Page 49 of Power Play

I watch as he skates angrily toward the partition in the boards, and I scurry to catch up with him. “Duke,” I say, just as he drops to the bleachers and starts unlacing his skates, “What’s wrong?”

“Outside,” he grunts stiffly. “We’ll do this outside.”

In near silence, we remove our skates and pull on our street shoes. Nike sneakers for him and Converses for me. He snags both sets of skates and hooks the sticks over his shoulder. I’m dying to ask him what happened, but I keep quiet on our way to where Sam is sleeping at the counter.

Duke lifts a hand to thump on the wall, but I put a hand to his closed fist, stilling him. “If you’re waking him up to pay, don’t worry about it. I already covered us.”

If anything, my words darken his expression even further.

I have no fucking idea what’s going on.

I manage to keep a rein on my need to chatter until we make it to my Prius.

And then Duke, who is notoriously tight-lipped, comes unhinged.

Chapter Fourteen

Duke’s handsfly into his hair, raking through the dark blond strands.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, this time more forcefully. “What did Gwen say to you?”

It’s difficult to tell if Duke’s eyes are blue anymore. The pupils have enlarged and his irises appear almost completely black. “What did Gwensayto me?” he explodes. “How ‘bout I show you exactly what she told me to look up.”

I don’t think I’m going to like this very much. Still, I nod jerkily, realizing that his question is more rhetorical than anything else. “If you want.”

“If I want?” A burst of incredulous laughter leaves him. “This isn’t about what I want, Charlie. No, this is all—” He cuts off, a closed fist pressing against his mouth as he bites down on his knuckle. “You’ve been playing me from the very first second that you DM’ed me on Twitter. Fuck me for thinking otherwise—oh, right, you did that already too.”

Confusion laces with worry as I stare up at his handsome face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Duke. Could you give me a little more information?”

“I’ll give you all the information you need.” He whips out his phone, angrily swipes at the screen, and thrusts the device in my face. “But, wait, I’ve already done that, too.”

My eyes adjust to the screen’s brightness.

And then my stomach drops, this time straight to hell.

Oh, my God.

The headline, printed in bold red, typical ofTMZ,reads:NHL’s Golden Boy might not have squeaky-clean image after all? Local Boston newspaper claims that Duke Harrison has hooked up with personal PR Agent, Gwen James.

My first thought at reading this goes something like:Fuck me.

The second, more rationale version, proceeds with:How in the world did anyone discover this when I. . .

Oh.

Oh, no.

Josh.

The discarded article that I quite literally dumped into the trashcan just this afternoon.

Which means that . . . My boss didn’t print the finalized version I sent him. No one has read the version which paints an accurate portrait of the Duke Harrison, Hockey Player Extraordinaire, while still lending both light and shadows to the man behind the pads and the caged mask.

The version that not only speaks to my skills as a top-notch journalist, but also doesn’t spread untruths about the guy in front of me.

I’m going to be sick.

I actually press my fist to my mouth to make sure bile doesn’t inch its way up my throat for an impromptu visit.

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