his phone’s screen. “I’m not free until late afternoon. Let’s do this over dinner.”
    Stephanie analyzed each word, the way his expression had darkened at the mention of his old nickname. They were twenty-five years old. He couldn’t still be angry, not after so many years.
    Not over her.
    “Six o’clock?”
    He jabbed a finger