Page 32 of Power Play

“Why did you want to become a journalist?” he asks, leaning against the pool table, his long legs outstretched before him.

“I like to pester people.”

He catches my sarcasm, and points the sharp tip of a dart at me. “Give me the real answer.”

I sigh. If I manage to lose every round, he’ll know my entire life story by the end of the night. “I’ve wanted to be a journalist since the time I realized that while I was good at sports, I wasn’t the best. When I was on the ice, I had heart, and, yeah, I was in the top percentile when it came down to stats. But I wasn’t good enough for anything beyond college hockey, and I had no interest in coaching. Sports journalism seemed the next best thing, a way for me to still be in on the action.”

“On the ice?” His brow furrows in thought. “You played hockey?”

I let this second question slide. “Since I was six years old. Sometimes, when I have time, I still hit up rec leagues, but it’s been a while. Works gets in the way.” I flash him a shy smile. “Adulting, you know? It’s a nuisance.”

He still seems fixated on the fact that I once played hockey, and I note the way his gaze skims my body, taking in the thick thighs, the strong mid-section that doesn’t nip into a teeny, tiny waist. Although it’s been years since I played regularly, my body has never lost the shape of a powerhouse athlete.

It’s safe to say that I am no Gwen James, who has the body of a Victoria’s Secret model.

When his gaze lifts to mine, his eyes are smoky, nearly black. “We should play some time. See what you’re made of.”

The air between us thickens. My heart pounds in my chest. I need to pull myself together, now. Flicking my hair back in a move that belongs on the big screen, I reply, “Wouldn’t you know, Duke Harrison, but I’m made of victory. Let’s do this next round.”

We keep pace with each other, though I lose more often than I win. He asks me frivolous questions—what’s my favorite book, movie, song—in between more serious ones. I tell him about my mother leaving when I was young, and my struggle at work to be seen as a successful sports journalist in my own right, despite the fact that a penis does not dangle between my legs.

On the few occurrences where I beat him (and I’m convinced that he lets me win), he opens the door on a few secrets of his own. He admits that his parents never come to his games, as he’s from upstate Minnesota and his mother is deathly terrified of flying. He assures me, however, that they’ve never missed a game on TV, and that they often blow up his phone while he’s in the net, so when he gets to the locker room, he can hear their screams/excitement/joy in real time when he plays back their voicemails.

I learn about his brother, who played hockey in high school and college, but wasn’t good enough to be picked up by the NHL. His brother is older, and for a few years in the beginning, they rarely spoke because, in his words, “It took a while for my brother to get his head out of his ass and let the jealousy go.”

As each round presses on, Duke and I slowly eliminate the distance between us. His fingers linger when I take the dart from his hand. My hand brushes up against his back when I amble toward the board to tally up our scores. His hip softly taps mine when I actually manage to win three times.

Make that four.

Duke groans when my dart skirts closer to home base, and though I know he’s exaggerating for effect, I can’t help but do a little victory dance, throwing my hands in the air and stomping my feet.

“Another point for Charlie Denton!” I exclaim, making pistols out of my hands and blowing off the imaginary smoke from my index fingers. “Your turn to fess up, Harrison.”

He throws up his hands, a wide smile on his face. “Give it to me, girl. What you got this time?”

His tone is nonchalant, but the heated look in his gaze is anything but easy. For almost an hour, we’ve been doing this little dance and I have no idea what it means. I should be focusing on the job at hand, gathering information that I can use in my feature. I have one week to get that article on Josh’s desk. Seven days.

But, like every other question I’ve posed to him tonight, I don’t choose one that directly links to his career. Instead, I find myself asking the one question lurking in my conscious that just won’t quit.

“What’s going on with you and Gwen?”

Duke has been relatively chatty for the whole night, despite the way it started off, but at the mention of his Public Relations agent, he clams up and his blue eyes slide away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I pluck the dart out of his hand, so he’s not tempted to progress on to the next round. “Sure you do,” I say brightly, wishing that I didn’t sound so . . . fake. “Obviously something happened with you and Gwen at some point, otherwise she wouldn’t have this perception that the two of you are an item.”

When he gives a groan this time, I know he’s about to dish the dirt. His hand rakes through his hair, then clamps down on the back of his neck. “We went on a few dates.”

My heart plummets and I remind myself thatI do not care. “Mixing business and pleasure must come naturally to you.”

I don’t necessarily point out that I’m referring to the two of us, and our little game of Twenty-One Questions. He catches my drift and frowns. “We went on those dates before my sports agent hired her to handle the press.”

“Oh?” I hate how hopeful I sound, and I hide my pathetic bent by squinting at the TV in the corner of the room. The news cuts to a replay of Duke letting in the first goal of the night between his legs. I grimace at the sight.

“Two dates,” Duke continues, our game all but forgotten. “Somehow she’s gotten it into her head that because we work together now, we’re something more than we are—than we’ve ever been. Not to mention that those dates came months before I even saw her at that fundraiser.”

At the mention of the fundraiser, I turn back to him. “Didn’t she say that you two met there?”

His broad shoulders lift in a shrug. “She’s crazy. She also frequently asks my sports agent out on dates, even though he’s got a long-time girlfriend.”

---