Page 24 of Power Play

Now it’s my turn to sound mulish. Same crap, just a different day. “I’m a fan of the sport, Duke, despite the fact that I’m a woman.”

“I didn’t mean to say—”

“That because I’m a woman, I wouldn’t know hockey? I’m sure you didn’t mean anything by it, but the implication was there.” It’s not the first time I’ve been on the receiving end of this assumption. It nevertheless stings a little bit each time. Hardening my voice, I fold my arms over my chest. “We’ll move past it because I recognize that you’re doing me a solid here. My point in bringing up your age was not to point out that you’re old—”

“That’s because I’mnotold,” he grumbles testily, grabbing for his water bottle.

“My point was that you’ve been off for three seasons now. Your goals-against-average has slipped dramatically, and there doesn’t seem to be a link to a weak defensive line. In every other facet, the Blades are leading in the division.”

“So, your first assumption is that my dinosaur-like age is holding back the team.”

“No,” I murmur, shaking my head, “My first assumption is that you’ve suffered an injury. But as no reports have surfaced suggesting that, and since you haven’t missed a game except on second-string days . . .Then,I naturally proceed to my next suspicion.”

“My age.”

I give a little shrug. Perhaps I should have apologized in advance. I become something of a barracuda when I get in the groove, exhibiting the same level of tenacity as I once did on the ice back in the day.

“Here’s my question.” I turn to him fully, jumping only a little when our knees collide again, and I’m forced to rearrange myself. In doing so, my left knee slides between his thighs. We aren’t skin-to-skin, thanks to the layers of clothing separating us, but I can feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

“Charlie?”

Stop imagining him naked.Right, right.

I briefly let my eyes fall shut, thankful for the dimly lit room, and then crank them back open. Game on. “The Blades aren’t heading to the Stanley Cup this year, unless some sort of miracle happens. I’m hoping for it because I’m a diehard fan, but locals are trying to keep their heads on straight, myself included, and we aren’t making any big bets.”

His thighs squeeze mine, and I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose to throw me off my game or if the topic of conversation is unnerving him. “Get to your point,” he says before taking another hit of his water. “Please.”

Such a gentleman.

“Sports analysts across the country are lining up to point out your whopping thirty-four years. They’ve griped about your old back injury, as well as the number of concussions you took early on in your career when you played right wing and not goalie. Lately, conversation has shifted from injuries and age to your free agency status at the end of this season. For the sake of my readers, I’m going to ask the question they most want to know: if offered a better deal elsewhere at the end of this season, will you be leaving the Blades?”

For a moment, he says nothing at all. In the silence, he finishes his water bottle and then reaches for my untouched one. Does he wish for something stronger? More alcoholic? Tough to tell. The tabloids hardly ever have a field day with him, and they’ve certainly never mentioned a drug abuse or alcohol problem.

Aside from the panty-dropping smile and its effect on women across the country, Duke Harrison has kept his nose clean over his decade-plus long career.

With a hand combing through his hair, Duke lowers his voice so low that I doubt my phone’s recorder app will pick it up. “Free agency or not, I’ll stay with the Blades as long as they’ll have me. I signed on as a rookie with this team. I won my first Stanley Cup with this team. My second one, too. My past injuries notwithstanding, I’ve got nothing holding me back anymore.” He pauses, dragging the silence on for another two beats, and adds, “So, feel free to tell yourreadersthat I don’t plan on leaving Boston until Boston kicks me out.”

“Then what?” I ask, intrigued by the fiery passion in his blue eyes. This is the most I’ve heard him speak since we met last weekend. I don’t want him to stop. I want to hear that passion wash over me, and soak up the determination he emits in spades.

Instead of answering, he reaches out and taps the red button on my phone to end the recording session. “No more questions for tonight.”

Instinctively, I want to push him for another round. I want to crack the shell he’s donned and dig around through the various layers. It’s the journalist side of me, never being content with being told “no more” when it comes to a juicy story.

Maybe Casey is right. Maybe I should have become a tabloid reporter where juicy stories are the norm.

“Thank you,” I tell him, because I’m genuinely grateful that he’s even letting me interview him. I drop my phone into my purse and tug my coat tightly around my body. “Guess I should be heading out, then. Will you let me know when—”

“I have a question for you.”

“I’m sorry, please repeat.”

“A question for you.”

I shake my head, sending my blonde ringlets flopping about my face with the movement. “I don’t think that was part of the original terms.”

“I’m amending the terms right now.”

I trail my gaze over his broad shoulders and up to his handsome face. His blue eyes are gleaming with a challenge. “All right. Give me your question.”

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