Page 70 of Body Check

Interview. Think of the interview!

“So,” I drawl out, unease coating my tone like thick honey, “about those Blades . . .”

But Adam isn’t done yet. He flicks his gaze over Carmen, who’s standing to his left, wide-eyed, video camera hoisted on her shoulder as she props one knee on the cushion of a seat. She looks to me and, to be quite honest, all I do is stare right back.

Is this the moment where I’ll have to fire one of my favorite employees because he went crazy on a plane with America’s most beloved goalie?

The plane dips again, almost as though it’s preparing me for the worst that’s yet to come, and I widen my stance and straighten my hips. I readjust my grip on my camera, fully prepared to turn it into a weapon if I have to bop Adam on the head to shut him up and not make us lose the Blades as a client.

Duke Harrison is nice, but there’s only so much the man will take before he snaps.

“Anyway,” Adam says, “I’m only bringing it up because she photoshopped my face over yours. Not that she could figure out how to get rid of your tattoos, so it was a bit of a dead giveaway since I don’t have any myself.” Offering a shrug, he grins big and pats his belly with his free hand. “It was hilarious, though. I don’t think I’ve looked like you a single day in my life.” Another squeeze of Harrison’s shoulder. “Yeah, I don’t havethatso it’s wicked nice to pretend I do whenever I look at her phone now. So, thank you. It’s great for the ego to look like a hockey god in your wife’s eyes.”

I swallow down the laugh, and then I’m not even holding it in anymore.

I collapse in the closest seat and bring my camera up so I can grab a picture of Adam’s smug smile and Harrison’s shocked—maybe even creeped-out—expression with Carmen behind them looking, as usual, cool as a cucumber.

Click.

Click.

I choke out Adam’s name between guffaws of laughter. “Oh, my God, Adam,pleasetell me that story wasn’t in response to my question about the craziest things fans have done in Harrison’s honor.”

He holds up a hand, palm toward me. Solemnly, he murmurs, “Guilty as hell.”

I’m still laughing at his ridiculous (and hilarious) antics as we clamber our way to the back of the team jet twenty minutes later, looking for our next victim—I mean, participant. Most of the team has gathered together to play poker. We’d caught Duke up front while he reviewed tapes of the goalie from the Washington Capitals, who we’re playing tomorrow evening.

The only game separating me from a weekend away with Jackson.

I bite my lip at the thought, my gaze immediately seeking him out among the rows of Blades players. Logic tells me that it should take me a moment to find him. After all, there’s got to be at least twenty players all seated around and shouting at Josh Kammer, the rookie, who apparently pulled a bullshit move.

And yet, it’s like I’ve got a homing beacon on Jackson after all these years.

It takes me a single breath to locate him seated alone in the back row.

Another full second in which I do nothing but appreciate him and all of his rugged masculinity.

With his forearms propped up on the seat back in front of him, it’s easy to see that he’s holding a full hand of cards, just like everyone else. And, like the others, he’s wearing a fancy suit for our late-night flight to the country’s capital. The suit might be Armani or Tom Ford or any of the designers that have percolated in his closest for years, always worn over and over again. At the end of the day, million-dollar contracts and fame have not altered Jackson at the most intrinsic level: he’s still the same Texan who’ll prefer jeans and a T-shirt over dolling up in whatever designer suit he’s been instructed to wear that day.

Butthissuit that he’s wearing is one I’ve never seen before. It hugs the breadth of his shoulders, the navy-blue fabric a perfect contrast to the olive undertone of his skin. Underneath the jacket, sans tie, he’s donned a crisp, white dress shirt and done the entire female population a service by leaving the top two buttons undone.

He looks casual, relaxed. Like a man who can have anything he wants if only he were to snap his fingers and request it.

As though sensing my stare, he glances up and catches me studying him.

His dark gaze warms. My heart skips a beat.

“Hey,” he mouths.

Cue: the sensation of a rocket bursting in my belly, pink confetti going every which way.

I smile. Mouth back, “Hey.”

Thanks to his schedule, and my own, it’s the first time we’re seeing each other since our night together at the diner and, earlier, on his car. Thankfully, Carmen makes it easy for all of us by exclaiming, “We need stories for a clip thatGetting Puckedis using during commercial breaks.”

Kammer’s head pops up from two rows ahead of me. “What kind of stories?”

“Horror stories,” Adam says with dramatic flair. “In particular, what’s the craziest thing a fan has done? My wife juxtaposed my face on Harrison’s body—well, on his face but you know what I mean—and I found out while she was giving birth.”

---