Page 24 of In the Defensive Zone with My Enemy

I slam my door and grab my seatbelt, which locks up when I yank it, which I do two more times before forcing me to take a deep breath and calm down. Once buckled, I start my engine and glance out my side window to find Luke staring at me with his hands hanging over his steering wheel.

His window is down, so I get a full glimpse of his face as he watches me, and he’s smiling. Not the lopsided one that resembles a smirk, but a full-on grin that reveals a single dimple in his right cheek.

I hit the gas and almost peel out on the gravel. Knowing I will spend the rest of my evening replaying every detail to my immortal embarrassment does little to calm my frustration. Somehow, I have to find a way to keep Luke from getting to me. Or else, this assignment will turn into a daily obstacle course of finding ways to avoid seeing him.

And hoping for another glimpse of that sexy dimple.

CHAPTER 8

SOPHIE

Itap the thirty-second rewind arrow to listen to Luke’s answers about why he chose hockey. I’m not so much listening to what he’s saying as to how he says it. His words speed up at key points, revealing a hint of his passion for the game. Then it’s as if something sneaks in and shuts him down. I jot down a reminder to do some research on his time with the Barracudas. Maybe that will help me figure out the enigma that is Luke Jameson.

The recording continues playing what’s left of his curtailed interview. My pen pauses at the way his voice deepens and gets rougher. My chest aches, and my pulse spikes all at once. It’s like his words sprouted vines that are tangling with my heart and tying knots in my chest. Maybe those vines have thorns because this is a weird mix of compassion and prickly attraction.

The memory of his smile and that dimple in his right cheek flashes in my head for the umpteenth time. I’ve tried to blow it off as a smirk. He was just being his usual arrogant self, insinuating that I make assumptions, which I do not. A natural conclusion is NOT an assumption. I looked it up, and Webster has two definitions for a conclusion and an assumption.

The man held the door open for me when I left andcontinued to walk beside me. How was I supposed to know that he parked next to me? And Iaskedhim if he was walking me to my car. I didn’t assume he was. That’s why I asked, for crying out loud!

I growl to myself, then open my laptop to scan through the photos I have so far. Marty asked for an outline of my plan for the series so he could plan the spreads, but my eye is drawn to the images I took of Luke before his phone call interrupted the interview.

His face is turned away in most of them, reminding me of one of those angsty shots from a reality show. You know, the ones that are supposed to tug your heartstrings and capture your interest. But in this particular one, he’s looking directly at the camera. His expression holds a mysterious feel—almost as if he’s on the verge of saying something meaningful or, heaven forbid, a smile, which he doesn’t seem to do a lot.

And his eyes…they’re captivating…dark and piercing…a well of mystery in of themselves. And, of course, I search for a hint of that dimple to see if it’s there all the time, which it’s not.

That old expression about a picture speaking a thousand words comes to mind. I don’t think I’d have much trouble writing a thousand words to define Luke Jameson. On the outside, he appears like a man of quiet strength, but upon closer look, there’s something tumultuous brewing on the inside of his hot exterior.

Cue a cliche needle screeching across vinyl, bringing an end to my errant thoughts and imaginations involving one very attractive yet mysterious hockey player. A reality check moment, you could say, where the girl—that would be me—realizes she’s way too interested in a guy who might not be into her.

But the way he kept watching me last night, then smiling with amusement as I left in a huff…what if it’s more? What if he’s attracted to me as well, but his entire issue with reporters—and journalists—is holding him back?

Oh, please tell me I’m not one of those women who’s drawn to broody men. That’s the last thing I need in my life. I could quickly fall down a rabbit hole here and get overly involved, figuring out why Luke is so distrusting of reporters. It’s hard enough sharing his pain over losing a parent. Unlike Luke, I’ve had more time to recover and heal since losing Dad five years ago.

Like Luke’s mother’s death, my dad’s was unexpected. A heart attack took him from this earth way too young, leaving me an adult orphan. All my friends still have at least one parent in their lives. I have none.

Despite his father being alive, Luke said he hasn’t been in the picture since he was eight. So, in that sense, he and I are a lot alike. At least I have Marty. Even if he is my boss, he’s always been in my life, like a favorite uncle—my funcle, as I call him. I never expected to wind up working for him, though. So far, it’s worked out okay. Occasionally, he has to appear a little more strict with me, but I know that’s his way of ensuring the other reporters and journalists realize he’s not about favoritism. And I wouldn’t want him to be.

That must be it—I’m drawn to Luke because I understand his loss in a very real and personal way. In college, one of my professors said my articles and photos revealed my compassion for my subject’s pain and struggles, which would make me a great journalist one day.

All three of my previous boyfriends implied at some point that I was either too emotional or too sensitive. My first boyfriend in high school said I should join the drama club when he broke up with me. That was right after I told him he wasn’t the inspiration behind the chivalrous and kind hero I’d written in a short story for English Lit. He threw a tantrum, slamming his locker, and stormed off. I did NOT miss the irony in that encounter.

The second one happened in college. He admitted he lacked the energy to deal with my constant perkiness. Thatit was him—not me. That should have clued me into his idiocy right there. Seeing him a few months later, dressed as a Goth, explained a lot. But in all honesty, he didn’t like to get excited about anything. He broke up with me at an art gallery because I was so moved by a piece that I wept. I think he was more embarrassed than anything else.

That brings me to my last boyfriend, who implied I was too impassioned. Seriously? Just because I love going to the aquarium to watch the sea otters? I can’t help it if their cute antics make me forget I’m an adult and act like a five-year-old. I mean, come on! How can you not squeal and laugh at those adorable furry creatures?

I realize I’ve stared at that picture of Luke for almost ten minutes while my brain took an analytical day trip. He asked if I could avoid capturing his full face, so I should probably delete it. But the image captures more than his appearance. His essence shines through the light reflected in his eyes, the way he’s leaning forward as if he wants to have a conversation, and the potential promise of a smile tipping the corners of his mouth up just so.

There’s a definitive mood to the picture as if it’s alive. I can’t really describe what it is, but I recognize that feeling in my gut when I’ve captured near perfection. And Luke Jameson is pretty darn perfect.

Bummer. This would make a fantastic introduction to the fans. I can’t bring myself to delete it, so I’ll just move it to another folder.

Before I can do that, though, Payton shows up in my doorway for our scheduled interview. I slam my laptop shut so he won’t think I’m pining after his teammate, which I’m not.

At all.

I wave him in, then point to the bench seat. “Hey, Payton. Go ahead and sit down.”

“There?” His brows lift to his hairline in that signature wayI’ve come to recognize with him. He pushes on the surface of the bench.

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