by Maria Luis
I sigh. “I met up with Duke last night.”
Wait for it . . .
“You did what?” she shrieks, skipping to my side of the office where she parks her butt on a stack of papers on my desk. A few flutter to the carpet, forgotten. “How was it? Is he as hot in the sheets as they—”
My hands fly up in a classic time-out signal. “Whoa, now. We did not do any sheets sharing. We met up to talk about the interview . . . and then we grabbed pizza afterward.”
Casey’s brows waggle. “Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?”
“We didn’t have sex, Cass. Do you hear me? No. Sex.”
Her elbow props up on her knee, and this new batch of shifting around sends another group of papers sailing to the floor. “Well, that’s disappointing.”
Since she doesn’t seem to be inclined to pick up the mess she has created, I scoot back my chair and gather the loose leafs from the carpet. I drop them onto my desk, far away from her. “It’s not that disappointing. Sex is not in our future. I need him for this interview.”
“What does he need from you, then?”
Her question is one that’s been darting through my head, too, for the last ten hours or so since we said our good nights. I’ve never been the sort of girl to make a move—I don’t have moves—but I don’t think I’m out of line in thinking that he was interested in more than just work stuff. I mean, he asked me to dinner. Sure, it was a local pizza joint, but the cook knew Duke by name and made a fuss over me as soon as the bells chimed over our heads, signaling our arrival.
And the fact that he took me to a bar that caters to the Blades hockey team exclusively?
It’s hard not to let my imagination run wild with an assortment of what-ifs.
“Maybe he’s interested in you,” Casey says, clearly over my stewing silence. “You’re a catch, Charlie, and you don’t even realize it.”
Me? A catch? It’s almost laughable. I’m not one of those women who sadistically gets off on putting herself down, but statistically . . . I’ve never been a “catch.” Not in high school, when I suffered a bad case of unrequited love for my good friend, Adam. Cliché, right? Only this time around, Hollywood’s favorite love trope did not work out in my favor.
We stopped talking right around the same time that I fessed up to my infatuation.
Then, there was that time in college when I gathered my courage to approach my crush. He’d played baseball for BU, and oh, man, but I’d lived to see him at games wearing his uniform. His butt? To die for, I’m not exaggerating. My bumbling question about us going out on a date together ended with him busting a gut, laughing. I prayed so hard that day for the ground beneath home plate to open up and swallow me whole.
My life is full of awkward instances just like these. Rinse and repeat.
Hope is a dangerous thing, something I’ve learned pretty well over the years. There’s no way I’m bringing hope anywhere into the equation with Duke Harrison.
My phone buzzes with an incoming message and I reach for it. A Twitter DM. My heart kicks into gear, fluttering in my chest.
“You okay?”
I ignore Casey’s question and swipe at my phone screen to open the message from Duke.
Interested in catching the game tonight? I’ve got three tickets with your name on them. I’ll answer one of your questions after I clean out the Red Wings on the ice.
There’s no use in even pretending I don’t know what game he’s referring to. The Blades are up against the Detroit Red Wings tonight, and it’s been one of the most highly anticipated matches all season.
After last year’s playoffs, the Red Wings’ primary center, Andre Beaumont, was traded to the Blades. I would have bought tickets myself but the price bypassed my Tribune budget.
When I speak, my voice is a bit rusty with shock. “You want to watch the Blades play tonight?”
Casey slips off my desk, taking with her another stack of papers. This time, she does the proper thing and picks up after herself. “Sure. Want to hit up our local? It’s game day and you know they’re gonna have those amazing BBQ jalapeño nachos tonight.”
“No, I mean, do you want to go to the game. Like, physically call ourselves an Uber and head down to the arena to watch?”
My coworker’s eyes go wide in understanding. “Oh. Oh, my God, um yes, I would love to go. How did you get tickets? Nosebleed seats were going for over a hundred bucks a pop last time I checked.”
I hesitate in telling her the truth, but it seems that I don’t have to. She claps a hand over her mouth, theatrically murmuring behind her splayed fingers. “Duke invited you?”
I nod, wishing that I could squash the ridiculous hope blooming in my chest.
I don’t do hope, for a variety of reasons.
“Girl, I told you that he was interested in you. Don’t even pretend otherwise.”
“He’s not,” I protest weakly, because I’m not all that sure that I’m even telling the truth anymore. Is Duke Harrison interested in me? As unlikely as it seems, why else would he be going out of his way to invite me to pizza or to a game? Both activities, mind you, which have been on his dime.
I need to stay strong.
Even if I do re-read his message at least ten times (okay, fifteen) over the next few hours.
True enough to Duke’s word, when Casey, Caleb, and I appear at the ticket-window at the arena later that night, there are three tickets waiting for me. I would have invited Jenny and Mel, but neither are hockey fans.
Not that Caleb is, either, but he’s a total fan of hockey players, which counts in my book.
We shuffle quickly through the lines of people waiting, and then opt to grab some food from the concession stands before heading to our seats. While I go for a classic hot dog (ketchup and mayo, no relish), Casey and Caleb both purchase nachos drenched with every kind of topping known to mankind.
In fact, I’m not actually sure I see the chips at all.
If I had ever questioned their twinhood, my disbelief has now been suspended.
“I can’t believe you’re wearing that jersey,” Casey says, shaking her head as we pluck our way through the throng of people.
“What? It’s a free country.”
I’m wearing a Red Wings jersey that my dad purchased for me the year before he was diagnosed with cancer. To this day, Frank Denton continues to be the biggest hockey fan I’ve ever known. Over the years, he made a point to purchase jerseys from every team in the NHL. As his only child, I’ve got them all. Tampa Bay Lightning. Chicago Blackhawks. Dallas Stars. The list goes on.
Naturally, I have a Blades jersey tucked away in the top drawer of my dresser, though it’s not part of my inheritance from Dad. The Blades were a very new expansion team to Boston at the time of my father’s passing.
However, in the spirit of “staying strong” tonight against the sexiness that is Duke Harrison, I pulled on my ten-year-old Red Wings jersey just before leaving my apartment this evening.
A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do, and all that.
There’s a bit of surprise among us when we realize that our seats are just behind the penalty box.
“This is amazing,” Casey whispers in awe as she takes her seat, “I’ve never been this close to the ice before.”
Caleb sits on the other side of me, so I am sandwiched between the twins. “I have,” he boasts, already digging into his nachos. “Remember that guy I dated a few months ago? Total Blades fan. If only he hadn’t smelled like bad B.O, we’d still be dating.”
I share a knowing glance with his sister. “Isn’t that the same guy you cried over for two weeks? The one who broke up with you for snooping around on his cellphone?”
Caleb shoots me a dirty look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really?”
“Okay, fine. He didn’t actually smell bad.”
Casey plants a hand on my shoulder, pushing me back, so she can see her brother. “You slept with his T-shi
rt for a month.”
With a harrumph, Caleb mutters, “Are we going to watch hockey or what?”
And with that, we settle in as the players, one by one, come onto the ice. There’s something about hockey that I find addicting. The easy answer is that I love the game itself, with all of its nuances and controlled chaos. The more complicated answer is that I love the swooshing sound of skates hitting the ice, the smell of popcorn and hot dogs saturating the air, the excitement radiating from thousands of people as the clock counts down to the moment when the puck drops to the ice and the action begins.
Seated behind the penalty box, we have a surprisingly good view of the rink, good enough, anyway, that I immediately spot Duke as he skates towards the goal. I catch the number twelve across his back as he turns away and drops a water bottle into the top part of the net.
Other Blades players take to the ice, all wearing the same navy blue and silver uniform. My hands delve into my over-the-shoulder bag, grabbing a notebook and pen. My scraped-clean Styrofoam plate goes between my feet on the cement floor.
The tension in the arena thickens as we all stand for the national anthem. The players take to their respective sides, and my gaze immediately latches onto Duke, who casually positions himself in the hole. His already big frame looks even more massive while wearing all the pads and gear. With his helmet shielding his head, he looks like a warrior ready to spar.
And spar he does.
The puck drops and the first period kicks off.
The next fifteen minutes aren’t so good, not for the Blades. They play sloppily, something that Casey and I rant about in between screaming at the ice.
“Jesus Christ, Holt, go for the fucking puck!” Casey shouts, banging her fists on the penalty box’s Plexiglas like a crazy lady when the Blades’ left wing fails to connect his stick with the rubber puck.
I’m no better.
My notebook is forgotten on my seat as I cup my hands around my mouth and yell, “Stop playing a bunch of pansies out there!”
My comment is directed at everyone, and the guys behind us laugh and join in on the hollering.
Then, the Red Wings’ forward shoots the puck into the five-hole, sailing right between Duke’s legs into the net.
“Oh, c’mon,” I grind out, before watching in fascination as Duke hooks his stick around the forward’s ankles and sends him sprawling to his knees.
It’s a dirty move, one that goalies sometimes play. But Duke has always been a clean player, preferring to play hard than to play cheap, so it comes as a surprise. Duke isn’t the player who hooks his opponents’ ankles. This isn’t to say that he won’t throw down gloves if the situation calls for it—some of his prior brawls on the ice have even made it into the top clips for ESPN.
This move is different, though, and even the sports commentator sounds a bit shocked when he announces, “And, woho-ho, Harrison pulls a clinger right there. Haven’t seen something like that from the Blades’ number twelve in a few years. Maybe the rumors are true . . . maybe Harrison is feeling the need to skip clean playing to stay at the top of his game.”
The whistle blows, calling for a penalty that has the whole crowd roaring with jeers and boos. With a shake of his head, and a quick spurt from his water bottle, Duke skates toward the penalty box.
In other words, he skates right toward me.
I see his narrowed eyes through the cage just before he whips off his helmet. At first I think that he’s pissed about his lousy play, but then I realize that his gaze is focused solidly on me.
Blue eyes rake over my Red Wings jersey, slowly sliding upward until our gazes clash. His brows come together and he scrubs one hand over his mouth.
He’s annoyed.
Probably both at the game and at me, for wearing the opposing team’s uniform. I’ve chosen the enemy.
I’m not the only one who has noticed Duke’s ticked off expression, because the guy behind me taps me on the shoulder and says, “You sure wearing that Red Wings jersey was the best decision you could have made today?”
I glance at Duke, at the way his mouth has now completely flat-lined as he glares at the stranger talking to me. “I’m sure it doesn’t matter. It’s not like we really know each other.”
Casey has already filled in anyone who will listen about my predicament, much to my frustration. The beer has gone to her head, I think.
“It looks like Harrison wants to know you,” the stranger tells me conspiratorially. I think his name is Matt, but that’s just a guess. “Do you want to see if I’m right?”
I tear my gaze away from Duke, who still appears annoyed, to Matt. Max? Hell if I know. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you want to see if I’m right, about him wanting you,” Matt clarifies with a wide grin. “I bet you a beer that he does.”
“I bet you two beers that he doesn’t.” I don’t drink beer, but I’m sure Casey will take my trophies should I win. Ahem, when I win.
“You’re on.” Elbowing his buddy out of the way, Matt climbs down onto our row, issuing apologies when he scoots Casey over to step up next to me. Matt and I are the same height, which is to say, he’s shorter than average. Definitely shorter than Duke Harrison. I force myself to not look at the penalty box and the man caged inside.
“Ready to buy me that beer?” Matt says, hooking a gentle hand around my elbow. His messy brown hair hangs down over one eye. I’m pretty sure he’s in college, which explains his to-hell-with-it attitude.
Since I have no plans to buy him anything, I cross my arms over my chest and lean back. “A kiss on the cheek,” I inform him, “and then I’ll pretend to give you my number. That’s all you’re getting.”
His friends break out into laughter, thumping Matt on the back in solidarity. “All right, all right,” he mutters, still smiling playfully, “I’ll work with it.”
With absolutely no lead-up whatsoever, he drops a kiss to my cheek and then hits up my other cheek like he’s a European. Removing his phone from his pocket, he hands it over and goes for broke: “I’d actually really like to take you out. So, like, if you want to give me your real number that’d be cool.”
Beside me, Caleb gives a hoot of laughter. “Smooth move, kid.”
Oh, this is awkward. I give him back his phone, resisting the urge to run my hand over my jeans. “You’re a bit young for me.”
Matt presses a hand to his heart, all faux-dramatic and everything. “I’m twenty.”
“You can’t even legally order the two beers you promised me.”
“Which is why I asked you to buy me one.”
Casey joins in on Caleb’s laughing fit, and I sort of want to stab both of them. “Not happening, Matt.”
“It’s Max.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes, then flick at him with my hands. “Return to your seat, young one. The bet is over.”
“Is it, though? Take a look at Harrison.”
At Matt’s—erm, Max’s—prompting, I twist around. Without realizing it, his stint in the box has ended and he’s back in the net. But while the other players are fighting over the puck at center ice, Duke’s head is turned just slightly . . . and he’s watching me.
Chapter Nine
I don’t hear from Duke after the Blades lose against the Red Wings.
Like the lame-o that I am, however, I force Caleb and Casey to stick around by the concession stands as I keep watch over my phone. Originally, the plan was for him to message me with a place to meet. After thirty minutes pass, and then another twenty-five, I’m forced to accept that our scheduled meeting isn’t happening.
Not tonight, anyway.
“Can we go?” Casey asks, pointing at the time on her watch. “Even if he had to talk with the press, it wouldn’t take this long.”
It might, actually, but I let the argument drop. With a last glance around at the employees sweeping the otherwise empty concessions area, I stuff my phone into my purse. “Fine, let’s head out.”
I don’t le
t them know that I have a plan.
Thirty minutes later, I’m back in the dingy hallway of The Box. There’s not much light, just one or two overhead spotlights to guide the way. I pass by Bobby Orr, this time giving in to my inner-child instincts by patting him on the shoulder. I do the same with the fake Duke Harrison, except instead I flick him in the center of the forehead.
Immature? Hell yes, but I’m also pretty annoyed that he ditched me tonight.
My eyes slowly adjust to the lighting and I catch sight of other wax figures. These ones are just as recognizable: Milt Schmidt, Cam Neely . . . Phil Esposito. Oh, wow. This dungeon-like hallway is sporting Madame Tussauds-like wax figures of every Hall of Famer that has ever played for a Boston pro-hockey team.
My steps slow as I take note of each player; the lifelike slope of a nose, the broken teeth, and even the receding hairlines. Duke, I notice, is the only player from the Boston Blades, a franchise that, ten years ago, was nothing but an expansion team.
Now, the Blades are one of the hottest teams in the NHL, and even went toe-to-toe with the Bruins in the playoffs last year. It’s a weird dynamic, having two pro-hockey teams, but one that the city of Boston has taken to like fish in water.
Bostonians are nothing but crazy sports fanatics, anyhow.
I spare Duke’s wax figure one more glance and then continue on my way, barely leashing a screech when something skitters across my foot. Holy crap, I do not do rodents. My legs propel me toward the entrance door to the back bar, and I fling it open like I’ve been chased by ghosties.
At least three Blades players stop what they’re doing to stare at me, open-mouthed, and I give a small, hey-there wave. I’m still in my Detroit jersey, which is probably a mistake, seeing as how the Blades lost 3-2 this evening.
This is what I get for being impulsive again.
“Can I help you?”
I turn at the sound of the male voice, expecting to find a bouncer ready to grab me by the back of my jersey and throw me outside. Instead, it’s one of the Blades’ second-string players, Marshall Hunt. He’s wearing jeans and a polo T-shirt, and an expression on his face that’s one tick away from who-the-hell-are-you?
