Cole cocked a brow. “You have a file on me?”
“The team provided media reports, analysis of your on-field behavior from prior teams, and altercations you’ve had in the past, all contributing to a profile I’ve put together on you.”
They waited while Mike put their lunch in front of them. Since Cole was hungry, he dug into his chicken Parmesan while Savannah ate her chicken salad. All the while, he stared at the folder she’d pushed off to the side.
“So what’s your conclusion?” he asked.
“This is just a preliminary analysis, but my belief is that you have anger management issues.”
He let out a snort. “I do not.”
She speared a leaf of lettuce, and didn’t argue with him.
“Seriously. I don’t have anger management issues. Or any other kind of issues. I told you last night, the media lies. They blow everything out of proportion.”
“What about your issues with the teams you’ve been on?”
He shrugged. “Personality clashes. I’ve just been on the wrong teams.”
“I see. And you think it’ll be different with the Traders.”
“Yeah. I’ve already connected with them. This is a good fit for me.”
“So assuming this team is, in fact, a good fit for you and you have no skirmishes with anyone on your team, from players to management, what about your personal life?”
“What about it? I told you it’s not me, it’s the media.”
She laid her fork down and dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the napkin. “To some extent, you’re likely correct. The media has a tendency to overdramatize and exaggerate. But if you don’t give them anything to work with, they have nothing to report. You give them plenty, so even if what’s there is minor, they have the opportunity to blow it up.”
“That’s bullshit.” He pushed his empty plate to the side and finished his glass of water. Mike was right there to refill it, then blended into the darkness of the restaurant again. “I don’t give them anything. They make shit up.”
“You also have an issue of not being able to accept blame for your actions.”
“If I’m wrong, I’ll accept blame.”
She raised her fork, then paused, her lips lifting in a hint of a smile. “Let me guess. You’re never wrong?”
Irritation spiked. He pushed it down, refusing to get into an argument with her here. “I didn’t say that. And you’re baiting me.”
“I’m not baiting you, Cole. We’re having a conversation. Your anger is quick to spark. Once it does, you don’t back down. That’s why you get into trouble so easily. And so often.”
He sucked in a breath, trying to keep control. “So is this an exercise to see how fast you can piss me off?”
“No.” She looked down at her plate, then back up at him. “It’s lunch.”
“You think this is funny.”
“I wasn’t making a joke. I’m trying to get you to understand that you’re angry for no reason. We’re having a conversation. A conversation that you’ve turned into what you think is me attacking you.” She pushed her plate to the side and drew the file folder in front of her, opened it up and pulled out photos and articles. “If you’d like, you can explain these photos and altercations. Give me an understanding of you, of what was happening during these events.”
He took the photos. “This one was at a club. I was kicking back with some friends, and suddenly there are ten cameras in my face. Lights are popping, they’re pushing the woman I was with just to get closer to me. What the hell was I supposed to do? I shoved them out of the way so I could get my date out of there. She was freaked out.”
He pulled out an article, this one from some tabloid rag that said he’d been drunk and passed out in a club. He snorted. “Paparazzi tripped me while I was trying to get away from them. So they take this photo of me lying facedown in a club and then print that I’m drunk and passed out.”
At her dubious look, he shot her a glare. “I don’t drink during the season. It affects my performance. Look at the date.” He handed the article back to her.
“October fifteenth.”
“Exactly. Deep in the middle of the season. No alcohol. You can go to the club owners and ask them.”
She filed the article away. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“This one, I was out with my parents. My parents. That’s news? It was their anniversary and I wanted to take them out to dinner. Someplace nice and quiet, and the goddamned media shows up. I’m not an actor. I’m not Hollywood. I’m just a jock. Taking my parents out to dinner isn’t newsworthy. Yet they stalked me and hounded my parents, blinding them with their cameras.”
“Did you bring a date that night?”
He frowned. “What?”
“When you took your parents out to dinner for their anniversary. Did you bring a date?”