Page 43 of In the Defensive Zone with My Enemy

With a smirk, Luke fist-bumps him. “Thanks, man.”

I move closer to stand near his head. “You okay?”

He stares at me for a good five seconds, then faces Hannah. “What do you think, Doc?”

She snorts. “Not a doc, and you’ll live. Second period ends in three minutes. That should give you agood twenty to ice, and the doctor can reassess whether you can play the last one.”

“Thanks.” Luke gives her a tentative smile, then lays his head back.

Now that there’s room, I creep away from my corner and stand at his side. “Okay if I stay?”

He grins, bringing that dimple of his out to play. Maybe he’s happy to see me after all.

“That depends? Are you here as the press?” Luke raises a single brow with his question, but his tone turns soft…teasing.

I push my bag behind me. “As a friend.”

“A friend, huh?”

Is he flirting with me, or did they give him something for the pain? And is it weird that I’m drawn to a simple dent in his face? I squelch the temptation to touch it. “What? I’m not here to interview you, so that seems the logical choice.”

“So, we’re friends now?” He lifts his head, his gaze challenging me to explain further while the guttural tone of his voice sends waves of heat through me. There’s no mistaking the shift in the mood between us, like a static charge about to ignite. And the question in his eyes has nothing to do with friendship.

Maybe because we’re in an unfamiliar place or because he seems vulnerable, I’m tempted to throw caution to the wind and explore his unspoken invitation. But what if I do, and it turns into another heartbreak?

I glance away. “Sure, why not?”

He grunts, then lays back down on the table. “Guess one can never have too many friends.”

I manage a tight smile while I mentally kick myself for being a coward—more like my own personal civil war raging between my heart and my mind. My heart’s clamoring that Luke isn’t like the other goons I dated while my head says I probably dodged another disastrous romance bullet.

But I’m not sure which side I want to win.

I returned to my corner of the room while the medic finished cleaning up Payton’s cheek—he didn’t seem to mind when the doctor said he’d likely wind up with a scar marring his pretty face—and did another assessment of Luke’s knee. Most of the team straggled in to check on Luke at the end of the second period, which seemed to surprise him that his fellow teammates wanted to make sure he was okay.

The moment felt significant like one of those times a journalist knows will be remembered as the start of something bigger—something stronger and unexpected. I stayed inconspicuous as I took some shots of the guys surrounding Luke, capturing their concern, smiles, and jovial reassurances that they would not let their captain down since he’d be sitting out the rest of the game—doctor’s orders.

That and their win tonight by one point will make this article more than just a report on the events of a hockey game. And I suspect it will go a long way in overcoming the lingering controversy shrouding the team from last season.

My fingers are itching to get back to my hotel room and hammer out a first draft of the article formulating in my head—and my heart—about what I see and sense happening with this team. I may have started this assignment with reservations, but I’m getting sucked into this unfolding story I get to share with the rest of the fans out there.

I laugh to myself—guess that makes me a fan, too.

When I get back to my hotel room, I set up my laptop on the desk, connect my camera to upload the images, and start writing. I told Marty I’d finish and upload the piece tonight so it could run in tomorrow’s edition.

Judging by the shouts and laughter coming from next door, the guys must be celebrating with Luke. I’m so temptedto knock and see what that looks like, but this article won’t write itself.

Just as I’m hitting my rhythm and the words are flowing, a loud bang on the connecting door makes me jump in my seat. I shake my hands out and pick up where I left off, but another knock stops my progress.

A muffled voice comes through the adjoining door. “Open up, Sophie.”

Sounds like Wade, but I’m not sure. I unlock my side and yank it open. “What?”

He does a pretend tip of a nonexistent cowboy hat. “Come join the celebration, pretty lady.”

I do a scan of the situation. The guys must have come straight from the bus to Luke’s room because they’re still in their suits, though most have shed their jackets. I feel like I just opened the door on a GQ spread featuring hunky athletes at their finest, with their shirts unbuttoned at the top and their sleeves rolled up. If I inhale any more testosterone, I might pass out.

But I’ll play along for now. Leaning against the doorway, I cross my arms. “I don’t think there’s room for one more.”

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