Page 14 of Power Play

As if scheduled by the gods, our meals arrive and, sure enough, a Wellington is placed in front of Duke, whose cheeks are now roasting with color.

Pointing my fork at his plate, I say, “I like coincidences. Tell me, did you plan it?”

“Of course he did,” says Gwen, who has switched her focus from her cell phone to the dainty salad placed before her. “Also, Duke, theGQeditor just sent me an email about a feature with them.They want a full spread. Next week.”

The good humor on his face slowly seeps away. The broody frown is back. I’m not sure whether I should be disappointed or pleased. Except—hold onnow.

I direct my attention to Gwen. “What is it that you do again, Gwen?”

Immediately I begin to pray.Please no, please no, please—

“I’m Duke’s PR agent. That’s how we met, actually. Duke’s sports agent hired my firm, Golden Lights Media, and it was almost like love at first sight. We spotted each other after a game and, oh, it was justmagical.”

“Gwen,” Duke growls sexily, even if he is saying another woman’s name, “we arenot together.”

Despite his assurance that he and Gwen are not, in fact, an item, my stomach drops somewhere south of my feet. Perhaps to Hell. I risk a quick glance at Caleb, whose mouth is pursed tightly like he’s holding back laughter.

This is worse than I expected.

I almost wish that Gwen and Dukeweredating. I imagine it would be easier to navigate that mess than one in which Gwen James is actually The Mountain’s PR guru. There is absolutelyno wayshe’ll let him even speak withThe Tribune,off the books.She already thinks the newspaper is going down the drain.

And, yes, she would be correct on that assumption.

But how can I compete with G-freakin’-Q??!

Sweat beads on my forehead and I feel a mite bit dizzy. The conversation calls for a response, but I have nothing to say.

Well, nothing besides:fuckme.

Since this is neither appropriate nor a reasonable response, I force a bright smile. “That’s so . . . sweet,” I grit out, none too gently stabbing a piece of my steak. “So, Duke, does that mean mixing business with pleasure is accepted within the Blades’ organization?”

His frown deepens. “Gwen and I aren’t—”

“What he’stryingto say is that we’re a team, Charlie. We look out for each other, and make a sound decision on whether a tabloid photo or an interview—whatever—is beneficial to Duke’s overall career before rolling with it.”

There’s a hidden message if I ever heard one. I just haven’t quite uncovered all of the subtleties yet. Somehow, I imagine that those subtleties are lined with unsheathed knives.

I put down my fork and knife. “So, an interview with a local news publication. Would that be completely off the table?”

Duke drains his beer.

Caleb excuses himself to make a “very important phone call.”

And Gwen . . . Gwen just turns to me with such a serene smile on her face that I’m reminded of my twenty-one year old self, who thought Gwen James was the coolest girl ever. Thankfully, I no longer suffer from such delusions.

“Is that a hint that you’d likeThe Cambridge Tribuneto interview Duke?” she asks smoothly. Her smile might be wide and guileless, but the same cannot be said for her narrowed eyes.

I hold her gaze. “It was just a thought.The Tribune’sfan base doesn’t readSports Illustratedor other, more well known publications.” I’m lying through my teeth, not that I care. “I just think that it would be nice for some of our locals to see a side of their favorite hockey player from their favorite newspaper.”

“I don’t think so.” That’s all she says before her phone rings and she’s forced to step away from the table to take the call.

Which effectively leaves Duke and I alone, seated side by side.

We’re facing a wall and neither of us turns to look at the other for long, heavy moments. Even so, I can feel his presence beside me as tangibly as if he’d pressed his knee to mine. I’m tempted to do just that, to slide my right leg just two inches over and touch him. But his body is rigid, his left hand curled tightly around the cutlery.

In fact, he might not be breathing.

“So,” I murmur, taking a sip of my wine, “you and Gwen?”

---