Page 40 of Crossing the Top Line

A knock at the door pulls my attention away from checking camera settings, but when I look up, I don’t see Dallas, my subject for today. Instead, a now-familiar head of platinum blonde hair is leaning through the doorway.

“There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Eli says brightly, shouldering the door open before striding inside.

I straighten, my heart kicking my chest with memories of our night together. Drunk Tori may have said a few things that, in the cold, hungover light of day, made me cringe and brace myself for the inevitable “feelings” conversation. But it never came. We’d parted ways the morning after with hardly any fuss. Sure, he gave me a few orgasms to remember him by, but there were no questions about when he could see me again. He didn’t even ask for my number, which was weirdly comforting. We seemed to be on the same page of that night being fun, but not the beginning of anything more. So what reason could he possibly have to come looking for me?

My eyes flick to the partially opened door, then back to Eli’s face as he maneuvers around the camera and tripod, stepping so close that his body heat radiates into me, raising goosebumps along my arms.

“What are you doing here?” I ask in a rushed whisper.

“We’re on a break before the afternoon meeting, so I wanted to say hi,” Eli mutters, voice a deep rumble as he smiles at me.

I swallow hard, trying to take a deep breath to calm myself. But then I’m hit with a wave of ozone, spruce, and cinnamon, and my body reacts before I can stop it. My thighs clench and my hands twitch at my sides, the impulse to touch his muscled chest striking me like a bolt of lightning. But a laugh from out in the hallway jerks me back to reality. And just in time, as Eli leans forward, lips already partially puckered in a kiss.

“Eli, stop,” I state, taking a full step back.

He looks at me, confusion pulling his brow down over his icy eyes. There’s a spark of hurt in their depths that nearly makes me forget the very good reasons why we can’t be caught kissing on the clock. The HR nightmare aside, I’ve worked too hard to have my reputation sullied by one night of fun.

“Did…did I do something? I’m sorry I didn’t stay, but—”

I raise my hands as he tries to take another step forward, making him stop short. And my heart squeezes as his face falls and shoulders slump. God, this would be so much easier if he didn’t look like a kicked puppy.

“You didn’t do anything. What happened was…well, it happened. But we are both working, and…” I trail off, throat closing slightly.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I’ve had my fair share of one-night stands, and never had a problem escorting my partners to the figurative door. But Eli…he wasn’t like the others I’ve brought home. He’s attentive and caring and funny and built like a Greek god. I’ve hooked up with hotter guys, surely, even if I can’t remember any of them now.

Hooking up with a hockey player is stretching my rules to their limit as it is. Would I like to remain casual friends-with-benefits? Maybe. But with the way Eli’s looking at me, I have a bad feeling he’s not going to want to leave it at that. And I don’t date hockey players. Period. End of sentence. Full stop.

Eli opens his mouth to say something else, but my guardian angel steps in at last, and another knock at the door pulls both of our attention. This time, it’s the person I’ve been expecting.

Dallas stops in the doorway, looking between Eli and me, and I quickly wipe my face of any traces of my internal conflict and replace it with a polite smile. I glance at Eli and let out an internal sigh of relief as I find he’s done the same. When I look back at Dallas, I search his expression for any indication of suspicion, but don’t find anything.

“Afternoon, Tor. You ready for me? Or should I come back?” Dallas asks, his twang and smile making me relax instantly.

“No, it’s fine. Eli was just leaving,” I say, trying not to make my words too pointed.

Eli pauses, and I shoot him a subtle warning look, which thankfully he takes. He grins and nods, shoving his hands into the pockets of his basketball shorts before loping toward the door.

“Good luck, Tex. She’s one tough interviewer,” Eli says, sharing a laugh with his teammate before heading out.

Dallas makes his way to the chair I’ve set up in front of the camera, and in a moment of weakness, I look toward the door one last time. And when I see Eli walking away, not even sparing a glance backward, something in my chest squeezes tight with an emotion I don’t dare name.

After my interview with Dallas, I consider going home and working on the edit, mostly to avoid another potential run-in with Eli. But the computers in the office are so much faster than my laptop and it’s going to take me half the time to get it done. And at first, once I get the footage uploaded and imported into the editing software, it looks like I’m going to be done in record time.

But then I realize how corrupted the audio is.

It’s not all of the audio, but more than half of my hour-long interview is unusable. It takes me much longer than I wanted to piece enough clips together into a cohesive narrative, adding in voiceover and any random B-roll I can scrape together to get to my assigned ten-minute video length.

The sun has set by the time I’m able to export a first draft to send to Dee for his approval, and my head, neck, and back ache. It’s an easy day for me tomorrow, though, so I can work from home as long as I don’t have to make any major changes to this video. Once I’ve sent the email, I shut down my computer and set to packing up my things. Before heading out, I stop by the supply closet and grab an extra camera and microphone. If Dee doesn’t like what I’ve done, then I’ll have no choice but to film something new, and I’d rather not have to come back to the arena.

I sling the heavy bag over my shoulder as I make my way through the dim, empty hallways, the climate control fan the only sound. I check my phone for the time, blinking in surprise. Almost ten o’clock. I’ve been bent over my desk for nearly six hours without moving. No wonder my back is so sore.

My phone buzzes as I exit the elevator on the ground floor, with a notification of a comment on a recent post. I’m so absorbed in reading it that I don’t notice the footsteps approaching me until it’s too late, and I run headlong into a massive, muscular form.

I stagger back, the weight of the camera bag pulling me backward past my recovery point and onto the floor with a painful thump to my tailbone. And what’s worse, my messenger bag strap chooses this exact moment to abandon ship, sheering off on one side, which tilts the entire bag on end, effectively dumping out the contents onto the floor.

“Jesus Christ. Are you okay?” a frantic voice asks from above me.

I look up and my heart drops as I see the dark curly hair and ocean-blue eyes of the second-to-last person I want to see. Spencer drops down to kneel beside me, hands hovering over me, like he can’t decide if he wants to grab my shoulders or not, his eyes scanning my face.

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