Page 38 of The Secret Play

“I was a hip-hop dance choreographer and professional dancer. I worked with some of the greats. Now, I’m stuck working with these dickheads?—”

Jesper playfully shoved him, and a few of the other guys joined us, carrying on amongst themselves until they closed in. “You’re the dickhead, dickhead.”

Hudson laughed. “Yeah, maybe I am.” Then he turned to me, looking me over. “You’re the reporter we’re all supposed to talk to, right?”

“Gemma Grimaldi,” I said, extending my hand. He removed his glove and shook it, and his rough hand dwarfed mine. “It’s nice to officially meet you, Hudson.”

“You, too. As I understand it, you’re supposed to do some one-on-ones with all of us, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Never knew I’d be on a team that arranged dates for me, and I certainly don’t mind the competition.”

I laughed. “Not dates. Appointments.”

“Sure, appointments.” He sat next to me on the bench. “I usually find quiet Italian restaurants to be the best places for appointments. What do you say?”

“That will make it easier to hear your answers to my questions. I hate when background noise cuts into my recordings—it’s terrible. I have to call you back and bother you again, and it slows the process down, which is awful for deadlines.”

“And maybe afterward, we can hit a club or two. I can show you what else I’m known for.”

“Clubs are notoriously loud, Hudson. Why would I want that?”

He smirked. “I’d like to see how you move on the dancefloor. How someone dances tells you everything about them.”

“My job is to get to know you. Not the other way around.”

His eyes danced down and up my body. “No reason it can’t be both.”

I was really hoping this was not where his line of inquiry was heading, and now, with all the guys around me, I decided to draw a line to make things clear in case anyone had any ideas like Hudson’s.

First, I smiled to keep things light. “I’m sure you’re a terrific dancer, but I am not.”

“That’s okay. We can?—”

“We can’t. My job is to interview you and nothing else. Professional interviews, with which I wield the power to make or break your reputation and, consequently, your career. I hope that’s clear enough for you.”

Hudson, the determined young man that he was, smiled, too. “Sounds like you could use some wine to help you relax. There’s a great bar downstairs at my condo.”

The kid would not let this go. I couldn’t tell if that was because a half dozen players were watching us or because he was that kind of person, but I’d had it with his innuendo.

But before I could respond, a sharp voice sliced through the air. “Rice, that’s enough.”

I turned, startled to see Casey standing just off the bench, his arms were crossed and his jaw was tight. His expression was unreadable, but his tone carried a weight that silenced Hudson instantly. In fact, all the guys shut up and awaited further instructions.

“Keep it professional,” Casey snapped.

Hudson raised his hands in surrender, his grin turning sheepish as he backed off. “Got it, Coach. Professional.”

The rest of the players chuckled, the tension dissipating as they returned to their routine. But Casey’s gaze lingered on me, his blue eyes steady and intense. It was the first time I’d seen him like this—protective, almost territorial—and it sent a shiver down my spine all the same.

Part of me knew I should bristle at the interference. I didn’t need anyone to stand up for me, and I certainly didn’t need anyone staking a claim. For that matter, it might egg some of the guys on if they thought flirting with me was forbidden.

But another part of me—a bigger part—couldn’t help but like it. There was something deeply satisfying about the way Casey had stepped in, about the way his words carried a kind of unspoken message: she’s mine.

After wrapping up my interview with Cole Maxwell, a hulking left winger, I made my way to Casey’s office. I was riding the high from Casey’s flirtation intervention and the buzz I got from prying secret information from a subject. Cole had a secret scented candle side hustle.

He sold them online using his female cousin’s name, because he knew candles sold under a guy’s name wouldn’t sell as well. But now, she wanted a cut of the profits for the name usage, and he was having a hard time figuring out what to do. When I pointed out that they didn’t need a person’s name attached to them—he could have sold them under some generic name like Stone and Winter or something equally neutral—he blushed deeply, annoyed with himself that he hadn’t thought of that. I suggested he pay her whatever she asked, but he really should talk to a lawyer to make things fair between them, and he agreed.

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