Power Play (A Blades Hockey Novella Book 1) Page 6

  He tilts his head just so, his blue eyes finding my face in the dim lighting. “I’ll take pity on you. Give you a clue.”

  I roll my eyes. “How chivalrous of you.”

  “I can be chivalrous. When, and if, I want to be.”

  “That’s like saying you can be kind, in between bouts of dickish behavior.”

  His laughter is contagious and I feel my lips tugging into an unexpected smile. Duke Harrison is a danger to anyone with a beating pulse, I decide. He’s quiet and witty, mysterious and candid. It’s a heady combination that I’m sure helps women lose their panties around him fairly frequently.

  Hell, even my panties are feeling a bit loose right now, and that’s a problem.

  To get my mind back in the game, I force a churlish glint to my voice. “All right, just tell me.” I make a come-hither motion with my hands. “I’m an adult; I can take it. Are we talking about trailing you from practice to physical therapy to whatever errands you’ve got tasked for the day? I can’t say that the prospect of following you around is entirely thrilling, but for the sake of the story . . . I’ll learn to be a Grade-A stalker. You’ll never have to worry that I’m not there.”

  The guy on the stool next to me gives me a weird look, and immediately moves away. Seeing an opportunity, Duke hikes one boot onto the stool’s foot rung and sits down. Without waiting for an invitation, he scoots the stool closer to mine, props his forearm on the bar top, and leans forward.

  Suddenly, we’re breathing the same air.

  I’m fully aware of how utterly creepy that sounds, but it’s so true. He’s entered my personal space, though not in a way that’s off-putting or uncomfortable. Instead, I’m filled with the urge to lay my hand on his knee or to wrap my hand around his bicep and tug him down for a kiss. I want to see if the scent of pine is stronger on his skin, and to deduce whether the fragrance belongs to his cologne or to his body wash.

  Oh, boy.

  I am so in over my head.

  As I gulp down the last of my cocktail, Duke lifts a brow in response. “Need another?”

  “No! I’m good.”

  His gaze falls to my empty glass. “Don’t tell me you’re a sloppy drunk, Charlie.”

  “Of course not.” My tone is indignant. I can hear it over the heavy pulse of Avenged Sevenfold playing in the bar, and over the accompanying thunder in my ears. “Well, okay, I sort of am. I cry when I’m drunk. Awful, awful tears. Trust me, I’m cutting myself off at one drink more for your sake than for mine.”

  “I’m a big boy.”

  Naturally, my gaze falls to his crotch.

  Naturally, he catches sight of this and, to my complete mortification, he touches a finger to the point of my chin and gently lifts. Oops. Caught red-handed. My gaze jumps away, landing on the bartender who’s slinging two drinks at once. Impressive.

  Duke’s husky voice garners my attention. “Nothing to say to that, Charlie?”

  Primly, I fold my hands over my crossed legs and flash him a smile. “You’re slick, Duke Harrison, but I don’t fall for high school tricks.”

  A throaty laugh escapes him, and he goes so far as to tip his head back and squeeze his eyes shut. Sue me, but I can’t help but wonder if he looks just as hot when he’s having an orgasm. I’ve never been one to ogle a guy so openly before—Duke is apparently my kryptonite.

  Needless to say, when his laughter fades I’m left with damp panties.

  It’s tremendously unfair.

  We need to get back on track before I’m tempted to do something stupid, like preposition a man who would never say yes to a woman like me. Thumping the bar with my closed fist, I exclaim, “Business, Duke. What’re you talking about with this scheduling thing? Am I supposed to follow you everywhere? Stalk you to your apartment? Hide out in the locker room? I’d prefer to avoid arrest, just so you know.”

  He reaches for his beer bottle, and I watch as his throat works down the liquid. No wonder they chose him for the Got Milk? ad however many years ago now. He’s still got it.

  And by “it,” I’m obviously talking about sex appeal.

  “All right,” he murmurs, dragging his hand through his hair, “We’ll do this your way and refrain from breaking out the handcuffs.”

  Does he have to make everything sound sexual? It’s a talent, I’m sure of it.

  “This is the way your interview is going to go down.” The tension in his wrist slackens, so that the beer bottle hangs loosely from his thumb and index finger. Bouncing the body of the bottle against his knee, he continues, “I’m not one for staged features, so if you want this, you’re going to have to do it my way. I’ll arrange when we can meet up, and I’ll let you know when you have a chance to ask a question. One question per meeting. You following?”

  My eyes narrow at his high-handed tone. “Your dick is showing,” I say, holding up a hand when he arches a brow and glances down at his jeans. “Not that dick, Mr. Harrison. I’m talking about your glowing personality.”

  “I thought you wanted this interview?”

  “I thought you were chivalrous,” I counter with a smirk.

  He shifts his weight and his beer bottle lands softly on my knee. With the cool condensation seeping through my jeans, I’m struck silent by the expression on his face. I have enough sexual experience in my pocket to recognize desire when I see it.

  Now, whether it’s a desire to strip me naked or a desire to bash the bottle over my head—that, I have no idea.

  The bottle goes to the bar, abandoned, and Duke’s hands land on the wooden legs of my barstool. When he drags the stool close to him, I let loose a startled yip and clap my hands on his shoulders.

  “What are you doing?” I growl, turning my grip into two palms smacking his chest away.

  “Being chivalrous.”

  “I didn’t ask you to move my stool,” I tell him, refusing to admit, even to myself, that my heart is pumping erratically in my chest. “In fact, I was fine just where I was.”

  He watches me silently, blue eyes hooded with an unreadable emotion. That one look entraps me, though, and I find myself leaning forward as if pulled by an invisible thread.

  I swallow, hard. “I don’t think you were being chivalrous,” I say with false bravado.

  “No?” His knee bumps mine. “What do you think I was doing, then?”

  I edge closer, debating the merits of playing coy. Duke seems like a straight shooter. As much as I’d like to practice my sorely neglected flirting skills on him, I’m so not interested in throwing myself into the line of fire.

  In a voice carved from gravel, he rasps my name. “Charlie?”

  Don’t fall prey to his good looks, don’t fall prey to his good looks, don’t fall prey to his good looks . . . “You’re trying to distract me from my goal. I see what you’re doing here.”

  “I don’t think you know at all what my angle is right now.”

  I stare at him blankly. “What do you mean, your angle?”

  His blue eyes find my face, and I’m struck with the realization that he’s serious. Would I be crazy to think that he actually wants me naked? It’s a wild, ludicrous thought, and I mentally shove it into a metal bin as soon as it manifests in my head.

  “Duke . . . ”

  “Ask me your first question, right now.”

  It takes a moment for my brain to compute his words. “Are you referring to what’s happening here, between us—?”

  When I motion between our bodies, his latches onto his beer bottle and then drains the rest in one swallow. “No,” he grunts, “Not this. Ask me your first question for the interview.”

  “I don’t have my recorder.”

  “You have a phone?”

  Oh, right. I fumble with my purse, muttering, “I’ll have to download an audio app . . . ”

  “I’ll wait.”

  He says it so succinctly, without nearly the same level of heat as he said my name just moments ago, that I feel decidedly chilled to the bone. He’s hot and cold,
fire and, well, ice. Like his Twitter bio, he’s a man of few words. Somehow, it fits him.

  As the app downloads, I flick my gaze up to him. “What if I don’t have a question prepared?”

  “You’ve got . . . ” His finger taps my phone’s screen to life. “Fifty-nine percent left to think of one.”

  “You’re mad that I called you overrated, still, aren’t you.” It’s not posed as a question. Nor does he rise to my bait. Instead he hails the bartender for another round, this time making our order two water bottles.

  Chivalrous or not, I secretly like the fact that he’s joined me on the sober train. I’ve never been a heavy drinker, preferring water or smoothies to booze.

  Just as the bartender drops off our waters, the app on my phone invites me to open it. Two clicks later, and I’m staring at a pulsing red circle, tempting me to begin the recording session. Deep breaths. Don’t I want this?

  Of course, even if I don’t, it doesn’t matter. Unless I want FIRED written across my LinkedIn page, this interview with Duke has to happen. Eight days. I’m hoping that he doesn’t plan to string this process along for longer than that.

  From my periphery I notice him twist the white bottle cap open. He does the same for my bottle and places it by my elbow.

  I resist the urge to sneak a peek at his face.

  “Okay . . . So, this is the first time I’m ever going into an interview with nothing lined up. Just being honest here.”

  Duke taps his water bottle to mine in a salute. “No time like the present. Hit me.”

  I deliberate on whether I should hit hard, a real body check, or if I should start slow and work my way up. The fact that I’m currently sitting in a bar full of Blades players is answer enough.

  Aiming for a stint in the sin bin, it is then.

  I tap the red button on my phone and the white numbers kick off . . . one second, two seconds, three seconds, more . . .

  “At thirty-four years old, some might say that you’re well past your prime for a professional goalie.”

  I glance up just in time to see him blink and look away. “Is that your question?” he asks flatly.

  “Well, no.”

  “Gordie Howe played until he was fifty-two,” he says with a bit of a defensive edge. “By that count, I’ve got nearly two decades left in me.”

  “I’d say the game was much different in 1966, wouldn’t you?”

  His gaze flicks to mine and I recognize the look there as surprise. “Didn’t realize you’d know when Howe retired.”

  Now it’s my turn to sound mulish. Same crap, just a different day. “I’m a fan of the sport, Duke, despite the fact that I’m a woman.”

  “I didn’t mean to say—”

  “That because I’m a woman, I wouldn’t know hockey? I’m sure you didn’t mean anything by it, but the implication was there.” It’s not the first time I’ve been on the receiving end of this assumption. It nevertheless stings a little bit each time. Hardening my voice, I fold my arms over my chest. “We’ll move past it because I recognize that you’re doing me a solid here. My point in bringing up your age was not to point out that you’re old—”

  “That’s because I’m not old,” he grumbles testily, grabbing for his water bottle.

  “My point was that you’ve been off for three seasons now. Your goals-against-average has slipped dramatically, and there doesn’t seem to be a link to a weak defensive line. In every other facet, the Blades are leading in the division.”

  “So, your first assumption is that my dinosaur-like age is holding back the team.”

  “No,” I murmur, shaking my head, “My first assumption is that you’ve suffered an injury. But as no reports have surfaced suggesting that, and since you haven’t missed a game except on second-string days . . . Then, I naturally proceed to my next suspicion.”

  “My age.”

  I give a little shrug. Perhaps I should have apologized in advance. I become something of a barracuda when I get in the groove, exhibiting the same level of tenacity as I once did on the ice back in the day.

  “Here’s my question.” I turn to him fully, jumping only a little when our knees collide again, and I’m forced to rearrange myself. In doing so, my left knee slides between his thighs. We aren’t skin-to-skin, thanks to the layers of clothing separating us, but I can feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

  “Charlie?”

  Stop imagining him naked. Right, right.

  I briefly let my eyes fall shut, thankful for the dimly lit room, and then crank them back open. Game on. “The Blades aren’t heading to the Stanley Cup this year, unless some sort of miracle happens. I’m hoping for it because I’m a diehard fan, but locals are trying to keep their heads on straight, myself included, and we aren’t making any big bets.”

  His thighs squeeze mine, and I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose to throw me off my game or if the topic of conversation is unnerving him. “Get to your point,” he says before taking another hit of his water. “Please.”

  Such a gentleman.

  “Sports analysts across the country are lining up to point out your whopping thirty-four years. They’ve griped about your old back injury, as well as the number of concussions you took early on in your career when you played right wing and not goalie. Lately, conversation has shifted from injuries and age to your free agency status at the end of this season. For the sake of my readers, I’m going to ask the question they most want to know: if offered a better deal elsewhere at the end of this season, will you be leaving the Blades?”

  For a moment, he says nothing at all. In the silence, he finishes his water bottle and then reaches for my untouched one. Does he wish for something stronger? More alcoholic? Tough to tell. The tabloids hardly ever have a field day with him, and they’ve certainly never mentioned a drug abuse or alcohol problem.

  Aside from the panty-dropping smile and its effect on women across the country, Duke Harrison has kept his nose clean over his decade-plus long career.

  With a hand combing through his hair, Duke lowers his voice so low that I doubt my phone’s recorder app will pick it up. “Free agency or not, I’ll stay with the Blades as long as they’ll have me. I signed on as a rookie with this team. I won my first Stanley Cup with this team. My second one, too. My past injuries notwithstanding, I’ve got nothing holding me back anymore.” He pauses, dragging the silence on for another two beats, and adds, “So, feel free to tell your readers that I don’t plan on leaving Boston until Boston kicks me out.”

  “Then what?” I ask, intrigued by the fiery passion in his blue eyes. This is the most I’ve heard him speak since we met last weekend. I don’t want him to stop. I want to hear that passion wash over me, and soak up the determination he emits in spades.

  Instead of answering, he reaches out and taps the red button on my phone to end the recording session. “No more questions for tonight.”

  Instinctively, I want to push him for another round. I want to crack the shell he’s donned and dig around through the various layers. It’s the journalist side of me, never being content with being told “no more” when it comes to a juicy story.

  Maybe Casey is right. Maybe I should have become a tabloid reporter where juicy stories are the norm.

  “Thank you,” I tell him, because I’m genuinely grateful that he’s even letting me interview him. I drop my phone into my purse and tug my coat tightly around my body. “Guess I should be heading out, then. Will you let me know when—”

  “I have a question for you.”

  “I’m sorry, please repeat.”

  “A question for you.”

  I shake my head, sending my blonde ringlets flopping about my face with the movement. “I don’t think that was part of the original terms.”

  “I’m amending the terms right now.”

  I trail my gaze over his broad shoulders and up to his handsome face. His blue eyes are gleaming with a challenge. “All right. Give me your question.”

  “Do you
like pizza?”

  “Who doesn’t like pizza?” I counter, laughing a little at the randomness of his inquiry. Where in the world is he going with this?

  With a shrug, he says, “My brother, but it doesn’t matter. I’d like to know . . . would you want to get some pizza with me?”

  My body jolts with awareness, and I swear a tingle zips down my spine when he touches his knee to my leg again.

  “Do you mean pizza right now?”

  “Yes. There’s a place that serves by the slice right around the corner from here. Maybe a five-minute walk, tops. Would you want to go with me, grab some later night dinner?”

  All reason flees and I go with the first thought that enters my head. “I’d love to.”

  Chapter Eight

  “You look like hell,” Casey tells me the next morning.

  Still staring at my computer screen, I rub my middle finger along my hairline with not a drop of subtlety. “A compliment,” I mutter dryly, “Hold me while I try to soak it all up.”

  Casey’s laugh is loud in the quiet of the morning. There’s no one here but us—if you don’t count Josh, that is, who never fails to arrive before the crack of dawn. When I passed him this morning in the break room, he held up seven fingers and then strutted off like his job was done for the day.

  Seven days.

  “Seriously, though,” Casey says, her chipper voice drawing my attention to her side of the room, “You’ve got bags under your eyes and your shirt is on inside out. What gives?”

  I look down, peel my sweatshirt away from my skin, and, sure enough, there’s the tag. No wonder I’ve been itchy all morning. I nod my head to the door, a silent command for Casey to shut it. She takes obvious pity on me and does my bidding.

  As soon as the latch clicks, I slide my arms through the necessary holes, twisting the sweatshirt around like I’m a pig in a blanket. The itchy feeling fades as soon as I stick my arms back out, and the collar of my shirt settles against my breastbone like it was designed to do.

  “Charlie.”