Power Play (A Blades Hockey Novella Book 1) Page 2

  Gwen glowers and I realize that my greeting hasn’t met her standard. For the sake of not throwing down at my best friend’s bachelorette party, I try again. “It’s so lovely to meet you, Duke. What made you decide to join our women-only tea party?”

  Jenny joins the fake-choking train. My lips finally tug upward in a genuine smile.

  Duke Harrison, goalie extraordinaire for the Boston Blades, does not return my smile. “Gwen encouraged me to come,” is all he says.

  “Ah.”

  It’s all that needs to be said, really. What Gwen wants she generally gets—aside from Jenny’s husband, that is. My gaze flicks down to Gwen’s hand and the diamond ring sparkling under the soft, overhead lighting. “Maybe she wants you in the wedding planning mood,” I say. “You know, to bring you up to snuff.”

  “We’re not together.”

  Now I’m the one gasping for air. I pound my fist against my chest, rubbing in tight little circles. And, oh God, my eyes—they’re stinging. Laughter, I think, not tears. Gwen’s mouth opens and shuts, even as her gaze turns squinty.

  “I was just trying it on my ring finger,” she snaps. Yanking the diamond off her fourth finger, she fits it on her middle finger of the opposite hand. “Just to see how I feel about it. Duke likes to play hard to get.”

  “I’m not playing anything,” he says evenly.

  I can hear Gwen grinding her teeth from here. If she does so any harder, she’ll turn them to dust. With her hand still wrapped around his arm, I nevertheless have the sneaking suspicion that while they might not be together they’ve probably swapped spit a few times. Crossed each other’s hockey sticks, if you know what I mean—not that Gwen’s got a penis. At least, I’m not aware of her having a penis.

  Regardless, even if they haven’t done the dirty, it’s clear from the dog-in-heat expression on Gwen’s face that she wants to get close and personal with Duke Harrison’s twin pucks.

  I glance over at Duke, expecting to see that same look of lust darkening his blue eyes. Instead, he appears bored. A little on edge, maybe, but there’s no flare of desire in his expression when he attempts to pull away from Gwen’s death grip.

  Suddenly our gazes clash, hold, and I lift my brow, as if to say, I wouldn’t bother trying.

  He returns my brow-lift with one of his own, and I read his message loud and clear: Get her off of me.

  My shoulders lift in a shrug—not my problem, it translates to—and I notice a pulse leap to his jaw.

  “We have an event to go to after this,” Gwen says, oblivious to the fact that the man beside her is on the verge of fleeing. “Duke agreed to be my date.”

  With a heavy sigh, Duke finally manages to detangle himself from the octopus otherwise known as Gwen James. “I’m not your date,” he grumbles in overt frustration, “I’m your damn cl—”

  Whatever he’s about to say is cut off by Gwen’s high-pitched voice: “It doesn’t matter. Tea, Duke? Let’s go grab some tea.”

  She doesn’t wait to make any more small talk, not even with her bride-to-be cousin. Latching her hand around his wrist, she gives a quick tug and pulls him toward the table of women.

  “Excuse me,” Duke murmurs as he brushes past me. I objectively admire his butt as he walks away. It’s a great butt, no doubt thanks to the fact that he’s constantly squatting in the net. He moves like a lethal predator, and there’s no shortage of female sighs as he settles into an empty chair at the end of the table. Gwen sits next to him, immediately turning to him with an accusing finger jab.

  Trouble in paradise, it seems.

  And then it hits me: I just met Duke “The Mountain” Harrison. Holy crap. This is . . . this is crazy. I cannot wait to tell Casey, my coworker, on Monday morning. Even if I do think he’s overrated, there’s still the fact that I am a sports journalist and I’ve been following his career for years. Since he was a rookie a decade ago.

  But while I might be a sports journalist, I also happen to while away thirty-five hours per week at The Cambridge Tribune. To say that the newspaper is second-rate would be a stretch, and for one very good reason: my boss, Josh, doesn’t believe in handing out press badges. No one takes us seriously because half of the city doesn’t even know that we exist.

  Who wants to read an online newspaper where the quotes are regurgitated from other publications? No one knows who I am—this isn’t a bad thing, necessarily—but my chances of even freelancing for a more reputable newsletter, like The Boston Globe, are slim to none.

  Honestly, I wouldn’t even hire me.

  My clips are decent, but there’s only so much that you can do with lackluster story material.

  “I don’t like that look on your face,” Jenny says from beside me. “Whatever you’re thinking, you stop that right now, Charlie Denton.”

  Bristling at her suspicious tone, I say, “I’m not thinking about anything.”

  “You are,” Mel jumps in. “You so are.”

  They’ve got my calling card. I need a story—a story that will land on screens all over the Northeast—and Duke Harrison just became my muse.

  Chapter Two

  I wait until Monday to make my move.

  I’m surprised I’ve contained my nervous energy for this long, actually. This is it—my opportunity to make it into the big leagues. I can feel it in my bones, though I’m hoping that the echoing pain in my shins isn’t an early onset of arthritis kicking in.

  “What’s the matter with you?” my coworker demands after I leave my desk twice in the span of thirty minutes to pour myself more coffee.

  Casey and I didn’t start out as best buddies. In fact, it’s safe to say that we spent our first year at The Cambridge Tribune hating each other’s guts. Desperation, as well as the creeping realization that we had only each other in a department full of testosterone, soon bonded us in a way that could only be trumped by slicing our forearms and sharing our blood.

  I dump a packet of creamer into my mug, swirling the coffee around with the bottom of a plastic fork. “I have this idea,” I tell her as I sit back down in my lumpy office chair. “Do you want to hear it?”

  Casey rolls her eyes but gestures for me to go on. Instinctively, I know this means she’s agitated by my jitters but curious enough to keep quiet. We’ve been through this before.

  “Okay.” I plunk my mug down and coffee sloshes over the rim. Idly I use a spare paper napkin from yesterday’s Dunkins run to wipe it up. “Guess who I met this weekend.”

  “Your future husband.”

  She says this so drolly that I glower. Is it so hard to imagine me as the marrying kind? I think of my previous track record and feel my shoulders slump in defeat.

  “That was a joke,” Casey tells me, making the defeat feel only that much sharper. “Obviously we’re going to become two old cat ladies together.”

  “I don’t like cats.”

  “This is why we can’t be lesbians and marry,” Casey jokes, pushing her brown hair back from her face. “I couldn’t be with someone who hates God’s greatest gift to mankind.”

  This time, it’s my turn to roll my eyes. The marriage thing is a running joke between us, mainly because our coworkers are sexist pigs and have a hard time believing that, yes, both Casey and I are straight, and yes, we thoroughly enjoy sports.

  I cut straight to the chase. “I met Duke Harrison.”

  Casey’s eyes go wide and her mouth falls open a little. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. Did you just say that you met Duke Harrison?”

  I nod. “Yes. And, before you ask, he’s only marginally better looking in person than he is on TV.”

  The doubtful expression she levels on me says it all. “Only marginally better looking?” she demands, dropping her elbows to her desk. “I refuse to believe that Duke Harrison is anything less than a Greek God.”

  Sipping my coffee, I offer a shrug and lie. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  She doesn’t look like she believes me worth a damn, but we have bigger fish to fry.<
br />
  Like how we’re going to rope Duke Harrison into an exclusive interview with The Cambrige Tribune. I’ve been thinking about this nonstop for the last two days and my current plan is full of Swiss cheese grated holes. In theory, it’s goddamn brilliant: Duke Harrison agrees to give a one-of-a-kind interview to The Cambridge Tribune and, in turn, Casey and I are taken seriously within our sphere of peers.

  Maybe we get offers from The Globe or The Herald (ugh, I’m so not a fan of The Boston Herald). Maybe we don’t. Maybe Duke Harrison laughs in my face and has his security team wheel me out on a stretcher as a mentally unstable patient.

  Is moving up my career worth the price of possibly going to jail?

  No.

  Maybe.

  Probably, yes.

  I fill Casey in on my plan, choosing my words carefully. When I finish, she leans back in her equally lumpy chair and steeples her fingers, elbows planted on the chair’s armrests. Nervously, my knee bounces up and down, and I press my hand flat against my thigh to keep it still.

  “What do you think?”

  She watches me from behind thick-wired frames. It’s the same expression my mom used to give me just before she embarked on an hour-long lecture. Instinctively, I gird myself for the worst.

  “I think . . . ”

  My eyes slam shut.

  “I think it’s brilliant! How do we get this done?”

  A sigh of relief escapes me. Okay. Okay, this is good. I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. Think of the job, Charlie. Yes, the job. My gaze sweeps over our shared office. It’s a sad-looking time transport to 1976. The only thing missing is a shaggy rug the color of stale Cheetos.

  The time has come to take big steps.

  I’ve thought about this all morning. Gwen knows him. In theory, I could reach out to her and ask for Duke’s contact information, but something tells me that she’d bury me six feet under before she ever helped a girl out. “I need his email address,” I announce.

  Casey rolls her eyes. “Oh, you only need his email address.” She sticks a pen in her mouth and bites down on the cap. “There is no way we’re going to be able to find his email. Maybe an email for his PR agent, sure, but his personal one?” She shakes her head. “You’re out of your mind.”

  I knew she’d say that. I down the rest of my coffee, then forlornly glance down into my trash bin at the empty Dunkin’ Donuts Styrofoam cup from this morning. The crappy work stuff will just have to do for now.

  “The PR email is blocked,” I tell Casey. “You know, one of those websites where they want a subscription in exchange for your soul? Nothing on the guy’s official website either, which is a bit surprising.”

  She blinks. “He has an official website?”

  “Yes.”

  “Show me.”

  My eyes narrow. “There’s nothing exciting on there. Stats, a few pictures—that sort of thing. I did fill out the contact form, but we all know how those work out. I’ll never hear back from—”

  “Is he shirtless in any of the photos?”

  “What?” Now it’s my turn to blink. “It’s not PornHub, Casey.”

  A blush stains her cheeks, and she busies herself with sorting a stack of papers on her desk. “I didn’t ask if he was naked, just if he didn’t have a shirt on.”

  I stare at her. “You’re sick, you know that?”

  “No, I’m a woman with hormones and Duke Harrison is one fine male specimen.”

  Rolling my eyes, I turn back to my desk. I need to figure this out. From what I’ve gathered, Duke “The Mountain” is a private enough guy. I type his name into Google because, what the hell, no one can escape Google’s web crawler, and I specifically remember bypassing a Twitter page during my research on him last week.

  And I’m right—up pops his official Twitter profile. I can work with this. I tap the mouse on the appropriate link, and wait for the little circle of death to do its thing and then I’m in.

  His profile photo is one of him posing for a ‘Got Milk’ ad. Truth be told, I didn’t even think they made those commercials anymore. But there he is in all of his glory.

  Shirtless.

  Mouth-wateringly bare-chested with hard abs for days.

  I quickly glance at Casey, but she’s so absorbed in her game of solitaire that I give in to temptation and enlarge the photo.

  Eight.

  That’s the number of tight ridges he’s got on his washboard stomach. Maybe I’m the one who’s sick.

  I squirm a little in my chair and read his profile. It’s short and overtly direct:

  NHL Goalie – Boston Blades.

  Seasons: Not Enough.

  Not so chatty of an individual, is he? If he had an online dating profile, I imagine it would read something like, “I like it hot & dirty in the sheets. No repeats.”

  Whereas if I had a dating profile, it would go a little something like this: “Looking for long-term relationship. Likes dogs, Thai food, and needs a boyfriend who doesn’t mind it when girlfriend chooses to watch the Patriots over engaging in sexy-times.”

  Now that I think about it, I may have discovered the reason for my constant singleness.

  “Casey,” I say, distracting myself from Duke’s naked chest on the computer screen, “if you had one chance to tweet at a hockey player and capture his attention, what would you say?”

  “Am I trying to get laid?” she asks. She spins her chair around to face me, and I hastily exit out of Duke Harrison’s Twitter page before she can see that I’ve been ogling his beautiful body.

  “What?” I exclaim. “No. You’re trying to get a story out of him.”

  Her head tilts to the side. “Be honest. Just ask him for the interview.”

  Yeah, I could have figured that one out myself. Flexing my fingers, I turn to my computer and go for broke. At the end of the day, what’s the worst that could happen?

  Chapter Three

  No.

  I wake up the next morning to find that two-letter word in my Twitter DM inbox.

  No. Just like that.

  I suppose I should feel grateful that Duke bothered replying to my clumsy tweet, not to mention he took the time to follow me in order to, you know, slide into my DMs.

  Except that I’m not grateful. In fact, I’m annoyed. He may be a professional hockey player, but I’m one step away from being a no-name journalist for the rest of my life. I need something big.

  I need an interview with Duke Harrison.

  Clambering out of bed, I drag my body into the kitchen and turn on the coffee machine. Then, I sit my butt down on my bar stool and stare at the message again for the umpteenth time this morning.

  No.

  It would be so easy to accept defeat. To slink back to The Tribune’s office and wallow in my self-pity as I quote other journalists with far more expansive pedigrees for the rest of my life.

  Or . . . I can take a risk.

  I pull my phone toward me. Stare down at it. And then, before allowing myself to rethink my decision, I begin to type. I hit send.

  I’m not sure if you remember me. I met you the other day at TeaLicious for the bachelorette party?

  The coffee beeps its timely arrival and I pour myself a mug of the hot brew. I’ll need a stop by Dunkins’ on the way to work this morning if I ever want to function like a normal human being. It’s part of my regular routine. A routine I love. If only I could bring my career up to par.

  As if working on similar brainwaves, my phone chimes with an incoming message and I launch myself at it.

  “Breathe, Charlie,” I order myself, “breathe.”

  He’s responded.

  Thank you, Jesus.

  Cautiously, I tap in my cell phone’s password, flick my finger to the right to bring up the Twitter page and—

  I remember you. The answer is still no.

  What. The. Hell.

  I gulp down some coffee, only to belatedly realize that it is scalding hot. “Crap!” I shout at my empty apartment, pressing my to
ngue to the roof of my mouth to soothe the sudden throbbing.

  And then I’m back at my cell phone because what type of answer is that? Is he even capable of writing complex sentences?

  It’s a syntax travesty, I tell you.

  May I ask why not? I tap out. Hit send. Make a silent prayer to the hockey gods to be on my side today.

  His answer arrives in seconds. No.

  My teeth clench. Is it because I called you overrated?

  Thanks for the reminder. Now the answer is definitely a no.

  The deepening urge to hurl my phone across the room has me actually going so far as to lift my arm and aim for the window.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” I mutter. “You’re a professional journalist.”

  That’s right. I may work for a dead-beat publication with a circulation of perhaps 1,000—per year—but that doesn’t mean I don’t hold any leverage in this situation. I stare at the last message he’s sent me. I type something out and then delete it.

  Ultimately, I go for the pathetic route. Five questions. You can answer here on Twitter.

  Not interested.

  Three questions. I’ll throw in dinner.

  Realizing that he could interpret that as an invitation for a date, I quickly send off another message: What I mean is, I’ll give you a gift card for dinner. Dinner does not include me.

  My cheeks heat at the flirtatious undertone, but it’s too late to retract the words now. I quickly glance at the clock above the stove. I need to get ready for work. Only, I’m glued to my barstool.

  Glued to the possibility that Duke Harrison might answer me back.

  He does, and I can practically hear his husky baritone reverberate through the words. That’s too bad. Dinner with you sounds more interesting . . .

  I wait impatiently.

  More interesting than . . . what? More interesting than conducting an interview? More interesting than undergoing a prostrate exam? There are endless possibilities, and I’m dying to know exactly what he means by that cryptic message.

  Before I even have the chance to formulate a response, I receive another message: But the answer to your request is still no. Have a good day, Charlie.