by Lia Riley
“Tell me more, Angel,” he snapped. Typical. Her boss always cut right to the chase. Not unlike the man doing calf stretches next to the building across the street. Or at least his old version.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Don’t play coy. I’m looking here at the last article you sent, and in the email you mentioned you were taking a weekend trip out of the city. To go to Telluride. With Tor Gunnar. What’s the deal?”
“Well, it is just . . . I lost this bet and I sort of kind of ended up with him here at this wedding in Telluride.”
“Bullshit.”
“No bulls. I speak the truth.”
No one had a laugh like Scott—a cross between a braying donkey and a hyena.
She’d hear that laugh after the punch line to off-color jokes in the newsroom. Usually referencing women.
Hey, Neve. Why do women make better soldiers? Because they can bleed for a week and not die.
She’d try to eye roll it off. After all, he was happily married. He had a kid up at the University of Wyoming and a grown daughter in Boise. He didn’t have groping hands or a wandering, lecherous gaze.
It wasn’t like she had some big case to take to Human Resources. What was she going to say? His jokes made her feel annoyed and uncomfortable? That he made her dream job far less dreamy? That he’d been bemused to come into the editor role and find her covering the hockey beat? Once he’d caught wind about her being a former figure skater, it was all over. She’d had to prove she wasn’t a girly girl.
What irony—not feminine enough for figure skating but too girly for sports journalism. She wished at this point in history that things like sexism and gender inequality never reared their ugly heads, but the truth was there was a great deal of work still to be done.
When it came to her field, there was an undeniable gender imbalance across print, broadcast and online platforms in sports journalism. Men—especially white men—dominated, while female reporters were left getting nitpicked on the internet about their outfits or bodies rather than respected for their sports punditry.
Sexism sucked and provided yet another reason—besides her lack of a life—to keep her social media interaction to a minimum. If she rocked a good hair day, someone would comment, speculating which player was her current hookup. If she pulled her hair back into a bun or ponytail and looked too severe, she was dismissed as “manly.” There was literally no winning. Her boss didn’t do too much to add to the culture of toxic masculinity, but he sure as heck didn’t do a lot to diminish it.
So she managed.
After all, she’d had experience. Heck, she should add “dealing with the male gaze” under her LinkedIn skill sets.
Finally Scott’s laughter dwindled. “So what’s the deal. You working undercover on a big story?”
“He knows that I’m a journalist, Scott. More like I’m here as his guest.”
“So he invited you?”
“Yes, don’t sound so surprised.”
“You two aren’t an item, right? Because you—”
“No! No. Nothing like that.” Those words could be a career killer. How many hockey reporters had ended their careers by getting involved with players or coaches?
Lots.
“Whatever you say. I don’t know what you’re up to but I want a story from this, on my desk, first thing Monday. Something juicy.”
Yesterday morning she would have given him a thumbs-up and gone in guns blazing. But shifts had happened. Earth-shattering, tectonic fractures.
“I’m not sure that is going to happen.”
“What do you mean?” Scott’s tone cooled.
“I mean that I don’t think I want to be on the record this weekend.”
“Sorry.” His laugh this time wasn’t amused. “Who is Sports editor?”
“Let’s not play rhetorical twenty questions. It diminishes both of us.”
“Here’s what I know. Numbers are down here at the paper. Print is sucking. Digital subscriptions aren’t where they need to be. You know what that means?”
“I’m sure you are about to tell me.”
“Heads are on the chopping block. And your smart-mouthed head could be added to the pile.”
“Is this a threat?” She bristled. “I mean, come on, Scott, we’ve worked together for a couple years now. You are better than this two-bit ‘Mafia gangster meets medieval executioner’ routine.”
“You think I’m kidding. I’m not. What I’m saying isn’t an if. It’s a when.”
Neve’s stomach bottomed out. What she wanted to do was tell her boss to take the bacon cheeseburger that was probably sitting on his desk and cram it down his throat and choke. Not die. She wasn’t a monster. But definitely see the light and have a fright. She poured her heart and soul into her career and had always been a team player. Now he wanted to threaten her over reluctance to do some sort of profile on Tor?
But if she refused too hard, he’d get suspicious and he wasn’t a subtle guy. The last thing she needed was for it to get around that she’d gone off with Tor for the weekend and send chins wagging. Was she trying to sleep her way into better stories?
God. Men never had to deal with this bullshit.
But she also had a mortgage on her townhome. Her Wagoneer didn’t have a payment, but it was old and it wouldn’t take long before something big broke down. She couldn’t up and move to chase a new job or she’d leave her family. And she didn’t want to do that. Denver was home. It was where she belonged.
She had to stick it out, and by hook or by crook she’d do it.
“What’s it going to be?” he said.
“Fine.” She couldn’t risk her job. Not in this current economic climate. She’d have to find a way to sell the idea to Tor. At the very least she’d be up-front about her intentions; she owed him that much.
“Good girl,” he said approvingly, then stuck something crunchy into his mouth and chewed away her last nerve.
Good girl.
Like she was an obedient dog. Sit. Shake. Roll over. Woof. Woof. Woof. She nearly growled.
“Don’t be sulky. I also come bearing good news. Your article on the top-five worst coaches is going great. In the top-five article views and third in most emailed. Nice work.”
Oh shit. Her “I come in peace” sales pitch to Tor just took a nosedive. He was never going to believe her when she’d put out that snarky hit piece.
She’d let her petty show and now it had come back to bite her in the butt cheek.
“This is going to be great. You’ve had a public feud with Gunnar. Now you’re down there one-on-one. Pardon my le Francois but my instincts are fucking phenomenal. With the lockout in place, we have to keep the masses entertained. This . . . Tor and Neve’s Excellent Adventure? It’s the gold standard in entertainment.”
“Glad to amuse you.” She swiveled her head. Tor paced up and down in front of a Western-themed saloon next to The Adeline.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I never pictured you as Tor Gunnar’s type.”
“Two things. We’re just friends. Well. Sort of for now. And second . . . ouch. Who talks like that?”
“Hey, don’t getting sulky on me when I’m just yankin’ your chain. But take one look at the guy. He looks like he stepped out of the pages of a Norwegian ad. Looks ready to milk a reindeer or some shit.”
“Sweden,” she bit off. “His heritage is Swedish.”
“You’re no fun.”
“That goes both ways.” She wasn’t trying to be cute. She was a hundred percent serious. “This has been real, but it hasn’t been real fun. Listen. I got to go.”
“Good luck. I look forward to all the juicy details.”
She hung up. “I didn’t realize the Age had become a tabloid,” she snarled under her breath. Shoving the phone into her pocket, she crossed the street. Tension radiated from her muscles. This energy was only going to be expended one way.
Her sex clenched when she met Tor’s watch
ful gaze. Okay, technically there was another way she could expend this tension, but running would leave her with a clearer head. Her boss’s words rang in her head. What did a Norse god want with a woman like Neve when he could have anyone?
Ugh. Insecurity was an insidious asshole.
“Think you can keep up, old man?” she called with a wink, feigning an ease she in no way felt.
He took her measure. “Cocky much?”
“Not cocky if it’s true. I’m fast.”
“You talk more trash than Johnny in ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia.’”
“I guess that makes you the devil.” She should tell him about the profile right now. Just blurt it out and be done with it.
“Want to make another wager?”
“Let’s do it. I’m feeling lucky.” She bit back her tongue to keep from teasing, And win or lose, I’ll probably still get lucky.
“We get to the river. One mile. Fastest buys the other coffee.”
“Sounds good. I look forward to foregoing my usual dark roast. That coffee shop on the corner looks delightful. I’m in the mood for a double-shot mocha. Extra whipped cream. I won’t be a cheap date.”
“All right. Let’s put up or shut up.” He gave an “after you” gesture. “Ladies first.”
“Why, thank you, good sir.”
He grinned and the sun broke through the steely clouds. Yes. She’d ask him about doing the profile. But after the run.
Chapter Fourteen
Tor had planned to let her win until halfway through their race. That was when he realized there was no “letting”—he didn’t have a prayer. They flew past aspens, their spindly branches bare and ghost white. He pumped his arms, his heavy breaths fogging the wintry air, while she skipped along like frigging Bambi in the meadow for the first time. She looked up and smile lines creased the corners of her eyes.
“Hanging in there? I can dial back the pace if it’s too much.”
“Fine,” he gasped. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? Because there’s no harm in stopping. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? We could pull over. Let you rest and catch your breath.”
“Angel,” he snapped. “You’ll be the death of me.”
“Stay away from any bright lights.” She wiggled her hips, jogging in place. “I really want to win that coffee. I forgot my wallet.”
“What’s your average-pace mile?”
“Seven thirty.” She didn’t even pause before answering.
Jesus. “That’s fast.”
She heaved her shoulders in a told-you-so shrug. “I tried warning you.”
“You run marathons?”
“Not yet but I’d like to start. You?”
“No.”
“Sorry, can you repeat that? It’s a little hard to hear you through the panting.”
He tried to snort but it came out a wet gasp. “Pace yourself. We’re almost at the end. That was a three-quarter-mile mark.”
“You’re slowing.”
He was. By a lot. “Just saving something for the finish.”
“Admit defeat. You can’t catch me.” Her legs pumped faster. “TTFN! See you on the flip side.”
He pushed hard, but he couldn’t catch her. Once the realization sank in, his frustration was replaced by admiration, and a little ogling of her Lycra-clad ass. He slowed, sucking in greedy gulps of air.
Here was a woman who could kick his ass into next week, and he’d keep coming back for more.
She blew past the mile marker and turned, throwing her arms up like Rocky on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Her victory whoop rose into the crisp air, cut off by a thrashing from the undergrowth lining the river.
“Neve!” Tor shouted, lunging forward as a male moose emerged. “Don’t move.”
A few weeks ago, while lifting at the gym, one of the televisions had showed a feature on dangerous animals. Near the top of the list was the moose, right after the grizzly bear.
Neve’s muffled swearing was audible, but the animal blocked any view of her face. The moose stood in the middle of the trail, head raised, ears alert. It was still technically autumn. Had mating season ended? The animal could be merely on the lookout for breakfast or succumbing to raging hormones.
One second went by. Two. Three.
No movement. They were having a moose-off.
“Um . . . Tor?”
The bull grunted at Neve’s hesitant call. Its powerful hooves churned gravel on the trail. Deep nostrils flared.
Big Boy didn’t look happy. Tor cracked his neck and went into game mode. Shut out panic. Shut out the snow beginning to fall in thicker, heavier flakes. Ignored the physiological sensations currently amping his body, the shortness of breath, tingling limbs, racing heart. He’d coach Neve out of this situation.
“Tor, I’m freaking out. Nature is great and all, but this is too much.”
“Listen, Babe. I want you to take a breath. Don’t move.” He surveyed the surrounding area. “Do everything I say and you’ll be okay.”
The moose stamped again. More huffing. Big Boy clocked in at almost seven feet. If he trampled Neve, she’d be in serious trouble—life-threatening trouble.
She whimpered. The moose tossed his shaggy head.
A plan took shape. “Behind you, on the left, is a wooden fence. It’s not tall. From there is a forested slope down to the river. On my command, you’re going to run as fast as you can, get over that fence and behind a tree.”
That way if the moose charged, there would be not one but two barriers to keep her safe while he figured out a distraction.
“You can do this.”
“Thanks for the confidence vote, but I don’t think I can. My legs are jelly. I might pass out.”
“You can and you are. Remember how you whipped my ass in that race?”
No response.
“Neve.” That was an order. “Stay with me.”
“I just nodded. You just couldn’t see it because there’s a giant moose blocking the view.”
She still had spunk. That counted for something.
He raked fingers through his hair, his hand not quite steady. “Do what I say. I’ll take care of the rest. Nothing bad will happen to you. Trust me.”
She sniffled. “I do.”
The moose kicked out a back leg again. Its long black tongue came out to lick its nose and mouth.
“These things are vegetarian, right?” she asked.
The two bristle-haired ears flattened, the thick hair along the back rising in hackles. Tor didn’t need Animal Planet to inform him that this was a clear sign of agitation being replaced by aggression. The moose had two choices, flight or fight. Big Guy appeared to be leaning toward the latter.
“Go,” Tor barked sharply. “Go now. Head down, ass in gear.”
Neve took off like a shot. He could hear her shoes crunching up the trail.
The moose whirled its big head and Tor picked up a rock, threw it away from the river, away from Neve.
“Hey, you. Pick on someone your own size.” Okay, not his finest line, but it didn’t matter. The moose didn’t speak English. But it did appear to understand a loud, deep voice.
He’d gotten its attention. Neve jumped the fence as the moose turned to face him. No huff this time. This sound was more of a . . . growl.
Shit. Moose growled? There was a fun fact he’d never needed to discover.
As for his lame “pick on someone your own size” comment, the moose rose a foot above him. Not only did the hairy bastard growl, it looked smug about the size difference.
The only choice was to channel the biggest badass he could think of. An image of Samuel L. Jackson from Snakes on a Plane came to mind. Good ’nuff.
The moose lunged, as if in a charge. Somewhere from behind the shrubby willows, Neve screamed.
The moose pulled up short. Lifted its great shaggy head and sniffed the air.
A fake out. Well played.
It cocked its head, turning its gaze to him. From
end to end, the spread of the animal’s antlers must be at least equal to his own height of six-two.
Christ, what did one do with a moose charge? Was it like a grizzly attack, where you were supposed to fall over and play dead? Or was it more of a black-bear situation, where you should fight back?
The moose stamped, the massive slabs of muscles in its chest flexing. Tor frowned. Fuck playing dead. If he fell to the ground and got run over, he’d look like roadkill. Nothing for it but to override his urge for flight and flip the switch to fight mode. Throwing his arms up over his head, Tor faked his own lunge. Arms extended above his head to give the impression that he was larger than he was, he bared his teeth and gave his best snarl.
No reaction.
Shit.
If the moose did charge, those powerful legs were going to hurt. But he had no intention of letting that happen. Tor had a rep for making big gambles that played out. Maneuvers where his players would achieve the impossible, leave fans delighted and opposing teams scratching their heads.
But he’d never physically put himself on the line.
This moose wasn’t going to back down without a good reason. He knew a fake out when he saw one.
Time to mean business.
Tor ripped off his running top, grabbed both sleeves and raised it above his head, whipping it wildly. He ran forward screaming. This time he wasn’t going to stop. It would be him or the moose. There could only be one. And he knew who would win.
Fifty feet. Forty feet. Thirty feet. The moose held its ground, eyes growing wide.
Tor yelled again. Fifteen feet. Ten feet.
At five feet, the moose veered and ran for the hills. Literally.
Tor bent over, bracing his hands on his knees.
“What the heck were you thinking?” Neve emerged from the woods. “Are you insane? No, don’t bother answering. I already know. Yes. Yes, you are. Crazy as they come. You just chased down a frigging moose!”
“I didn’t want it to hurt you.”
“I’ve never been so scared, and also turned on.” She reached out and touched his abs. “Why did you take your shirt off?”
