Page 21 of Power Play

As he heads off, Duke returns his focus back to me. Seated as I am, I can’t help but notice his massive size. I wasn’t kidding when I said he was monstrous. For a goalie, he’s got the right frame: tall and broad, lean. Today he’s wearing dark-washed jeans and a soft-looking sweater, no hint of his tattoo in sight.

Disappointing, to say the least. I was hoping for another peek, shameless hussy that I am.

“What made you say yes?” I finally ask.

“To meeting here and discussing your interview?”

“Yeah.” I thank the bartender when he delivers our drinks, and then stifle a pleased smile when I reach for my wallet and Duke makes a point of handing his credit card over. “I’m not complaining, but somehow I don’t think that this”—I motion to the secret bar he’s brought me to—“is what your ‘price’ is for helping me out.”

He brings his beer bottle up to his mouth. “You’re right,” he murmurs in a gravel-pitched voice, “it’s not.”

“All right.” I wrap my hand around my cocktail and take a sip through the short, tiny straw. “Then let me have it.”

Chapter Seven

“You askquestions on my time schedule.”

I stare at a speck of lint on his sweater. Not because it’s all that noticeable (it’s not), but because I’m desperately attempting to riddle out his words. The overhead lights pitch darker, giving the bar a soft romantic glow though I must be the only female in the house.

The Box is proving to be a very intriguing place.

After sipping my gin and tonic, I ask, “Are you referring to scheduling the interview around your games, that sort of thing?” If so, I’m not sure what would make this any different than any other interview I’ve ever done.

My job atThe Tribunemight not come with prestige but I’m not incompetent. I’m on the verge of saying this to him when he shakes his head and murmurs, “Not exactly.”

“Are you going to make me guess what you’re talking about?” I fiddle with the straw in my drink, doing my best not to notice the way we’ve started attracting more attention from his teammates. Surprisingly, they stay away and give us space, though I feel them watching us.

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 amsoin 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.”

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