Page 90 of The Charlie Method

So why the fuck are you talking to me?

I plaster on a polite smile. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. If the point is to unearth some family drama, dig up some skeletons—”

Tessa laughs. “That’s not the kind of journalist I am, Will. Did you not look up any of my previous work?”

I did, actually, and itdidseem like her byline was attached to a lot of puff pieces, but that doesn’t mean I can trust her. Who’s to say this isn’t the day she decides to write a scathing exposé?

“Do you mind if I turn this off?” She gestures to the recorder.

Suspicion flickers through me. “Sure.”

Tessa presses the Stop button. “Do you really think I attended Yale journalism just so I could graduate and write glowing pieces about a congressman’s son’s college life?” Her tone is amused rather than antagonistic.

“I mean, that’s sort of what you’re doing…”

“Yeah, it’s called paying your dues. There’s basically an entire department at the magazine for this kind of transactional bullshit.”

“Transactional how?”

“Meaning I write a beautiful story about how wonderful Congressman Larsen’s son is. What a fine young man he raised. And then, at a later date, he throws a piece of intel our way. Leaks that a particular vote isn’t about to go as unexpected. Reveals that a particular House member is about to be arrested for tax evasion. That sort of thing.” She shrugs. “Eventually, once I’ve written enough of this fluff, I get to work on the more hard-hitting stuff. So I assure you, this isn’t an elaborate trap. These questions are simply formalities that will help me wax poetic about how you persevered after your mother died and that rather than living out the Cinderella archetype with your evil stepmother, you and Kelsey Lowen actually get along wonderfully.”

“That wouldn’t even be a lie,” I say with a laugh. “She’s great. We’re having lunch next week.”

“Sounds lovely. Now, shall we continue?” She reaches for the recorder.

I nod, feeling some of the pressure lift off my chest. I always have to be so careful about what I say in these situations, but I sensed nothing but sincerity from Tessa just now. And knowing I’m not walking into any traps causes me to speak more openly than I usually would.

We talk more about my stepmother. My classes. Why I wanted to attend Briar and how I chose to play hockey when I was six because all the other sports bored me.

“So you like excitement,” Tessa prompts.

She doesn’t know the half of it.

But my sex life, alas, is not the subject for this article.

“I guess I do,” I answer, shrugging.

“What about violence? Is that another draw for you?”

“I wouldn’t call it violence, per se. College contact rules are strict. Fighting isn’t tolerated.”

“Aggression then. The physicality of the sport. You enjoy that.”

“I mean…” I grin at her. “Nothing gets your heart pumping and your adrenaline running the way hockey does. It’s fantastic.”

Tessa’s lips curve. “I believe that is the first genuine smile you’ve given me today.”

“It’s a fun sport.”

“But no plans on going pro?”

“Honestly, I don’t think I want that life. It’s a lot to put my body through. A lot of pressure to always be at the top of my game. A lot of traveling and time away from home.”

“Hmm, and who would you want to go home to? Do you have a significant other?”

“Not at the moment. But yes, I’d hate to be away from my girl for long stretches of time. Professional hockey is a sacrifice. There are men who’ve missed the birth of their children because they’re on the road playing a five-game stretch. It’s a whole other level of dedication. There are guys on my team—Colson, Ryder, Lindley. They’ve wanted to play in the pros from the second they threw on a pair of skates. But me, I never grew up saying I wanted that.”

“What did you grow up wanting to do then?”

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