Page 67 of Wrong Score

“So why after all these months are you willing to try something with me?”

He turns to look at me. “Because you are the first thing in my life that I want more than I want a career in hockey. If the choice is between you or hockey, then I’ll retire from coaching. It took me until recently to realize that.”

My heart gallops at his proclamation, my whole body tingling, and my body warming for him again.

“So,” I whisper, my voice shaky but steady enough to meet his gaze, “what did you want me to promise you, then?” At this moment, I’d agree to just about anything, desperate to close the space between us.

His eyes soften, his need for reassurance blazing in them. “Promise me,” he says, his voice low. “That you’ll tell me before you stop knitting, before you stop singing while you do the dishes. Tell me before you pack your things and leave the divorce papers on the kitchen table,” His breath hitches and his eyes lock on mine. “Because you’re the one thing I’d give up everything to keep.”

“I promise,” I tell him.

A grin spreads across his face, and before I can take another breath, his lips are on mine, capturing me in a kiss that makes my head spin. It’s long and deep, charged with all the emotions we’ve kept at bay. Then, with a growl that sends heat sparking through me, he pulls me back under him, his body pressing into mine, his intentions clear.

“Is this a bad time to ask what happened to Lily?” I say.

He lets out a chuckle. “It’s not great timing, no. But I’ll tell you that she’s happily remarried to a nice dentist. He doesn’t leave town much.”

“Good for her, ”I say, happy to see that in fact Bex didn’t crush her. She got back up and found love again.

And as he lowers his mouth to my neck, trailing kisses along my skin and down between my breasts, taking time on each one before seeking further down my body, past my belly button, I know this isn’t just a try. It’s the beginning of something real, something powerful.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Rowan

The elevator dings as I step out onto the floor ofThe Seattle Sunrise, the usual bustling sound of a busy newsroom with reporters typing furiously, making calls, and piecing together stories for tomorrow's edition. But none of that matters right now. Not when I’m headed straight to Charles Albright’s office with one goal in mind—to set boundaries about my story on Bex Townsend.

As I approach his door, I clutch my notebook, stuffed with notes, though I haven't gotten to write down anything in it about Sam's retirement and love after hockey. It's still all in my head. I'm so excited to write it that it might be the first time I don't need notes to write an article. It’s also full of all my usual scribblings. It’s my lifeline on the job and has been for years. I use it to write down everything that comes to mind. Lately, it’s been overflowing with insights about Bex, some professional, some not.

I take a deep breath and knock, determined to stay calm and stick to my decision.

“Come in!” Charles’s voice booms from the other side, already anticipating a conversation that, judging by his tone, he thinks he’s won.

I push open the door and step inside, my notebook held firmly in my hand. Charles is leaning back in his chair, looking like the cat that just swallowed the canary. “Rowan! Glad to see you’re back. How was Vancouver?”

The memory of Bex, with that serious glint in his eyes when he said he wants us to try, makes my stomach flutter, but I push the thought aside. “It was productive. The team did well, and the readers are eating up the player highlights that I’ve been writing. Our social media accounts are growing like crazy. I think we’re building something here.”

He nods, pleased. “Good, good. Keep your readers hooked—especially with all those juicy details about Townsend. The readership is going to pour in with us publishing the first exclusive of Bexley Townsend in years,” he says, his eyes gleaming with dollar signs and bragging rights among with news outlet colleagues.

I grip my notebook a little tighter, but I don’t let my discomfort show. “That’s actually why I wanted to talk to you,” I say, my voice as steady as I can manage. “There’s something you should know.”

His brow arches in curiosity, and he gestures to the chair across from him. “Go on.”

I take a seat, my grip on my notebook firm. “I can’t write the article that you want me to write.” Confusion covers his face. He’s not sure where I’m going with this, “I still have a story, it’s just going to be different than you expect.”

Charles’ jaw tightens. He’s not happy but he’s listening. “What do you mean, different than what I expect?”

I lean back into my chair, settling my boundary. “I mean, I’m not digging up dirt on him. There’s a reason he’s kept his life private,” I clarify, my voice firm but calm. “I’ll write a good story, Charles. An honest one. But I’m not crossing the line.”

His eyes narrow slightly, and he leans forward, elbows on his desk. “Come on, Rowan. You’re telling me you’re sitting on a gold mine of a story—getting up close and personal with Bex Townsend, inside access to the team—and you’re not going to use it?”

I clench my notebook even tighter, feeling its familiar edges press into my palm. I shake my head. “I’m going to give you a great story, Charles. But it’ll be one I can stand behind. One that respects his trust.”

He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Rowan, you’re missing the big picture here. You have a once-in-a-lifetime chance. The readers want more than stats and game highlights. They want the real Bex. His divorce, his love life, his family overseas that he never talks about. You’ve got the inside scoop—so let’s use it.”

“I’m going to give them the real Bex,” I reply, setting my notebook on his desk and patting it in front of him. “It’s all here. I have the story, I’m just not giving up his closely guarded privacy. I’ll find a way to balance both.”

Charles stares back at my notebook and then reclined back in his chair, his fingers lacing together in front of him.

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