Page 2 of Puck Me Daddy

"Ms. Jameson," he replied, his deep voice surprisingly soft yet commanding. "The pleasure is mine."

But even as he said the words, I sensed the wall slamming down. The way his shoulders tensed infinitesimally, his expression hardening into a mask of careful control.

He released my hand and slid into the chair across from me, every movement precise and measured. Like a big cat poised to strike.

I swallowed hard and flicked on my recorder. "Thank you for agreeing to this interview, Mr. Pierce. I know you don't do many of these."

His lips quirked, not quite a smile. "First time for everything."

Clearing my throat, I glanced down at my list of questions.

“Shall we start?”

“No time like the present.”

"You've accomplished an extraordinary amount in a few short years - Stanley Cup victories, MVP awards, scoring records smashed left and right. To what do you attribute your . . . meteoric success?"

I cringed inwardly. Meteoric success? Really, Tilly? That's what you're going with?

But Demian merely leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Hard work," he said simply. "Dedication. A desire to be the best. My training routine is brutal. No excuses."

I waited for him to elaborate, but he remained silent, his gaze locked on mine. Waiting to see how I'd respond.

Challenge accepted, Mr. Pierce.

I leaned forward, pen poised. "And what fuels that desire?"

For the barest instant, I saw something flare in those gunmetal eyes. Something hot and intense and almost . . . hungry. But then it was gone, shuttered behind the mask once more.

"I don't like to lose," he said, voice low. "Simple as that."

Something about the way he said that made me squirm in my leather chair. I had a feeling nothing was ever simple with this man. But it was a start. I jotted his answer in my notes, along with a reminder to circle back to it later. To keep digging until I uncovered the real Demian Pierce beneath the polished facade.

The rest of the interview was equally tense and guarded, but I managed to coax a few interesting tidbits out of him. His post-game rituals (listening to classical music, strangely enough), his favorite snack on the bench (protein bars, of course), and even arare smile when I asked about his teammates (who he referred to as "a bunch of knuckleheads" but there was affection there, I was sure of it).

But it was when we finally broached the subject of his personal life that things got . . . interesting.

"I know you're a very private person," I began, treading lightly. "But your fans are curious about the important people in your life."

His entire demeanor seemed to freeze. "My personal life is just that," he said, voice icy. "Personal. Private."

"Of course, but—"

"No buts, Ms. Jameson. My personal life is off-limits. Period."

I raised my hands in a placating gesture. "I understand, Mr. Pierce. I don't mean to pry."

"Good," he said, standing to leave. "Then we're done here."

"Wait!" I blurted, panic gripping my chest. This couldn't be it. I couldn't walk away with nothing but surface-level fluff. Not after how hard I'd worked to get here.

He turned, one eyebrow quirked in silent challenge. "Yes, Ms. Jameson?"

I’d come here to take a shot, and I was gonna take it.

I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of my career resting squarely on my shoulders. "I know you're a man of . . . practicality," I ventured, treading carefully. "So let me just come out and say it. I'm . . . intrigued, Mr. Pierce. In a way I haven't been about someone in a long time. And I think, maybe, if you'd give me a chance, and answered some of my questions, it might feel good. I don’t like to lose, either."

The silence that followed my confession was deafening. I'd never been so terrified or exhilarated in my entire life. Finally, he laughed, a deep, throaty sound that I felt down to my toes. "You're ballsy, I'll give you that," he said, smirking. "But you're also crazy if you think I'd ever—"

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