Easy and Porter hang back in the weight room to talk while I go to the locker room and take a shower. Once I’m clean and dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, I walk up to the Blaze’s front office, where the secretary, Claudia, gives me a once over as I approach her desk.
“Kit, it’s so nice to see you,” she says while fluttering her eyelashes at me. “You’re looking very dapper today.”
I glance down at my black Nike T-shirt and then back at her. “Hey, thanks. I’m here to see Mira.”
“Yes, I saw your name on her schedule. Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?”
“I’m good, thanks,” I say as I take a seat in one of the plush chairs in the waiting area.
“Did you hear about my divorce?”
Every time I come in here, Claudia shamelessly hits on me. She’s been asking me if I heard about her divorce for almost a year now. She’s a nice woman, but I’m just not interested. I get how women feel when men only want them for their looks, because I go through that, too. So many women want to be seen with me or want to get their hands on me, but it seems damn near impossible to find a woman who just wants…me.
“I did, yeah,” I tell Claudia. “I’m sorry to hear about that.”
“Oh, no.” She waves a hand and then puts her elbows on her desk, setting her chin in her hands and staring at me. “It wasn’t a bad thing at all. He just wasn’t the right man for me. I need someone…taller.”
Shit. Things are about to get cringeworthy. I hate brushing off women, but Claudia refuses to acknowledge every hint I’ve ever given her that I’m not interested.
“Hi Kit,” Mira says as she walks into the main office. “Sorry, I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
“Nope, I just got here.”
“Are you sure I can’t get you something?” Claudia asks as I stand up. “Coffee? Water?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Come on into my office,” Mira says, leading the way down a hallway and past several doors until we get to hers.
Once we’re both inside, she closes the door behind her and softly says, “Sorry.”
“It’s no big deal; I didn’t wait long.” I sit down across from her desk as she walks around to sit behind it.
“I know, but Claudia is…enthusiastic when you come in.”
“Yeah, it’s okay.”
“She wants to have your babies, I’m just saying.”
I laugh and say, “I don’t think that’s happening.”
“Anyway.” Mira clears her throat and smiles at me. “My husband wanted me to tell you that you had an amazing game against St. Louis the other night. He said you’re one of the best clutch players he’s ever seen play the game.”
“Tell him thanks for that. I really appreciate it.”
“I will. And also, I happen to know we sold out of the sweater with your name on it in the gift shop right after that game.”
“Hey, tell Durand to consider that when we negotiate my next contract,” I say, grinning.
“I’ll do that.” She picks up a single paper from her desk. “So about this interview. The Gazette wants to interview one of our players for a feature section, and when they called me about it, I immediately thought of you. You’re not usually front and center when it comes to press.”
That’s an understatement. I avoid interviews as much as possible, which is easy when there are star players like Anton, Luca and Jonah on our team.
“I’m not sure I’ll have much to contribute,” I admit to Mira. “I’m pretty boring. I’m single. Luca’s got Abby and the kids, and Anton’s got Mia and the girls. Jonah’s dating an FBI agent and the press can’t get enough of them.”
“Fans want to know more about everyone on the team, though. You’re kind of a mystery to them. This is a profile story, so it’ll be all softball questions. An interview or two, a photo shoot, and that’s it.”
I shrug. “If you’re sure you want me to do it, I’ll do whatever you need.”
“Great, I appreciate it.” She hesitates before asking, “Is there anything I need to know about? Something that could come up in an interview like this and surprise me?”
I consider her question, and then shake my head. “I can’t think of anything.”
“Okay, good. Because there are things, things that sometimes aren’t even bad, that come out during feature stories that I’m just not expecting, and then I’m scrambling to get more information when other reporters call me to follow up. Does that make sense?”
I nod. “I get it. But honestly, I’m an open book.”
“You haven’t had a serious relationship in…?” Mira looks at me inquisitively.
“In a while,” I confirm.
“But you have had them, at some point?”
“I don’t know, define serious.”
She folds her hands on her desk. “Just level with me, okay? Are you secretly in love with a married woman or anything? A man, maybe? I just need to know.”
“Hell no. And no, I’m not in love with a man now, nor will I ever be,” I answer, laughing.
Her face relaxes as she says, “That’s good…”
“Is it the hair? You’re not the first to ask if I’m gay.” I quip.
Mira smiles. “No, it’s the complete lack of serious relationships with women. I did a standard background check on you when I started here, and there was one relationship in college with a woman for a couple months, and that’s it. You kind of have a reputation for…”
“What? Manwhoring?” I scrunch my brow in frustration. “I don’t use women, so that’s not really fair if people say that about me.”
“No, it’s…the opposite, actually. You’re known as a huge flirt with women who never…closes the deal.”
“Jesus.” I shake my head and look away. “So that automatically means I’m gay?”
“I don’t know, Kit. You’re leaving me to guess. I figured you were either gay—which would be great, by the way—or you secretly wanted a woman you can’t have.”
“Like Mia with Anton.”
“Right. And if that’s the case, it would really help me out to know, and it would stay confidential between us.”
“If there was anything like that, I’d have no problem telling you. But there’s not. I like women a lot. I’m just not the kind of guy who uses them for one night, that’s all. I’m so busy with hockey that I don’t get a chance to meet many women that I want to pursue more with.”
Mira smiles. “Well, I think if you just go into this interview and be yourself, you’re going to have lots of women beating down your door.”
“Only because I’m one of the only single guys left on the team,” I crack.
“When the Gazette contacts me about the interview and photos, do you want me to coordinate a time and place or do you want me to give them your cell number so you can do it?”
“Give them my cell.”
“Okay. Thanks for doing this, Kit. I think my husband and Claudia may have some competition for president of your fan club soon.”
A wave of unease passes over me, but I hide it with a grin. “Bring it on.”
Chapter Three
Molly
* * *
A week after my meeting with Lou, a mix of sleet and snow falls during the half-mile walk from my El Train stop to home. January in Chicago is no joke—it’s freezing and windy, car tires sending gray slush piles up onto the sidewalk. I burrow my chin down into the collar of my coat, trying to shield my face as much as possible.
My umbrella broke from a big gust of wind as soon as I opened it, so by the time I finish climbing the stairs to my gram’s second-floor apartment, I’m shivering. Not to mention exhausted from my thirteen-hour workday.
Those of us left in the newsroom after six at night are only there to write. It’s quiet then, and I like looking through the windows at the bright city lights as I file my stories. I got all my pending stories finished tonight, which was worth skipping dinner and staying until 8:30.
Once inside Gram’s apartment, I drop my wet coat, hat and gloves on the mat, then slide off my boots. An episode of Law and Order is playing on TV, and Gram is asleep in her recliner, her fake fireplace casting a warm glow over the darkened room.
Mr. Darcy is thrilled to see me, as usual. My English bulldog approaches, his whole back end wagging with excitement. I sit down on the floor and he climbs into my lap.
“I missed you, my love,” I tell him, snuggling my face against the fur of his neck. “How was your day, sweet boy?”
He nuzzles my face, making his happy snorting sound, and I warm my hands up while giving him a full body rub.
“Molly?” Gram squints at me from beneath her afghan.
“Hi, Gram. Sorry I woke you.”
“That’s okay. How was your day?”
She uncovers herself and folds down the bottom of her recliner as I say, “It was productive. It’s nasty outside, though.”
“Oh, honey, your hair is soaked. Go get a hot shower and I’ll make you some decaf tea. Have you had dinner?”
“No, but I’ll find something.”
“Mr. Darcy and I had pot roast. Why don’t I heat some up for you?”
I don’t like pot roast, but Gram’s voice is so hopeful that I can’t refuse her.
“That sounds great, thank you. I’m going to put on some dry clothes.”
I hear pans clanking in the kitchen as I search through a pile of clean laundry in my tiny bedroom. It has a twin bed, a small chair and a closet. There are two prints of paintings by one of my favorite artists on the wall—one of a bear riding a bicycle and the other of a fox walking a tightrope. A wooden bookcase is situated in the corner of the room, the shelves brimming with paperbacks, and Mr. Darcy’s cushy dog bed with his favorite blanket sits at the end of my bed.
It’s not much, but at least everything in this room is mine. When I got divorced a year and a half ago, I sold my half of the furnishings I got. I couldn’t keep a single thing—it was just too painful. Every piece of furniture had memories I wanted to forget. Some of those memories are good, others are bad, but I despise every single one. Once someone who’s supposed to love you tells you they can’t stand the sight of you anymore, it’s hard to believe the good was ever real, anyway.
The only thing I kept was Mr. Darcy. My ex-husband Zach told me I could either have our $14,236 savings account or our dog. He knew that for me, it wasn’t even a choice. Mr. Darcy and I moved in with my gram because I was flat broke. I’ve managed to rebuild some savings since then, but since Gram likes having us here and I like being here, I’m staying in the cozy little apartment that smells like lemons and gets drafty in the winter.
“How was work?” Gram asks as I walk back into the kitchen, dressed in flannel pants, a sweatshirt and thick, fuzzy socks.
“The city’s financial state is downright depressing. I wrote a story about the effects of revenue shortages and another about the increasing costs of worker’s comp insurance. Went to a press conference about a new property tax program. Had all my pens stolen. Walked home in an icy monsoon. That’s about it.”
Gram sets one of her old, flower-covered bowls down in front of me, steam rising from the pot roast and potatoes inside.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the mug of tea she passes me.
“Mr. Darcy and I did our usual. We took a couple slow walks, did some housework and watched our shows. Wheel of Fortune was quite exciting tonight.”
Gram says that often, because she thinks Pat Sajak is sexy. My grandpa’s been gone for twelve years now, and Gram says she never plans to remarry as long as she can see keep seeing Pat Sajak five nights a week.
“I hired that dog walker for you, Gram. You just call him in the morning and tell him you want him to come and he’ll let Mr. Darcy out. I don’t think you should be walking up and down the outside stairs in this weather.”
“Molly, I’m seventy-four, not ninety-four,” Gram says in a crisp tone.
“It’s not about your age. Those stairs get icy and slick. Anyone could fall.”
Gram gives me a pointed look. “Mr. Darcy and I do just fine. We’re both a little slower than we used to be, but we like to get out all the same.”
I smile into my cup of tea. “Did you take him to that doggie bakery?”
“I did. He looks forward to that peanut butter treat on our morning walk.”
“Thank you for spoiling him. I know I’ve been working a lot lately and you’re the one taking care of him most of the time.”
Gram pats my hand. “That’s what you have to do to work your way up, Moll. I’m proud of you. That city hall beat will be yours for sure.”
I set my mug down and say, “I hope so. I’ve been going the extra mile on every story, trying to show my boss I can handle city hall.”
“Wasn’t your interview with that hockey player today?”
“Tomorrow.”
“And did you get the research done you were working on?”
I nod as Gram gets up to heat up more water in the teakettle.
“I did. He sounds like a choirboy. Raised in a small town in Iowa, kind of a quiet kid but diligent with hockey. The coaches I interviewed from his youth teams raved about him.”
“That’s nice, dear.”
I take a sip of my tea, letting the mug warm my hands.
“I’m waiting to interview his family members until after I interview him a couple times, so I can form strong questions.”
“A couple times?” Gram arches her brows. “It’s not just one interview?”
“No. This is a soft news assignment, but that doesn’t mean I’m turning in a puff piece. I want that city hall beat, so I have to prove myself with every article I turn in.”
“Oh.” Gram nods, but looks confused.
“Maybe there won’t be much there, but I’m going to dig all the same. I’ve read everything we have on file for him at the Gazette, and I talked to our sports reporter who covers the Blaze. He said Kit flies under the radar. Nice guy, volunteers with the Blaze Foundation, doesn’t use women like a lot of pro athletes do.”
“You know, Moll, there are men out there who are actually nice, good men. Just because Zach was a disgusting pig, you shouldn’t be cynical about all men now.”
I smile at the way her sweet, grandmotherly voice sounds saying disgusting pig.
“I know that, Gram. But it’s two completely different situations. I’m looking at Kit Carter as a reporter interviewing him for a story, not as a woman looking to date him. And I’m not saying I think he’s a bad guy. I’m saying that usually, when a reporter really takes the time to listen and get to know a subject, there’s something more there than what you see on the surface.”
“Like what, dear?” Gram sits down next to me at the table, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea now, too.
I think about how to explain this to her. “Like…maybe he had his heart broken. His great love left him to play her own professional sport across the country. Or maybe he’s supporting someone in his family with a chronic illness. Or…he could be contemplating early retirement to go play another major league sport.”
“I suppose.”
I take a couple bites of my dinner as I think about Kit Carter and what direction I want the interview to take tomorrow. “I’m not saying any of those things are true. Just that I want to take the time to figure out if there’s something more to this guy. One of my college professors teaches that there’s no such thing as a puff piece, only lazy reporters who don’t want to put in the work to make a story something more.”
“I know you’ll make it the best story it can be,” Gram says, patting my hand and yawning.
“You should go to bed. I’m just going to finish eating, wash these dishes and then I’ll be heading to bed myself.”
“I think I’ll do that.” Gram stands up and kisses the top of my head. “Goodnight, Moll.”
“Night, Gram.”
Mr. Darcy isn’t ever more than a foot away from me
as I finish my food, wash the dishes and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. And when it’s time for bed, he walks right past his doggie bed and stands beside my bed instead, looking up at me with his big brown eyes.
“Okay,” I sigh, lifting him into my bed.
He makes a circle and then lays down right in the middle of the twin bed.
“Hey, can you leave a little room for me?” I ask, shaking my head. “Or did you expect us to switch beds for tonight?”
He just looks at me and sighs heavily.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” I say, climbing under the covers and curling around him. “But at least you’re warm.”
The icy wind whips against my bedroom window as I pull three quilts over me and Mr. Darcy. As I try to relax and fall asleep, thoughts of my interview with Kit Carter tomorrow race through my mind.
If I can nail this story, and turn it into something unexpected, I’ll be one step closer to the city hall beat. And while I want it because it would advance my career, it means a lot more than that to me.
Zach took nearly everything from me when he divorced me. The life I thought I had was ripped out from beneath me in that moment. He walked away with my pride as surely as if he’d packed it into a box and carried it from our apartment. My hopes, my plans, my confidence—all gone.
Now I have my gram, Mr. Darcy, and my work. The validation I’d get from landing this promotion is personal for me. Moving up, for me, will also mean moving on.
I thought this assignment writing about a hockey player was going to be a drag, but if I work hard enough, I can create an opportunity instead. This could very well be my golden ticket to becoming the Gazette’s permanent city hall reporter.
Chapter Four
Kit
* * *
“Mr. Carter, I’m Molly Lynch. Thanks for agreeing to be interviewed.”
I shake her hand, the serious expression on the reporter’s face making it impossible for me to keep the corners of my lips from quirking up in a smile.
Are we negotiating a peace treaty here, or talking about hockey? If I knew her better, I’d make a joke about her pursed lips and the little worry wrinkle between her eyes.
Kit: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance Page 2
