I don’t say a word but nod as if she can see me.
“You’ll only write the truth about the guys. You’ll report accurately and professionally. No embellishments, no fabrications, no sensationalism. Write like a true sports journalist.”
I go cold inside. That’s exactly what Charles doesn’t want. If I’m the person she thinks I am, I’ll accept her conditions, then I’ll write the stories Charles wants. Only I’m not that person, even if the entire Icehawks organization believes I am.
“I agree to your terms.”
“Good. Drop him off tomorrow before you go to the airport.” She’s brusque and businesslike, making it painfully obvious that she’s not forgiving me, and we aren’t friends.
“I will. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m doing this for the boys and the Icehawks. Not for you.”
Her words are like a knife to the heart, and I swallow my tears. I’ve been crying too much lately, and it’s all related to my job and my sister. We end the call, and I face my next issue.
I’ll be around Drakos for the next several days. If I’m lucky, I won’t be in the same hotel and will be able to avoid him. I’m appalled that he kissed me, even worse I kissed him back. Not that that means anything. Drakos is a womanizer. He’ll kiss just about any woman with a heartbeat. In the beginning, writing about him was easy because he gave me so much scandalous fodder for stories, I never had to make anything up. My mission to ruin him had been relatively easy.
Lately, it isn’t as easy, and I’m not sure why other than he’s behaving better than before.
I check my watch and realize Noah’s practice will be over any minute. I hurry through the door of Rink Three and take a seat on the bleachers in a poorly lit area. Gardenia is sitting down several rows and must’ve answered the phone from here, but she ignores me.
Thankfully, hockey practice ends shortly after I arrive. I escape before anyone else and wait for Noah in our usual place. I swear all the hockey moms and some of the dads give me scathing glares as they make a wide berth around me.
Is any job worth this hatred?
Maybe not for me, but for Noah. I provide him with everything he needs, which wouldn’t be possible if I weren’t being paid well for the garbage I spew out of my keyboard every day. Do I like it? No. Will I do it anyway? Yes. I’ve considered spilling my dilemma to Gardenia, but it almost makes things worse in some ways.
I vow to keep the promise I made to her, no matter the pressure from Charles. Perhaps the rookies—or even Drakos—will provide real drama on this road trip that I can utilize without lying. Regardless, I long to write real stories with substance about the team, its triumphs and struggles, and the personalities and how they mesh. I’ve read similar stories on sports news sites, and they do well, though I’m aware All Hockey News doesn’t attract those kinds of serious readers.
I sigh in resignation. I’m in a tough spot, but I’ll find a way out. I always do.
As far as that little mishap with Drakos, I’ll pretend it never happened, and I suspect so will he.
Chapter 11
Mutual Hatred and Lust
~~Drakos~~
I get the hell out of Dodge, or in this case the Itch, Icehawks Hockey Complex. I walk the few short blocks to my condo building deep in thought and drowning in self-recrimination.
Why the hell did I kiss Aria?
I can’t explain my actions other than she was hurting, and I was trying to help. Yeah, that’s all it was. I’m basically a good guy, and I only wanted to comfort her. Nothing to see here. Absolutely nothing.
But that kiss.
Damn. What a blow-your-skates-off kiss. If she’s as good at sex as she is kissing, getting her between the sheets would be epic. And I want to do that in the worst way. What’s happening to me? I can have just about any woman I set my sights on. Why am I fixated on her? I must be a glutton for punishment.
Frustrated with my inability to redirect my lust, I attempt to distract myself with food. I stop at an Asian restaurant and order takeout for Kirby and myself, then carry it home.
Kirby’s already there, studying film of our games this year with Colorado. He’s deep into dissecting every move he makes.
“Dinner’s here,” I call out from the kitchen. A few seconds later, he’s grabbing a plate and heaping it with fried rice, sweet and sour pork, General Tso’s chicken, and kung pao shrimp.
“Thanks. I’m starved.”
“Me, too. I figure neither of us wants to cook.”
