Page 29 of Power Play

I don’t let them know that I have a plan.

Thirty minutes later, I’m back in the dingy hallway of The Box. There’s not much light, just one or two overhead spotlights to guide the way. I pass by Bobby Orr, this time giving in to my inner-child instincts by patting him on the shoulder. I do the same with the fake Duke Harrison, except instead I flick him in the center of the forehead.

Immature? Hell yes, but I’m also pretty annoyed that he ditched me tonight.

My eyes slowly adjust to the lighting and I catch sight of other wax figures. These ones are just as recognizable: Milt Schmidt, Cam Neely . . . Phil Esposito. Oh, wow. This dungeon-like hallway is sporting Madame Tussauds-like wax figures of every Hall of Famer that has ever played for a Boston pro-hockey team.

My steps slow as I take note of each player; the lifelike slope of a nose, the broken teeth, and even the receding hairlines. Duke, I notice, is the only player from the Boston Blades, a franchise that, ten years ago, was nothing but an expansion team.

Now, the Blades are one of the hottest teams in the NHL, and even went toe-to-toe with the Bruins in the playoffs last year. It’s a weird dynamic, having two pro-hockey teams, but one that the city of Boston has taken to like fish in water.

Bostonians are nothing but crazy sports fanatics, anyhow.

I spare Duke’s wax figure one more glance and then continue on my way, barely leashing a screech when something skitters across my foot. Holy crap, I do not do rodents. My legs propel me toward the entrance door to the back bar, and I fling it open like I’ve been chased by ghosties.

At least three Blades players stop what they’re doing to stare at me, open-mouthed, and I give a small,hey-therewave. I’m still in my Detroit jersey, which is probably a mistake, seeing as how the Blades lost 3-2 this evening.

This is what I get for being impulsive again.

“Can I help you?”

I turn at the sound of the male voice, expecting to find a bouncer ready to grab me by the back of my jersey and throw me outside. Instead, it’s one of the Blades’ second-string players, Marshall Hunt. He’s wearing jeans and a polo T-shirt, and an expression on his face that’s one tick away fromwho-the-hell-are-you?

Uh-oh.

Uncomfortably, I tug at the hem of my jersey, wishing that I had taken a moment to plan all this out in my head.

“Ma’am?” Hunt prompts impatiently.

Here goes nothing.

“I’m looking for Duke Harrison. Is he here by any chance?”

“Who’s asking?”

This time, it’s not Marshall Hunt speaking but another guy. I don’t recognize him, so I’m guessing he might be one of the team’s staff members. He has that admin look about him: pressed chinos, starched button-down shirt, leather dress shoes.

I look from Mr. Admin to Marshall Hunt, debating on how I want to play this. This tête-à-tête could go a few different ways, all depending upon how I form my next few words.

I’m not given the chance.

Someone else creeps up to our little group, and this guy I recognize off the bat. Andre Beaumont, the former Red Wings player who was traded to the Blades after last season. The player who had the whole arena howling tonight when he made two assists for the only two goals on the board. He stares down at me over the broken bridge of his nose and I actually gulp. Beaumont is a bit . . . harsh, shall we say.

(Read: he’s scary as all hell, singlehandedly disproving the stereotype that all Canadians are lovely folks).

“You’re that girl Harrison had here the other night,” he says now, dropping his elbow onto Mr. Admin’s shoulder. Mr. Admin takes it like a champ, though he does wince when Beaumont’s elbow cuts a little too close to his jugular. Andre points a finger at me, waggling it around like I’m a naughty child bent on mischief. “The journalist.”

“How do you know I’m a journalist?” The words are out before I can stop them.

“Duke mentioned you today.” His gaze drops to my jersey, and his nostrils flare. “You have a death wish, Miss Journalist?”

“No!” I clamp my hands around my bag’s thick strap to keep from slapping my fingers over my mouth. “The jersey, it’s just a joke,” I tell them. “I promise.”

Marshall Hunt leans forward, one hand slipping into his jeans’ pocket in a casual,I’m-sexypose. “It’s not funny.”

I’m dead. My body will be found in a back alleyway tomorrow morning. I can already see the headlines: “Unknown Journalist perishes at the hands of the Blades; it’s suspected that the victim made the mistake of wearing the enemy’s colors before entering the lion’s den.”

This was such a bad idea.

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