Chapter Two
The uncomfortable, sick feeling that had been lingering in Danny’s stomach all morning spiked when he heard the doorbell ring. It was exactly the same as the way he felt before every big game, and he’d never gotten used to it.
This time, it was about something even bigger and scarier. He’d come out on Twitter last week, and then promptly deleted the app from his phone, never looking back.
Hiding who he was had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember. Suddenly being out in the open was terrifying.
He knew he had to do it, but that didn’t make it any easier.
Taking a deep breath, he headed to the door to answer it.
When he opened it, the man on the other side was…
Not at all what he’d been expecting.
From his thick-framed glasses to his artfully scuffed brown wing-tips, this guy did not look like a sports reporter. Danny had met maybe a hundred over the course of his career, and none of them were this pretty.
Behind his glasses, he had the most piercing, clear blue eyes Danny had ever seen. A few strands of dark hair flopped over onto his forehead, the rest of it effortlessly slicked back.
Normally, he was a little surprised if a sports reporter had an even shave. This guy was… different.
“Danny Harper?” the guy asked after Danny was silent for too long.
Great. Now his first impression would be that Danny was an idiot.
He should have asked his manager what this guy’s name was. That suddenly seemed like an important detail.
“Uh, yeah, that’s me. You’re the reporter?”
“Obviously,” the guy said, his voice so dry Danny could almost feel it sucking the moisture out of the air.
Yeah. He’d clearly made an excellent first impression.
“Of course. Uh, come in.” He stepped back from the door. “I’m sorry, I totally forgot to ask for your name.”
“Eliot O’Connor,” he said as he slipped inside, since Danny hadn’t opened the door nearly wide enough.
He could blame this all on nerves, and it was true—but whether or not Eliot would see that and forgive him was another question entirely.
“As in T. S.?” Danny asked.
“Exactly as in. One ‘L’. My mom’s an English teacher.”
Eliot looked surprised that Danny knew who T. S. Eliot was, and he honestly wasn’t sure whether or not to take that as an insult. He did seem pleased.
“Guess that’s why you’re a journalist, huh?” Danny said. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
Eliot smiled wryly. “Still that obvious, huh?”
Danny shrugged. “Just noticed your accent.”
“Good ear,” Eliot said, sounding impressed. Maybe Danny could still turn this around, make up for his initial lapse of concentration. “I’m originally from Maine. I say originally, but I’m a very recent transplant.”
“Oh, uh, I’m actually from Michigan. Which I know isn’t exactly next door, but…”
“It’s closer than California.” Eliot nodded. “I would have thought there’d be more hockey-related opportunities up there.”
A lot of people got the wrong impression about how playing for sports teams worked, so he wasn’t going to hold that against Eliot. Obviously, he wasn’t a sports reporter.
