Page 1 of Yo Ho Ho
Chapter 1
The cursor on her computer screen was taunting her. On and off. On and off. It knew she had no ideas. It knew she had no plans. It knew she was stuck.
It was taking pleasure in her writer's block.
Maxine Quinn wasn't much for bragging when it came to her work. She knew she was part an elite group of reporters who had to scrape and fight to get a coveted job covering the Detroit Pirates as a reporter. She knew it took quite a bit of talent and tough work to get there. But she also knew she was good. She could write a post-game story in record time with the perfect quotes from players, the most accurate stats to fill in the story, and the cleanest copy on deadline. She could break news about a player's injury or a coaching change before anyone else.
She also knew that she hated writing her columns for the Sunday paper. They had to be fun or interesting feature pieces about the players' lives — something fans don't see on the ice. But she had been covering the team long enough to know that she wasn't a feature writer.
So that cursor blinked and blinked, and the only words on her screen were, "The intro goes here."
Enough of this, Max thought as she forcefully shoved her chair aside and stomped over to the hotel's mini bar. She knew it was a stereotype for a reporter to drink a little liquor to get the fingers flying over a keyboard, but there was a reason it was a stereotype. Sometimes, it was actually true.
Max grabbed a small bottle of whiskey and searched for a glass while she blindly put her fingers in the ice bucket. The frozen water sent shivers up her spine as her hand sunk up to the wrist in the bucket. The ice she got two hours ago when she started this writing charade had already melted. She let out an audible groan, grabbed her hotel key card, and headed for the hotel's ice machine. Again.
The halls were quiet as she wandered past the players' rooms. She could hear hockey games through the doors of a few rooms as players tried to assess how the competition was doing. Others were quiet. It was late after all, and these were athletes who pushed their bodies to the limits. They needed some sleep.
Max finally made it to the room with the ice machine, but as soon as she walked in, she froze, staring at the tall shirtless man already there.
Logan Moore.
She watched as his gaze fell on the slippers she always wore on the road, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Well, well, well. I wonder who's wandering the halls in bunny slippers at this hour."
His eyes casually wandered from her feet as they took in her body. She wouldn't deny that she noticed their slight pause when they reached her chest before finally looking at her face. (She would totally deny the fact that it sent heat down her spine, even though it did.)
"Hello," she said.
She took a step forward, trying to act cool. This was just two people — a player and a reporter — running into each other at the ice machine. No big deal.
As she got closer, Logan took a step back and winced slightly in pain. Her heart squeezed a bit with sympathy, then her head snapped her back to reality. She was a reporter, and his reaction has awakened the journalistic instincts in her.
"You OK?" she asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.
His smile returned, still teasing. "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"
"You're in pain, and you left a bucket overflowing with ice on the machine."
He shrugged his shoulders, causing him to wince again. "Let's just say I'm officially fine."
"What about unofficially?"
Logan put one hand on his hip, while he kept his other arm held close to his body. "I bruised my shoulder again. You know nothing."
"My lips are sealed."
Max acted as if she was turning an imaginary lock on his lips, something she did without thinking. But she also didn't think Logan's eyes would immediately snap to her mouth and linger there. She felt like her hand was suddenly on fire and she quickly moved it to her side.
She needed ice now and probably a cold shower later.
But Logan's bucket was still sitting on the machine.
"Need a hand with this?"
He reached his arm out, trying to wordlessly tell her that yes, he needed some help, and he wasn't going to make a big deal out of asking for it so just give him the bucket.
Max grabbed it and turned, doing as he requested. "That's a lot of ice for a bruised shoulder."
