Page 7 of Power Play

And I’m right—up pops his official Twitter profile. I can work with this. I tap the mouse on the appropriate link, and wait for the little circle of death to do its thing and then I’m in.

His profile photo is one of him posing for a ‘Got Milk’ ad. Truth be told, I didn’t even think they made those commercials anymore. But there he is in all of his glory.

Shirtless.

Mouth-wateringly bare-chested with hard abs for days.

I quickly glance at Casey, but she’s so absorbed in her game of solitaire that I give in to temptation and enlarge the photo.

Eight.

That’s the number of tight ridges he’s got on his washboard stomach. MaybeI’mthe one who’s sick.

I squirm a little in my chair and read his profile. It’s short and overtly direct:

NHL Goalie – Boston Blades.

Seasons: Not Enough.

Not so chatty of an individual, is he? If he had an online dating profile, I imagine it would read something like, “I like it hot & dirty in the sheets. No repeats.”

Whereas ifIhad a dating profile, it would go a little something like this: “Looking for long-term relationship. Likes dogs, Thai food, and needs a boyfriend who doesn’t mind it when girlfriend chooses to watch the Patriots over engaging in sexy-times.”

Now that I think about it, I may have discovered the reason for my constant singleness.

“Casey,” I say, distracting myself from Duke’s naked chest on the computer screen, “if you had one chance to tweet at a hockey player and capture his attention, what would you say?”

“Am I trying to get laid?” she asks. She spins her chair around to face me, and I hastily exit out of Duke Harrison’s Twitter page before she can see that I’ve been ogling his beautiful body.

“What?” I exclaim. “No. You’re trying to get astoryout of him.”

Her head tilts to the side. “Be honest. Just ask him for the interview.”

Yeah, I could have figured that one out myself. Flexing my fingers, I turn to my computer and go for broke. At the end of the day, what’s the worst that could happen?

Chapter Three

No.

I wake up the next morning to find that two-letter word in my Twitter DM inbox.

No. Just like that.

I suppose I should feel grateful that Duke bothered replying to my clumsy tweet, not to mention he took the time to follow me in order to, you know, slide into my DMs.

Except that I’m not grateful. In fact, I’m annoyed. He may be a professional hockey player, but I’m one step away from being a no-name journalist for the rest of my life. I need something big.

I need an interview with Duke Harrison.

Clambering out of bed, I drag my body into the kitchen and turn on the coffee machine. Then, I sit my butt down on my bar stool and stare at the message again for the umpteenth time this morning.

No.

It would be so easy to accept defeat. To slink back toThe Tribune’s office and wallow in my self-pity as I quote other journalists with far more expansive pedigrees for the rest of my life.

Or . . . I can take a risk.

I pull my phone toward me. Stare down at it. And then, before allowing myself to rethink my decision, I begin to type. I hit send.

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