Page 20 of Power Play

Then, I physically ball my hands into fists and rub my eyes because surely I’m not staring at the Blades hockey team shooting the shit over pool tables, and lounging out on the couches.

“Whatisthis place?” I whisper in awe.

“The Box.”

“Yes, I read the sign at the front of the building.” I wave my arm at the sight before me. “But why am I staring at your entire team?”

With a hand to my lower back, Duke moves me to the side so he can shut the door behind me. I can feel that large hand of his like a permanent imprint to my skin, even after he’s stepped away and opened the distance between us.

“The Box is split up into two separate bars,” he tells me. “Front of the house”—he jerks his thumb toward the door we just came through—“and back of the house for us. The owners are huge hockey fans, and they’ve been operating this place since the 80’s, at least.” He offers a roll of his shoulders. “Sometimes it’s nice to just relax and not have to worry about the media hounding us.”

The look he gives me indicates that he’s talking about me and me alone. I flash him my toothiest smile and he glances up to the ceiling. Probably begging the Heavens to take me off his hands.

Eight days,I want to tell him,you have me for eight days.

“So, what, you guys just camp out back here, hiding from us plebeians?”

“Something like that.” The corners of his mouth lift, and damn, but his smile is sinful. Fake tooth and all, this man is a walking billboard for sex. Then, he breaks the spell, gesturing for me to follow him to the bar.

We catch a few side-eye glances and I return them fully. I can’t help it. I’m a hockey junkie and I’m in a room with some of the best players in the NHL.

Baylor “Zombini” Jeffs.

Ryan “The Hitter” Markssen.

Andre Beaumont.

This is nuts, totally mind-boggling.

Duke doesn’t take the free barstool. He invites me to it with a dip of his chin, and I casually take the offering, as though a professional hockey player giving me his seat is regular scheduled programming in the life of Charlie Denton.

It’s not, and I thrust away the unbidden thought that this feels a lot like a date.

As he waits for the bartender to come our way, he removes his leather wallet from his back pocket and idly taps the worn corner against his palm. “You look awestruck.”

There’s no point in lying. “A little bit, yeah.”

His gaze cuts to mine, seeing through the layer of bullshit I’m offering up on a silver platter. “Just a little?”

“Okay, so I might be on the verge of a minor anxiety attack right now.”

The air vacates the room when his blue eyes dip to my mouth and linger. “You gonna need mouth-to-mouth, Charlie?”

My breathing hitches. “You offering, Mr. Harrison?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he turns away as the bartender finally approaches us. I fend off disappointment that he didn’t respond to my attempt at flirtation. Not that I’m surprised, though. Flirtation and Charlie Denton aren’t exactly synonyms.

“What are you two having?” the bartender asks, snagging two napkins from a black dispenser and popping them on the bar top.

“My usual,” Duke says, then glances over at me. “What are you in the mood for?”

You.

Thankfully, for once, I don’t voice my thoughts out loud. Quickly I scan the rows of glass bottles beneath the backlit wall. “Gin and tonic?”

The bartender doesn’t even blink. “Lime or lemon?”

“Lime, please.”

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