Good Guy

by Kate Meader

  “Don’t worry, I have plenty of stories. Sorry, I needed access to the juice. I’m only at 15%.” He gestured to her laptop which had been nudged a few inches aside so he could plug his own Macbook into their shared outlet. “Speaking of stories, here’s one for you. Little birdie told me about an upcoming move.”

  Her heart sank. Were Harper and Dante considering trading Levi out? Or maybe this was about Cade Burnett?

  “Is my story already in danger of becoming a different story?”

  He cocked his head. “Hunt? Nah, or not as far as I know. But before I give you the details, I wanted to run something by you. Heard you’re working on something bigger than Mr. GI in skates.”

  The back of her neck tingled. “You’ve got a whole flock of birdies chirping in your ear.”

  His smirk was half-charm, half-smarm. “One of the girls at ESPN HQ said you’ve been getting chatty with all the lady reporters. Information-gathering chatty.”

  “We women do like to talk.” Offering up that rusty stereotype grated but was necessary to throw him off the scent. “We especially like to talk about co-workers and bosses and who did what. Just girly gossip.”

  “Not a story about the trials and tribulations of your tribe? We’ve all seen how the female reporters get dumped on. You might have something there.”

  “You mean bite the hand that feeds me?” The words mixed with bile in her throat. She couldn’t even get the great and powerful Harper Chase to see the bigger picture. “I’d like to keep my job, thanks.”

  “Maybe I could help you out. Give it the coverage it deserves. I do have a bigger platform.”

  Coby Dawson offering to use his national platform to call out his fellow male reporters, the athletes he covered, and the front office staff who kept him juiced with information? She thought not. More likely he was thinking up a way to throw shade so her story on Levi landed with minimal impact.

  Curious, she played along. “Let’s say that hypothetically I was working on a story like that. Why would you even want to touch it?”

  “These toxic environments make it hard for everyone to do their jobs, Jordan.”

  She could feel her eyes grow large. “Wow, Dawson, you sound almost like an ally.”

  “Is it so shocking? I’ve got sisters, female friends, co-workers. You think I like seeing how they’re treated? No woman should have to put up with half the shit I see some of these guys pull.”

  These guys were obviously anyone but Dawson. Admittedly, she’d never witnessed anything disqualifying other than those sly texts congratulating her when she got the Hunt profile. Perhaps she’d misinterpreted them, looking for micro-aggressions that didn’t exist. Not every man in the business was the enemy. Neither had she heard a word against Coby during her multiple interviews. Either he was Teflon or a good man to have on her side.

  Needing a moment to digest that, she changed the subject. “So what’s this scoop you’re dangling?”

  He worked a beat for effect. “It’s unconfirmed but word has it that Gunnar Bond is back in play.”

  “Where?”

  “Chicago.”

  Jordan let out a low whistle. This was huge. Gunnar Bond had been the top goal scorer for two seasons running three years ago when he played for the LA Quake. A family tragedy—the loss of his wife and four-year old twins in a car accident which he survived—had destroyed him. He’d left the NHL, dropped off the grid, and as far as she knew hadn’t spoken a word to anyone in hockey since.

  “Where’d you hear this?” And why was he telling her?

  His crinkly eyes said he wouldn’t dream of revealing his source. “As you know, the Quake let him go after a year. Only so much grief a franchise will tolerate. But the Rebels seem to be making a business out of picking up orphans and has-beens.”

  “They’re all for giving people a second chance. Redemption is their cornerstone.” She should put that somewhere in the article. Is that what Levi was looking for? For his dad? For Josh?

  “Maybe now that you have an in with Harper you could pump her for information?”

  “Maybe.” She refocused on the rink, where the second period had begun. Levi had just won a face-off and was zipping down the center, waiting for Callaghan to pass it back.

  Here it comes … and nothing.

  She side-eyed Dawson. “Looked like you’re just as tight with the Rebels management. Why not go to Harper yourself?”

  “Favor is so fleeting in this biz.”

  True, but it still didn’t explain why he was dropping this juicy AF goss on her here and now. Unless …

  “Did Bond and Hunt graduate in the same class at Dartmouth?” she asked, testing her theory.

  “Yes, they did.” He grinned at her.

  “Sheesh, Dawson, if you want me to ask him, just say so.”

  He laughed and she joined in, enjoying the camaraderie of holding a secret and gossiping with a big shot. This was the level she wanted to attain.

  “Bond’s not been heard from for over a year,” Coby continued. “Someone said he’s living in a shack in the woods of New Hampshire. Real mountain man stuff. I figured your boy Hunt might have some insider knowledge.”

  “Which I extract and pass on to you?”

  He shrugged. “What you do with it is up to you. We could help each other out. Either way, I’m serious about giving your story—whatever that story might be—a signal boost.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the world’s changing. Sports are changing. The demographics of sports are changing. Close to 40% of our viewership on SportsFocus are women, with millennials leading the charge. Only a fool refuses to acknowledge numbers like that. I’m not planning to go down with the dinosaurs you see here.” He waved a hand around the press box, just as Ernie Cross, who was seventy if he was a day, hacked up a juicy gob of phlegm. She didn’t want to know what he did with it but the man used cloth handkerchiefs. Enough said.

  Dawson was still talking. “We’re always looking for new on-air talent at SportsFocus, Jordan. I’ve listened to your podcast, read your columns. You have a great voice and good instincts. I think our viewers would really respond to you.”

  An on-camera gig at ESPN? That was unexpected. Her heart boomed, swelling with excitement at the thought of working for the premier sports broadcaster in the country.

  The freakin’ dream.

  Despite the compelling conversation with Dawson, she couldn’t take her eyes off the Rebels’ new center. Couldn’t stop admiring all that strength and grace and power. And then five seconds later, she couldn’t unsee that hit.

  DC’s Dimitri Sokov had smashed into Levi, a hit so hard that the Rebels center dropped like a sack of icing-drenched cinnamon rolls.

  “Whoa! Down goes your man.” Coby chuckled malevolently beside her.

  Her man. She covered her mouth, barely muffling her shocked gasp. Oh, God, was he unconscious?

  “You okay, Jordan?”

  She blinked at Coby, who was looking at her curiously. And why not? She was peering down at him because, not only had she gasped, she’d jumped to her feet the moment Levi sustained that vicious check. Excellent undercover props, Cooke.

  When she returned her focus to the ice, Levi was upright, skating around like nothing had happened.

  “That looked rough,” she said with a nervous chuckle while she retook her seat. “Don’t know how they do it.”

  “I’d swear you’ve never watched a hockey game before.” Dawson shook his head in pity at poor, fragile Jordan.

  More like her poor, fragile heart.

  20

  Jordan popped four slices of bread into the toaster and depressed the button. Should she go with lightly-done or medium?

  “What do you think, Cookie? Light or medium on the toast?”

  The puppy gave a yelp, which he always did whenever she said his name. Or pie. Or anything, really. Levi had brought him over last night, not wanting to leave him alone at his place while Elle was working. Poor Joe was stil
l under the weather.

  “Medium? Gotcha.”

  She stirred the eggs, thinking about Levi. About where this was going. About the mess she’d gotten herself into because this was quite a mess. Last night, when Levi was checked hard—which was basically fifty percent of his job—she’d almost given herself away to Coby Dawson, of all people. So long, objectivity.

  A movement behind her made her turn, while the gorgeous, shirtless man made every part of her hum. Hello, hot stuff!

  “Hungry?”

  He answered with a ravenous, all-consuming kiss that turned her knees to jelly. Fortunately, he was holding her upright, hands on butt, just how she liked them.

  “Starving.” Burying his lips in the crook her neck, he inhaled her skin, laying butterfly kisses where she was so sensitive. “Those eggs look done.”

  She spun back, noting the eggs were browning around the edges, and quickly flipped off the heat. The toast popped. “Coffee?”

  “I can get it. I think.” He squinted at her Keurig, on the same counter as the box of mini-macarons he’d picked up for her yesterday. So sweet. (Both the treats and the man.)

  A minute later, he’d worked it out and they were seated at the kitchen island, tucking in. Cookie sat at Levi’s feet, waiting for scraps because the man completely spoiled him. Such picture-perfect domesticity. She hadn’t indulged in this since … she was married.

  It felt good. Intimate. A little bit terrifying.

  “I assumed you’d be heading into practice early this morning.”

  “Morning skate’s not until ten.”

  “I was talking about the extra practices with DuPre and St. James.”

  He paused, delivered that trademark Wild West squint, then went back to chewing. Once he’d swallowed, he sipped his coffee. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “A little, pink-streaked bird told me. Her bed is cold but the gossip is hot.”

  “They’re just getting some exercise the same time as me.”

  Oh, to be a fly on the wall. “Learning anything while you all skate around the rink avoiding each other? Those guys are legends after all.”

  “Just French curses and how to play dirty. St. James has a bag of tricks for how to start a fight while coming off smelling like roses.” He leaned back, that Green Berets tattoo emblazoned across his chest announcing loudly his hero status. “What other things have you heard?”

  She slathered Nutella on her toast and took a bite. “Gunnar Bond. Rumor has it the Rebels have him in their sights.”

  He held her gaze unerringly. “Good player.”

  “And in your class at Dartmouth. You two still friendly?”

  “Not especially. What happened to him was awful.” He shook his head. “I hope he makes it back. And no, I haven’t heard from him or any rumors about where he’s headed.”

  “Useless.”

  “Baby, I told you I’m not the guy you want for heartfelt secrets and insider gossip.”

  “Oh, I dunno. You’ve come up with some good stuff.”

  He reached out and took her hand. “C’mere.”

  She went to him, sat on those thick-as-ancient-oaks thighs, and enjoyed being held while she munched on her toast.

  His hand grazed the back of her thigh in erotic, sensuous strokes. “You almost done with this profile?”

  “Close,” she said around her chewing. “You can read it before I turn it in if you like.”

  “Is that typical?”

  “No, but then you’re not typical.”

  “And once it’s done, then what?”

  Did he mean them or her next story? She couldn’t say for sure what exactly was happening, but seeing Levi checked hard last night had unlocked something soft and fragile inside her. With Josh, she’d existed in a constant state of anxiety about his safety, and while an ice rink was nowhere as dangerous as the Middle East, the possibility Levi could be badly injured was exceptionally revealing. Acknowledging this made her feel exposed in a way she hadn’t felt for years.

  Eager to move on, she centered the conversation on a topic she could better grasp. “I’ve been doing some research on the place of female reporters and professionals in sports. Harassment, come-ons, that kind of thing.”

  His hand stopped. “You said something about that before. What kind of harassment are we talking about?”

  “The usual.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Best to keep the specifics to herself. “Guys sliding into my DMs.”

  “Players?”

  “Some. Mostly trolls and fanboys.”

  “Close your DMs.”

  Easy for him to say. “You wouldn’t tell that to a male reporter.”

  “I would if he was being harassed. You don’t need to keep your DMs open.”

  “And what about email or comments on my column or podcast posts? Do I get someone to read it for me, like the equivalent of a medieval royal taster? I have open lines of communication so I can work with players, agents, managers, and coaches to get the information I need to do my job. Shutting down the platforms on which jerks can insult me is not the answer.”

  “You sure about that? How about some names, Jordan?”

  She stood—or tried to. He kept her steady in his lap, his palm flush against her hip.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything to you. I knew you’d just see one angle.”

  “The angle where you’re getting harassed. Yep, that’s what I see and I’m suggesting a solution.”

  “And I’d rather come up with a different solution. Education. Awareness.” When his expression remained immobile, she tried another tack. “Coby Dawson said he’d give me a spot on SportsFocus so I can shine a light on the problem.”

  “Dawson? That guy wants to help you?” His tone basically accused Coby of wanting to help in ways that would likely only help Coby—or Coby’s penis.

  So she’d also been incredulous, but she didn’t have to take it from Levi. “Not every guy is trying to get in my pants.”

  “They are, Jordan. Every single one of them.”

  Some women might take that as a compliment, but Levi hadn’t intended it as one. It reduced her to a set of genitals and men to rutting beasts.

  “This could be huge for me. Coby said there might be a chance of interviewing for a national correspondent spot at ESPN. It’s like the Holy Grail for sports reporters.”

  “And in the meantime, you do what? Flirt with guys in your DMs to get your story?”

  She pushed back against his chest and stood, putting necessary distance between them before she cold-cocked him. And she could do it, too, given that the press box dessert table was helping her bulk up.

  Cookie looked up, sensing the tension in their previously happy little trio.

  “You’re very close to sounding like I’m asking for it, Levi.”

  Exasperation pleated his brow. “That’s not what I mean. I don’t like seeing you in positions where you have to play along with some leering joker in a locker room or some shithead sending you ‘hey, baby’ messages on Twitter. Or worse, because I know you’re sugarcoating it. I just don’t want to see you hurt. You can protect yourself, Jordan, and still do your job.”

  “Why is that the message here? Why do I need to modify my behavior and not the guys who do this?”

  His sigh was long-suffering. “Because that’s the way of the world.”

  That wasn’t the world she wanted to live in. Shunting the responsibility to not be harassed off to women should not be the answer. How about education, awareness, responsibility? How about making our next generation of boys understand respect?

  She was in a unique position here: inhabiting both the story and the person who could report on it. This was her lived experience, and to have a man tell her the equivalent of “don’t get drunk or wear a short skirt” to ensure safety on the job, made her eyeballs burn with the heat of a thousand suns.

  “That might be the way of your world, Levi, but it’s not mine. Did you treat Elle
differently on the base because she was a woman?”

  “I looked out for her because the reality is that there aren’t enough of the good guys to achieve critical mass. Yet. And until there are, a woman in all walks of life, but especially male-dominated ones like the military and pro-sports, needs to take extra precautions.”

  “Can’t change the world, so change myself?”

  “If need be.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Well, this woman has changed something—her mind about continuing this conversation. I’m hitting the shower. And I really don’t need to see your knuckle-dragging ass when I come out.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Levi plunked down on a bench in the locker room and unlaced his skates while breathing his way back to normal.

  Remy peeled off his jersey. “What’s up, Hunt? Too much for you?”

  Bren took a seat. “He got you good on that last run, DuPre. A little credit, now.”

  Levi smiled, grateful that Bren had his back. The early morning workouts had been a three-time a week occurrence for over six weeks, and it was paying dividends during the games with a 15-11 record on the season. He wondered if the guys really did stop by the rink this often or if they were just worried about their wives’ investment.

  “He’s gettin’ a little trickier with those dekes for sure,” Remy said. “Almost like he’s paying attention to what us giants of the game have been sayin’.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Levi said.

  “What?” Bren asked. “Whip you into shape, soldier?”

  “It’s getting cold out there. Can’t believe you’d rather be here than in a warm bed with your women.” Hell, if he had a choice, he’d be snuggled up with Jordan, even though she wasn’t talking to him right now because of his “knuckle-dragging ass” as she politely termed it.

  “Nah, this is good for us.” Bren rubbed his beard. “Keeps me fit for my hot trophy wife. You got a woman keeping your bed warm, Hunt?”

  Not one he could talk about. “Nope.”

  Bren slid a glance at Remy, who smirked back.

  “What’s that for?”

  Remy shrugged. “De rien.”