Duke’s hands fly into his hair, raking through the dark blond strands.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, this time more forcefully. “What did Gwen say to you?”
It’s difficult to tell if Duke’s eyes are blue anymore. The pupils have enlarged and his irises appear almost completely black. “What did Gwen say to me?” he explodes. “How ‘bout I show you exactly what she told me to look up.”
I don’t think I’m going to like this very much. Still, I nod jerkily, realizing that his question is more rhetorical than anything else. “If you want.”
“If I want?” A burst of incredulous laughter leaves him. “This isn’t about what I want, Charlie. No, this is all—” He cuts off, a closed fist pressing against his mouth as he bites down on his knuckle. “You’ve been playing me from the very first second that you DM’ed me on Twitter. Fuck me for thinking otherwise—oh, right, you did that already too.”
Confusion laces with worry as I stare up at his handsome face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Duke. Could you give me a little more information?”
“I’ll give you all the information you need.” He whips out his phone, angrily swipes at the screen, and thrusts the device in my face. “But, wait, I’ve already done that, too.”
My eyes adjust to the screen’s brightness.
And then my stomach drops, this time straight to hell.
Oh, my God.
The headline, printed in bold red, typical of TMZ, reads: NHL’s Golden Boy might not have squeaky-clean image after all? Local Boston newspaper claims that Duke Harrison has hooked up with personal PR Agent, Gwen James.
My first thought at reading this goes something like: Fuck me.
The second, more rationale version, proceeds with: How in the world did anyone discover this when I . . .
Oh.
Oh, no.
Josh.
The discarded article that I quite literally dumped into the trashcan just this afternoon.
Which means that . . . My boss didn’t print the finalized version I sent him. No one has read the version which paints an accurate portrait of the Duke Harrison, Hockey Player Extraordinaire, while still lending both light and shadows to the man behind the pads and the caged mask.
The version that not only speaks to my skills as a top-notch journalist, but also doesn’t spread untruths about the guy in front of me.
I’m going to be sick.
I actually press my fist to my mouth to make sure bile doesn’t inch its way up my throat for an impromptu visit.
“Nothing to say?” Duke clips out, shoving the cell phone into his jeans pocket with a look of disgust. “Or did you get it all out in this article?”
Weakly, I whisper, “It’s not what it looks like.”
The oldest line in the book, and yet I can think of nothing else to say.
“No?” Duke shakes his head. “You know what’s the fucked up part about this, Charlie? It’s not the goddamned article and the fact that you’ve dragged two people down with you in your quest for fame. No, it’s the fact that even while I knew you only wanted me for information, I didn’t give a damn and still went after you anyway.”
My lips part on a shaky exhale. “I’m not sure that I understand.”
“Are you serious?” Another shake of his head, like he honestly can’t believe that I’m this naïve.
Newsflash: apparently I am because I have zero clue as to what he’s talking about.
“Contrary to popular belief,” he says in a low, frustrated tone, “I don’t sleep with every woman that comes my way. Maybe I did when I was eighteen and a rookie, but as you’ve pointed out frequently enough, I’m old.”
“You’re not old, Duke.”
“Don’t even play that game.” He waves away my protest with a slash of his hand. “You intrigued me. You still intrigue me, and I’m a fool for letting myself think that you weren’t after something more when you approached me.”
Up until this point, I’ve been a very quiet participant in this conversation. The initial shock threw me, and so did the realization that Josh had betrayed every sort of professional line that should never be crossed. But listening to Duke now . . . I jump into the confrontation, verbal fists up swinging.
I am, through a messed up twist of fate, at fault in this situation. Still doesn’t give him a reason to call me a gold-digger, though.
I fly toward him, my index finger at the ready to jab at his wide chest. “Don’t play that with me, Duke Harrison. Sure, I pursued you for the sake of an article. You knew that. But the article is not the reason that I agreed to get pizza with you, nor is it the reason why I let you make love to me on a hotel rooftop. Or—”
Duke’s eyes narrow and I physically take a step back. I actually fear the fury heating their blue depths. When he speaks, his voice seethes. “We didn’t ‘make love,’ Charlie. We fucked. It was gritty and hot, but make no mistake . . . I don’t love you.”
The words hurt more than they should, forming like little shards of ice to puncture my heart. I shouldn’t have . . . My eyes slam shut. I know that it’s too soon for love. I get all of that. But hearing the nature of our relationship translated into nothing but base crudity is a ragged burn I did not expect.
So, I lie and I lie thoroughly, desperate to protect my bleeding heart. “I don’t love you either,” I tell him, irrationally wanting to hurt him as much as he’s carelessly hurt me. “I couldn’t love a man who hates what he does, and yet pretends to the world that that’s not the case.”
Pure silence.
For a moment, Duke does nothing but stare at me. “Excuse me?” he finally bites out, sounding angrier than even seconds earlier.
I promptly stick my foot in my mouth by saying the utterly wrong thing at the utterly wrong time. “You want to get on my case about this article?” I demand, pointing at his jeans pocket where he’s stashed his phone. “Fine, do that. But don’t pretend for one second that you don’t understand what I’m talking about. You hate hockey . . . don’t you.”
A tick pulses to life in his square jaw. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I saunter toward him, warming up to the idea of having the tables turned away from me. “That’s the real reason you’ve been slacking on the ice, and it has nothing to do with skill. You’ve been purposely doing poorly, in the hope that the Blades won’t re-sign you at the end of this season.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so.”
He scoffs harshly. “I wouldn’t be a fuck-up like that on the ice, Charlie. Nice try at averting the original topic—namely, you betraying my trust by spilling out this secret to all of America.”
As much as I want to beg his forgiveness, I can see it in his gaze that he has no plans of accepting an apology from me anytime soon. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you the truth, which is that I didn’t submit that article to TMZ. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“But you’d do it to Gwen?” he prods. “For what? Jealousy’s sake?”
“I’m not jealous. I have no interest in emulating Gwen.”
“Really.” He says it like he doesn’t believe me one bit.
“Really,” I tell him smoothly, thrusting away the insecurities that perhaps he wishes I was a little more like his ex-girlfriend. Straightening my shoulders, I add, “I was in it from the beginning for the story. But if you can’t find it in yourself to believe me when I tell you that the article you’re reading on TMZ was not meant to go live, then I don’t think there’s anything I can say to make this right.”
“Just answer me this.”
I incline my head, a subtle sign for him to continue. “Go right ahead.”
“Say I believe you when you tell me that my relationship with Gwen wasn’t supposed to hit mainstream media . . . Did you still write it, thinking at any point that it might be published by The Tribune?”
The lie catches in my throat. However much I want to pretend that I never second-guessed my morals in the last few days, that wouldn’t be accurate. And so, sealing my coffin with the largest iron nail that there ever was, I whisper only one word.
“Yes.”
His expression shutters, as quickly as a candle being doused by wet fingers. “That’s all I need to know.”
“Duke, listen to me. I promise that I never intended for it to go anywhere.” I reach out a hand, then let it fall back to my side when he sidesteps me. “The TMZ piece was never meant to see the light of day, never mind be published.”
His pulls out his Aviator sunglasses and slips them on to his face, effectively shutting me out. “Have a nice life, Charlie.”
I take one step toward him. “Duke—”
“No, Charlie. Find someone else to play your head games. I’m no longer interested.”
And with that, he stalks off toward his truck.
Leaving me to wonder at the pain throbbing in my chest, and the worry that I may have done the unthinkable—I may have let myself get in too deeply with Duke Harrison.
