Page 23 of Power Play

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 heactuallywants 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.”

---