His Eternal Flame

by Layla Valentine

  He turned, and from his profile I identified him as Joel Palmer. He held his uniform in his hands, and was staring at it in disgust. The person behind the camera furtively moved around the group to show the problem: Palmer’s uniform was covered in smears of something that could have been barbecue sauce…or something much worse.

  “Which one of you assholes did this?” he demanded.

  Loud guffaws answered him, echoing mockingly in the locker room.

  “Hey, don’t get mad at us, kid. If you’d showed up for practice, you would have had time to wash it.”

  The voice was low and smooth as silk, even over the crappy audio. It sent a warm shiver through my core, activating my inner huntress. I scanned the faces, looking for the owner of the voice. The camera flicked up briefly, just long enough to show a glimpse of bare, caramel-colored chest.

  I swallowed hard as my belly turned over in a delicious twinge of desire. Oh, yes, I was going to enjoy interviewing Mr. Drake.

  “That’s bullshit!” Joel shouted, throwing his uniform to the floor. “You did this!”

  He pointed an accusatory finger at Drake, who slapped his hand away with a bored expression. Joel pulled back to throw a punch, but was blocked by his teammates. Someone came in the door, then, yelling at the team to get their act together, and the camera shut off.

  Pensively, I leaned back in my chair and tapped my chin with a finger.

  “Oh yes, there’s definitely drama here,” I murmured. “Man, I wish I could be a fly on the wall in that locker room.” For a multitude of reasons, I had to admit.

  My body was telling me that I had been single far too long. My mind, its partner in crime, whispered that I was more likely to get the truth if I had Dante Drake addled and naked in my bed. Like a sultry spy out of a movie, a master seductress. I laughed at myself and checked the time. I had three hours to figure out my angle and choose an outfit.

  “The rink will be cold,” I told my closet. “But the interview room should be warmer…”

  With that thought, I chose a bright, fiery red shirt with a significant cleavage advantage and a pair of black fur-lined leggings. Knee-high boots would balance the outfit nicely, as the top flared over my hips.

  Satisfied, I moved on to my face and hair. My look would neatly serve dual purposes today, I hoped. Distract them enough to slip up and give me something I could use, and maybe snag me a date with Dante Drake. Or Joel Palmer, I conceded. He might be young, but he sure was easy to look at.

  Chapter 3

  I shivered in spite of my thick leggings and fluffy white parka. Cold seeped up from the concrete floor, biting at my thighs, courtesy of the blue plastic chair I was uncomfortably perched on. The thick glass in front of me was scarred, flecks of reddish-brown embedded in the deepest scratches.

  Some of the ice fights I had come across during my research surfaced in my mind’s eye and I shuddered. For as much as I wanted excitement today, I was avidly hoping that I wouldn’t have the misfortune of watching someone’s teeth fly out of their head. For the first time in my career, I wished the press box was a little farther from the action.

  The crowd behind and across from me seemed to disagree. A roaring surge burst forth as the players skated out onto the ice, some with their heads down focusing on the game ahead, others playing up the crowd with sweeping arm raises and cocky grins.

  My two interests appeared to be the latter sort. Drake skated a perfect oval around the rink, raising his fists in solidarity with his fans, and in mock-aggression at the fans of the opposing team. The Toronto Tanks, I reminded myself. An interesting juxtaposition to my ideas; Toronto always made me think of peaceful autumn colors, friendly faces, and a wide azure sky. A tank, it seemed to me, would find no comfort there.

  “Whoa…never mind that,” I muttered to myself as the Tanks took the ice.

  They were every bit as large and imposing as their name suggested, almost dwarfing the Harriers. A trick of the light, I decided, as the Harriers’ uniforms were white and blue, fading into the ice, while the Tanks’ were brown and forest green, making them look like mobile evergreens.

  I could almost smell the testosterone in the air as the two teams faced each other. Like dogs, I thought, growling warnings over their territory. I didn’t even see the puck drop, but all of a sudden, the posturing beasts collided—sticks swinging, skates slashing. A tussle, a roaring crowd, and then the Harriers broke free with the puck firmly in their grasp.

  In spite of my misgivings, I found myself swept up in the excitement of it all. To my relief, there were no fights, merely a few scuffles which the referee prudently ignored. Drake and Palmer weaved in and out of my line of sight, each playing magnificently as far as my untrained eyes could tell. They passed when needed without ego, and their team scored again and again.

  I noticed an interesting dynamic, however, and scribbled a note with shivering fingers. The Harriers were well-trained and worked as a unit, for the most part. Palmer seemed to go off on his own more often than the rest, not quite in sync with his teammates, but his brilliant plays seemed to almost make up for it. I scribbled another note.

  By the end of it, in spite of my numb fingers and chilly toes, I was glad that I had come. Watching them play in person gave me insights that I couldn’t have gleaned from mere video—the tension in Palmer’s body when Drake took the lead, or the carefully blank expression on Drake’s face when Palmer scored. There was definitely something lingering under the surface, and I couldn’t wait to find out just what it was.

  After the winning shot by the Harriers, I made my way down into the tunnel which lead to the official rooms surrounding the rink. Thousands of footsteps thundered above me as I moved through the hall, and I was soon stopped by a guard at a door.

  “Press,” I said with as much authority as I could muster.

  He glanced suspiciously at my press pass, then stepped aside. I couldn’t tell you why that still made me nervous. After five years of being official press, getting backstage to anything still felt like a scam.

  “That’s what you get for being such a delinquent in high school,” I scolded myself.

  The walls weren’t marked very clearly, but I’d been sent directions to the press room. After what felt like a mile of aimless wandering, I decided that I had gotten turned around. With a heavy sigh of frustration, I pulled my phone out again.

  “So I came in here,” I murmured. “And turned…left. Walked all the way over here…oh, damn it. Second left, Livia, not first left.”

  I squinted at the map, searching for a shortcut back to the hallway I was supposed to be in, and thought I found one. About twenty feet farther, and there was a room which connected to both halls. I could just walk through there, and…oh.

  The first thing I saw when I pushed the door open was a firm, muscular, very naked ass attached to a firm, muscular, very naked hockey player. I froze in place as heat flowed through my body, stirring up a wicked need in between my thighs.

  The players took no notice of me huddled in the doorway as they paraded every rippling bit of their glistening bodies through my vision—thighs bulging, dicks swinging, all framed by their perfect athletic builds.

  Swallowing hard, I pulled myself away and flattened my back against the wall. Was it suddenly hot in here? I unbuttoned my parka, letting the steam off as I fanned myself.

  Good lord, Livia, you need to get laid, I thought.

  As much as I wanted to peek my head back in there, I was already cutting this interview too close. I found my way around at a brisk jog with my parka tossed over one arm and my press pass clutched in my hand so it would stop bouncing off of my unruly chest. I came around to the manager’s office and slowed to a walk, breathing deeply.

  The press room just beyond it was bustling with activity. My window of opportunity quickly closing, I checked my compact mirror and tossed my hair. Bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, and not a drop of sweat to be seen. Satisfied, I snapped the compact shut and marched in to corner my quarry
.

  The two stars sat at the end of the room, flanked on either side by the coach and a few other people who I assumed were managers and agents. Joel’s bright, wicked grin beamed naturally from his attractive—if immature—face; Dante’s was more subdued and knowing, making him look just the slightest bit mysterious.

  Being this close to him had heat coursing through my veins, a fact which I combatted with a cool expression and a switch of focus. Two other reporters were in the room already, firing technical questions at them. Joel replied in short to every question, bouncing from reporter to reporter until his responses might as well have been gibberish. Drake, on the other hand, kept his mouth shut until the reporters stopped for breath.

  “As you can see,” he said in his deep, smooth drawl. “We have spent a lot of time perfecting our defense, offense, and teamwork. Yeah, Billy, you’re right—the kid here has talent. That’s why we let him loose out there to do his thing.”

  “Well, whatever it is you’re doing, it seems to be working! Congratulations on kicking off the season with a win.”

  The sports writers packed up their things, shook hands, and walked away. As they turned their backs, I saw a flash of relief cross Drake’s face—relief which was quickly replaced by annoyance when he saw me.

  “Hi, Mr. Drake, Mr. Palmer. Livia Ramos of The Portland Crier. That was quite a game.”

  “It was decent,” Drake said, leaning back to relax into another interview. “You must be new to sports writing.”

  His eyes drifted over me in subtle appraisal. Joel’s merely groped.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m not a sports writer at all,” I confessed with a smile calculated to put him at ease. “I write human interest pieces, and you two happen to be some very interesting humans.”

  A wink and a grin put the proper tone to my confession, and earned me smiles from both stars.

  “If you’re looking for interesting, doll, look no further,” Joel said, standing up and flexing. “What do you want to know?”

  “You’re new to the league,” I said, zeroing in on Joel. “How are you acclimating to it so far?”

  “With enough layers, I can acclimate to anything,” Joel quipped, flashing his dimples as he grinned. “But seriously, it’s great.”

  “And how are you getting along with your teammates?” I asked it innocently, but I watched his face carefully.

  An angry shadow marred his features in a flash, only to melt away under that high-wattage smile. “They’re awesome,” he said. “Great guys. Great players.”

  “And you, Mr. Drake, how are you adjusting to having an up-and-coming star on your team?”

  “My team is filled with men who have star potential,” Drake said, turning a palm over. “Joel just happens to be the newest.”

  “So, there isn’t any animosity between the two of you? The rising star, the aging legend…classic setup for tension.” My most piercing gaze bore into Drake now, demanding the truth.

  A slow smile spread across his face as his eyelids half-closed, leaving his hooded eyes camouflaged from my analysis.

  “Darlin’, you get a bunch of men amped up for a competition, there’s going to be tension. It’s a fact of the game.”

  I noticed the manager and the coach exchange glances, so I decided to take a different approach.

  “As I said before, I’m no sports writer, Mr. Drake. Can you explain to me if there is a rule on the books stating that someone in your position can’t pass to someone in Mr. Palmer’s position, and vice versa?”

  Drake’s eyes widened in surprise, and Palmer’s grin turned to an ominous sneer. Drake recovered quickly, but seemed uncomfortable.

  “There’s no rule like that,” he told me. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well it seems to me—and excuse me for assuming; I really don’t know too much about it—but it seems to me that there were nearly a dozen moments out there today which would have allowed your team to score easily if one of you had passed to the other, but neither of you did. You’re both star athletes, and Drake, you’re famous for your split-second mapping of the rink. If I could see those opportunities, I’m sure you could. So I assumed that the only reason you wouldn’t be passing to one another was if there was a rule against it…or the rumors are true.”

  “What rumors?” Joel demanded, ignoring Dante’s warning look.

  I smiled at him indulgently. “Why, the rumors that you and Dante are fierce enemies in private, of course.”

  Dante was still trying to catch his eye, but Joel only glared at a spot behind my head.

  “Those rumors are baseless,” Dante drawled lazily. “We’re teammates. Anything we do, we do it for the team. There’s no behind-the-scenes drama, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh? And what of the jersey incident?” I asked.

  Joel’s face turned red and his eyes glittered dangerously. Dante cleared his throat.

  “Accidents happen,” he said vaguely. “And high-spirited men tend to give each other hell about it. It’s all standard male bonding, Ms. Ramos.”

  “I see,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “So, you expect me to believe that all of the rumors of a serious rivalry between the two of you are entirely fabricated?”

  “Yes,” Joel said staunchly.

  Dante cast a slow, lazy gaze in his direction, then turned back to me.

  “We do have a bet going, Ms. Ramos. All in good fun. Whoever finishes the season with more scores wins. And…” Dante’s easy smile twisted slightly, giving him a dangerous, wicked edge which made my belly stir in the most deliciously distracting way. “The loser will do a forfeit. The nature of which will be decided by the winner, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said, returning his smile with a toss of my hair. “And if you should win, what will you choose for Mr. Palmer?”

  Dante’s lips quirked in amusement, rattling my already fragile self-control.

  “I’d prefer to keep that to myself, Ms. Ramos. Wouldn’t want to give the kid any ideas.”

  “I’ve got more ideas than you’ve had in your whole life, old man,” Palmer said jokingly.

  I didn’t miss the threatening undertones. There was definitely more going on here than they were willing to tell me.

  “And you, Mr. Palmer? What would you have Mr. Drake do if you win?” I asked him, noticing the slight reddening of his skin.

  Anger, I decided. Not embarrassment. How interesting.

  “That’s for me to know,” Palmer said. He eyed me up and down and licked his lips. “And for you to find out.”

  There were endless layers of suggestion in his tone, and I rewarded him with my own sultry smile. Not bad for a second choice, after all.

  “How long do you plan to stay in the league?” I asked him, turning to give him a clear view of my cleavage.

  “I’m a lifer, baby!” Joel said with a smirk. “I’ll be on the ice till the day I die.”

  I suppressed a laugh, but allowed it to reach my eyes. The better to seduce you with, my dear.

  “And you, Mr. Drake? How long do you see yourself staying in the game?”

  “Trying to put me out to pasture already?” Drake asked with that same easy humor.

  “Not at all,” I said with a grin. “Statistically, however, you have already doubled the average hockey career.”

  “Nobody ever said I was average,” he replied, his eyes and smile suggesting that “nobody” included his various lady friends.

  “I see,” I said, rolling the vowels out to acknowledge his double meaning. “Tell me, is there any more to this bet of yours? Or is it a simple matter of scoring goals?”

  “It’s all about scoring,” Joel said with a smirk.

  I nearly rolled my eyes at his clumsy attempt at a double entendre, but managed to keep my composure. It seemed clear at this point that I wouldn’t be getting any more out of them, but my seeds had been planted and well-watered.

  “Thank you both,” I said warmly, pulling two business cards out of my purse.

&nb
sp; “Feel free to give me a call if you think of anything else. Or even if you don’t,” I finished with a wink.

  When Joel took my card, he surreptitiously slid his own into my hand with the same motion. I caught his eye and he winked, earning himself a sultry smile. As I walked out of the room, I put a little extra sway in my hips to give them a long, hard look at my assets as I left.

  The bait was set. Now, I all I had to do was wait.

  Chapter 4

  I spent the next morning looking over my notes, searching for any chink in their armor. If my feminine charms failed, could I find another pressure point to hit?

  “An entire notebook full of what-ifs,” I said in disgust, tossing it on the desk. “Nothing but a hunch and a rumor.”

  I curled my knees up under my chin and glared at the offending pages. I had written more dramatic articles with less information, but those had been for gossip sites. While The Portland Crier did occasionally indulge in a speculative story or two, it prided itself on journalistic integrity. Any hint of conclusion jumping would end my career in its tracks.

  “So will this empty story,” I grumbled, pushing a hand through my hair. “I need more. Come on guys, take the bait.”

  As if on cue, my phone rang. I snatched it up and looked at the number—local area code, no known name.

  My heart thundered. It had to be one of them; I was certain of it. I let it ring once more.

  “Livia Ramos,” I answered in my most professional tone.

  “Ms. Ramos, good morning.”

  I would recognize his smooth lazy drawl anywhere. My belly clenched with desire as a grin spread across my face.

  “Mr. Drake, so kind of you to call.”

  He chuckled softly, a sound which sent delicious chills over my arms.

  “Well, you seemed like you needed a real story. My coach would lose his shit if he knew I was talking to you again.”

  “Ah,” I said, my eyes gleaming as I caught sight of my prey. “So there is something to hide.”

  “You could put it that way,” he replied casually. “I don’t have time to tell you about it now. Let me take you to dinner tonight.”