Power Play (Blades Hockey Book 1)
Power Play: Chapter 6

“This is where we’re discussing terms?”

I hiss the words at Duke’s broad back as I follow him down a dark, dank hallway. I’ve lived in Cambridge for my entire life, and yet have never known this place even existed.

“Dive bar” doesn’t even begin to adequately describe the state of The Box, a name I’m presuming derives from the “penalty box” in hockey. I could easily be wrong; perhaps it’s referring to the almost cage-like, prison-y vibe this hallway is giving off. I’d say that it’s a cross between traditional English pub and local neighborhood bar, but honestly? That would be giving this place way too much credit.

Then my mouth nearly drops open when we pass a life-size wax figure of Bobby Orr, the best hockey player to ever exist, as well as a hometown hero here in Boston. Naturally, I have to touch it.

“Charlie, hands to yourself,” Duke grumbles ahead of me. He must have eyes in the back of his sexy head. How else would he know that my fingers are mere inches away from landing on Bobby Orr’s wax nose?

I skip ahead a step to catch up. “Seriously,” I say, infusing as much authority as I can into my voice, “We could have discussed everything over the phone. When I said ‘name your price,’ I didn’t mean that you had the right to kill me. This place looks like something straight out of the Investigation Discovery Channel.”

“I’m not going to kill you.” He says this with a shake of his golden head, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

“Obviously not. If you did, your career would be over. Not even The Mountain can escape—”

My voice cuts off as my gaze lands on another figure, and this one looks incredibly familiar. Golden hair. Robin’s egg blue eyes. Thin scar. Sharp jawline.

My eyes widen when realization strikes.

Holy. Cow.

“Duke,” I say, “Do you seriously have your own wax figure?”

This time when I reach out, my fingers hit cold hardness. As expected of a wax figure, not real flesh.

What’s not expected is the way Duke’s fingers snag my wrist and pull my hand away from his likeness. “I said, don’t touch.”

His mouth is frowning, handsomely sullen. I’m struck with the sudden urge to run my fingers across his face, just to see if he is as warm as the wax figure’s face is cold. But there’s something more to it, too; I’m practically itching to discover more about this elusive man, a man who lives in the spotlight but who, aside from his rarely touched Twitter page, hasn’t left much of a personal imprint on the Internet. In today’s day and age, such a feat is so incredibly rare it might as well be extinct.

Slowly, I become aware of our closeness in the dimly lit hallway, and my breath catches. Shadows dance across the masculine planes of his face, hollowing out his cheeks and slashing across his full, unsmiling mouth. He doesn’t release my hand, at least not right away. Instead, his thumb swipes down, over the heart of my pulse. It’s barely a caress, but it feels . . . telling.

Of what’s to come.

Don’t be an idiot, Charlie.

Right. Nothing is happening between Duke and I, even if his blue eyes do appear warmer in the dark. And even if his thumb has now started a soft back-and-forth motion across the width of my wrist that has my knees wobbling with desire.

I mentally pull myself together with the reminder that if I do not make this interview, my butt is toast. Giving a little tug of my hand, his fingers fall away as though they were never there in the first place.

Cradling my hand to my chest, as though he’s done irreparable damage to it, I murmur, “You didn’t answer my question.”

The groan he gives me is low and sexy. “You ask too many questions.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault. We’re standing next to your own wax figure and you don’t think that’s weird.”

“I’ve walked past it hundreds of times.”

“Okay, well, why is it here?”

“The owner is a hockey fan. You’ll see.”

Turning on his heel, he continues down the same dark path that seems to stretch on for forever. In reality, we walk for perhaps another ten seconds before he raps his knuckles on a wooden door and swings it open.

I blink.

Then, I physically ball my hands into fists and rub my eyes because surely I’m not staring at the Blades hockey team shooting the shit over pool tables, and lounging out on the couches.

“What is this place?” I whisper in awe.

“The Box.”

“Yes, I read the sign at the front of the building.” I wave my arm at the sight before me. “But why am I staring at your entire team?”

With a hand to my lower back, Duke moves me to the side so he can shut the door behind me. I can feel that large hand of his like a permanent imprint to my skin, even after he’s stepped away and opened the distance between us.

“The Box is split up into two separate bars,” he tells me. “Front of the house”—he jerks his thumb toward the door we just came through—“and back of the house for us. The owners are huge hockey fans, and they’ve been operating this place since the 80’s, at least.” He offers a roll of his shoulders. “Sometimes it’s nice to just relax and not have to worry about the media hounding us.”

The look he gives me indicates that he’s talking about me and me alone. I flash him my toothiest smile and he glances up to the ceiling. Probably begging the Heavens to take me off his hands.

Eight days, I want to tell him, you have me for eight days.

“So, what, you guys just camp out back here, hiding from us plebeians?”

“Something like that.” The corners of his mouth lift, and damn, but his smile is sinful. Fake tooth and all, this man is a walking billboard for sex. Then, he breaks the spell, gesturing for me to follow him to the bar.

We catch a few side-eye glances and I return them fully. I can’t help it. I’m a hockey junkie and I’m in a room with some of the best players in the NHL.

Baylor “Zombini” Jeffs.

Ryan “The Hitter” Markssen.

Andre Beaumont.

This is nuts, totally mind-boggling.

Duke doesn’t take the free barstool. He invites me to it with a dip of his chin, and I casually take the offering, as though a professional hockey player giving me his seat is regular scheduled programming in the life of Charlie Denton.

It’s not, and I thrust away the unbidden thought that this feels a lot like a date.

As he waits for the bartender to come our way, he removes his leather wallet from his back pocket and idly taps the worn corner against his palm. “You look awestruck.”

There’s no point in lying. “A little bit, yeah.”

His gaze cuts to mine, seeing through the layer of bullshit I’m offering up on a silver platter. “Just a little?”

“Okay, so I might be on the verge of a minor anxiety attack right now.”

The air vacates the room when his blue eyes dip to my mouth and linger. “You gonna need mouth-to-mouth, Charlie?”

My breathing hitches. “You offering, Mr. Harrison?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he turns away as the bartender finally approaches us. I fend off disappointment that he didn’t respond to my attempt at flirtation. Not that I’m surprised, though. Flirtation and Charlie Denton aren’t exactly synonyms.

“What are you two having?” the bartender asks, snagging two napkins from a black dispenser and popping them on the bar top.

“My usual,” Duke says, then glances over at me. “What are you in the mood for?”

You.

Thankfully, for once, I don’t voice my thoughts out loud. Quickly I scan the rows of glass bottles beneath the backlit wall. “Gin and tonic?”

The bartender doesn’t even blink. “Lime or lemon?”

“Lime, please.”

As he heads off, Duke returns his focus back to me. Seated as I am, I can’t help but notice his massive size. I wasn’t kidding when I said he was monstrous. For a goalie, he’s got the right frame: tall and broad, lean. Today he’s wearing dark-washed jeans and a soft-looking sweater, no hint of his tattoo in sight.

Disappointing, to say the least. I was hoping for another peek, shameless hussy that I am.

“What made you say yes?” I finally ask.

“To meeting here and discussing your interview?”

“Yeah.” I thank the bartender when he delivers our drinks, and then stifle a pleased smile when I reach for my wallet and Duke makes a point of handing his credit card over. “I’m not complaining, but somehow I don’t think that this”—I motion to the secret bar he’s brought me to—“is what your ‘price’ is for helping me out.”

He brings his beer bottle up to his mouth. “You’re right,” he murmurs in a gravel-pitched voice, “it’s not.”

“All right.” I wrap my hand around my cocktail and take a sip through the short, tiny straw. “Then let me have it.”