Page 11 of Power Play

Suddenly I’m wondering if this was a good idea.

The host sidles up to us, his mouth dropping open a little at the sight of Duke. He recovers admirably. “Would you all come this way?” he says, his voice hovering just short of all-out awe. He lasts all of thirty seconds on the way to the table before he breaks. “Mr. Harrison, you’re, like, my hero.”

A grin tugs at the corner of Duke’s mouth, and suddenly I know. I know what it is about him that makes women pant at the sight of him. It’s utterly ridiculous, and I throw a can-you-believe-this look at Caleb only to realize that he too looks awestruck. Damn it.

Undaunted, Duke grins like he’s totally accustomed to being fawned over by random strangers. “You a hockey fan?”

The host nods like a bobble-head doll. “Oh, man, yeah. When you made that final save against the Penguins a few weeks ago? It was fuck—I mean, it was fantastic.”

Duke gives a low, husky laugh. I think Caleb just got a hard-on. I can’t be certain, but he’s walking funnily beside me now, and he keeps muttering “not now” to himself in a way that’s increasingly suspicious. He’s not alone. The host is blushing like an adolescent, and there’s no doubt in my mind he’s on the verge of asking for a selfie with the Blades’ first round goalie.

“What’s your name?”

In the face of Duke’s question, the host halts in his tracks. “Um, Steve, Mr. Harrison. Steve Zet.”

“All right, Steve Zet, you’ve got two tickets on me. Next game, just let the ticket booth know and they’ll let you in.”

Duke Harrison has just earned himself a life long fan, if the expression on Steve’s face is anything to go by. Pure love. I’ve always wondered what it looks like and now I know.

It can easily be confused with constipation, so you have to look closely to distinguish the difference.

Steve finally seats us at our table, and a small game of who-gets-what-chair ensues. Gwen claims the seat closest to the crackling fireplace—Iknewthat she had to be cold—and then points a finger at Duke when he goes to sit next to her.

“No, no, notthere. You can’t sit there.”

Duke looks toward Caleb and I. Hell if I know what her problem is. With a shrug, I take the seat diagonal to Gwen and plant my butt down. My feet are already on fire. You can put me in a nice dress but you can’t make my feet accept the death traps that are better known as stilettos.

Gwen motions to the chair on my right. “There,” she tells Duke, “sit across from me.”

Caleb, bless his soul, is never one to let a snarky opportunity pass, and quips, “Gwen, if I start playing footsie with you, I apologize in advance. I’m just so accustomed to sittingnextto my lovely Charlie that, well”—he shrugs boyishly—“it’s a habit now. You’ve been forewarned.” Then he pulls out his chair, plops down, and promptly plucks my hand off the table to kiss my knuckles.

He’s laying it on thick. My nose scrunches as I ease my fingers out of his grip and go for my short glass of ice water. I barely manage a sip before the chair beside me screeches across the hardwood floor and Duke Harrison lowers his big body down onto it.

Almost immediately I’m assaulted by the scent of man, pine, and sexiness. Yes, sexiness has a scent. I’ve onlyjustdiscovered it, seeing as how Duke just showed me that it existed, and I resist the urge to inch my chair to the right. I want to decipher what it is exactly that makes him smell so good.

As if knowing that I’m thinking insane thoughts, he tosses me astop-being-weirdlook before slouching back in his chair. His crisp, blue button-down parts at the neck, revealing a tan throat and a hint of black ink.

He’s tattooed. On his chest. Obviously his ‘Got Milk’ campaign is not from a recent photo shoot. I can’t help but wonder if his rock hard stomach looks the same now as it did in that photo, whenever it was taken.

The stalker in me itches to snatch my phone from my purse and Google him again for a more recent shirtless photo.Whatis it that he has tattooed on his body? The question eats as me almost religiously. The mentally sane woman in me—the woman with a Plan—has no intention of Googling anyone. In fact, the sane part of me isn’t eveninterestedin him. For the following reasons:

1) He’s obviously got something going on with Gwen James.

2) He’s not my type.

3) He hates my guts, as evidenced by the fact that he keeps sending me dirty glances.

I’m back in control of my raging hormones by the time the server comes around for a drink order. Gwen opts for Dom Perignon—clearly, she’s not expecting to pick up the tab tonight; Caleb chooses some sort of imported ale, and Duke goes for an American beer.

Sam Adams, a Boston classic.

“And you, Miss?” the server asks me politely.

“House white,” I answer primly. If this bill is getting split into thirds, there’s no way that I can afford much more than the outrageous entrée prices. My Target dress and I should have been left on the curb to rethink our life decisions.

Beside me, Duke shifts in his chair and his arm brushes up against mine. “Sorry,” he says in a low voice, “I think these chairs were designed for someone . . . smaller.”

It’s the first time he’s voluntarily spoken to me, as I’m not counting our Twitter private messages. Picking my words carefully, I say, “You are rather monstrous.”

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