Page 9 of Power Play

I drain the rest of my now lukewarm coffee and stand up. This isn’t over. As I start pulling my clothes off to take a shower, I call Casey. I don’t care that it’s seven in the morning. This is important. Plus, she’s called me at this time of day more than once when I’ve had to pick her up from a one-night-stand’s house.

In comparison, my phone call is tame.

She answers on the third ring, her voice raspy with sleep. “What do you want, woman?”

“He said no.” I turn the shower on and stare at myself in the mirror as the water heats up. I look crazy. My already curly hair is turning more voluminous with the steam from the shower, and my blue eyes are dark with anticipation. On the ice, my teammates often called me “Crazy Charlie” because of my impulsiveness in the sport.

I was methodical to a point. Then, impulse drove me, both on the ice and off.

“Who said no?” Casey asks. Her voice sounds muffled, like she’s driven her face into her pillow in an effort to ignore me.

“Duke Harrison. He DM’ed me on Twitter.”

“Are you really that surprised?”

“Well, no. But that doesn’t mean that this can’t actually happen. We can get this interview.”

“You mean thatyoucan get this interview. I’m flying on your coattails, girl.”

It frustrates me, just slightly, when Casey says stuff like this. I recognize that I’m ambitious, sometimes to a fault, but it often feels like I’m the only who gives a damn atThe Tribune.

I shake off the Negative Nancy vibes, swiping a palm over the mirror as it begins to fog up. “I need Gwen. She was with him the other day.”

“Don’t we hate her?”

“Yes,” I say with a shrug that she can’t see. “There’s no way around it. I could reach out through the contact form again but what would that do? My email would end up in the trash folder and he’s already told me no personally.”

She heaves a great, beleaguered sigh. “Maybe you should take this as a sign that he doesn’t actuallywantto do the interview?”

I toe off my fuzzy slippers. “I know that he doesn’t want to.”

“Then why are we still pursuing this?”

Sticking my hand into the shower, I test the temperature. Lukewarm, as per usual. My apartment isn’t exactly fitted with the latest indoor plumbing. I’m just grateful that the previous property owners tore out the original shared bathroom in the hallway from the 1930s, and installed personal ones in each apartment.

“Because, Casey,” I say firmly, “this is what real journalists do. They chase down their leads. They get it done.”

“There’s a difference between journalists and tabloid reporters. One does a lot more stalking.”

“I’m not stalking the man.” He’s more attractive than I originally thought, yes, but I’m not one to set myself up for failure on a romantic level.

Going for a guy like Duke Harrison would be the worst decision I could ever make in my life.

“I’m calling for a double date,” I finally say. “Think about it. Gwen’s clearly wanting to date the guy. He, on the other hand, seems to want anything but that. It’s a dirty move, I know, but I think that I can swing it. Gwen would never pass up the opportunity to lord it over me that her date is a professional hockey player. Subtlety is not in her biology. ”

“Some would say it’s not in yours either,” Casey injects wryly, and the foggy mirror reflects my pained grimace.

“This could be a game-changer, Casey. This time next year we could be sitting in a fantabulous office atThe Globe,and laughing over all the miserable time we’ve spent holed up where we are now.”

We fall silent and I imagine that we are both thinking of our office atThe Tribune. It’s a wreck. The paint is peeling on the walls, and there is an unidentifiable red stain on the carpet that has been there since I was hired three years ago. I don’t know what it is, but my sneaking suspicion is that someone committed murder in there and we’re all under surveillance.

Just a theory, of course.

Casey draws my attention back to our conversation when she says, “Okay, matter of importance. Who’re you going to ask to be your date?”

I hold my gaze in the mirror. And then, in the most serious voice I can manage, I say, “Your twin.”

Chapter Four

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