He's the NHL’s hottest goalie.
I'm a struggling sports journalist on the verge of losing it all.

My stick-in-the-mud boss is determined to make my life hell. He sits in my office and lays down an ultimatum: get an exclusive interview with the NHL's golden boy, Duke Harrison, or I’ll be out on my butt.

No way am I letting my future rest on the broad shoulders of a goalie who’s three seasons past his prime.

I’ve got eight days to convince Duke that the loyal fans of The Cambridge Tribune (annual circulation: 1,000) are dying to know about his life, on and off the ice. Eight days to face off against the sexy man who’s hellbent on blocking my shot at every turn.

This power play is going to be one for the pucking ages.

PROLOGUE

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
Present day

 Duke’s fingers slip the length of my silk dress up my calves, exposing my skin to the chilly night air. His hands are strong, powerful . . . deliciously warm. The glittering cityscape fades behind the breadth of his shoulders, and I’m left with the shocking realization that . . .

Oh, my god, this is happening. 

Me. Duke Harrison. The promise of intimacy in a place that isn’t intimate at all.

I should probably fill you in on a secret: I like sex.

I know what you’re thinking: “Charlie, why in the hell do I need to know what action your lady parts have or have not received? Get back to the sexy times with that Duke guy!”

There’s a catch, though. While I might like sex, that doesn’t mean I’m all that good at it. The last time I had the (mis)fortune of getting down and dirty with a guy, he informed me that I was a rigid Ice Queen. Mid-sexy times. (Because that’s romantic).

Now, the Ice Queen thing, I get that often. Not sweat off my back.   

But the rigid part, that was offensive. I wasn’t being rigid; I just didn’t think his jab-jab-jab finger technique was up to par. Okay, I may have asked him to ease up a little, because I’m not the sort of woman who just silently takes it till the cows come home. It’s not my fault that he got all high-and-mighty and blamed me for wasting his time.

Not. My. Fault.

It’s called having standards.

Until Duke. If he were to demand, “Panties off, now,” you can bet your derrière that my Target-grade underwear would hit the floor faster than my favorite Dunkin’ Donuts barista makes my iced coffee every morning.

To the regular Average Joe strolling down Boston’s Commonwealth Avenue, my panties wouldn’t leave my hips. But this is Duke Harrison we’re talking about, and I’m currently making out with him on the rooftop of the Omni Parker House, Boston’s fanciest hotel, like we’re nothing more than a horny pair of teenagers. God bless our souls.

That’s what happens when the guy you’ve been lusting after puts his hand between your legs and whispers your name in a husky voice made from silk and unicorns. You lose all mental capacity to think straight.

Although, if we’re being all honest here, I haven’t really been thinking straight since I first met him. 

CHAPTER ONE

 One week earlier . . .

 I’m late.

As in, I’m hobbling on one foot in my 600-square foot apartment, trying to yank on my favorite pair of knee-high boots, even as I foam at the mouth courtesy of the toothbrush sticking out of it.

Multi-tasking at its finest, really.

“Charlie, we are going to be late,” my best friend says from her perch on my couch. Jenny Halverton has never been late in her entire life, and I can say this with a good deal of confidence, as we’ve been best friends since the second grade. She weirdly thrives on being the first to arrive, whether it’s for prom (do you know how weird it is to be the first group to show up?), her college graduation (also weird), and her wedding (understandable, except for the fact that she beat the groom by about thirty minutes, which, once again, made it weird for the rest of us).

“I’m hurrying,” I slur around my purple Oral-B toothbrush. My booted foot lands on the hardwood floor with an echoing thud.

My third-floor apartment is small, and I swear the ancient glass-paned windows shake in their tracks when I hook up my other foot and let it land with the same level of force.

As a former hockey player, I’m not the most delicate of creatures, though I’ve certainly spent the last few years attempting to slim down my muscular frame and act a little more feminine.

I’ve succeeded for the most part, aside for my tree-trunk thighs. I’ve accepted that we are now life-long partners, for better or for worse.

Jenny eyes me with barely-concealed disgust when I spit in the kitchen and leave my toothbrush to conduct a balancing act on the lip of the sink. “What?” I snag my coat from where I tossed it over the Formica bar earlier. “You said that we’re in a hurry.”

“It would have taken you an extra five seconds to do that in the bathroom.” Her dark gaze pointedly flicks toward my shoebox of a restroom. “Five seconds,” she repeats for effect.

Rolling my blue eyes to the ceiling, I counter, “It’s taken you five seconds to reprimand me, Mom. Shouldn’t we be leaving?”

Jenny concedes with a theatrical sigh, and I grin as I grab my car keys from the entryway table. It’s not my fault that she’s a stickler for certain things: timeliness, cleanliness, and a whole lot of other words that end with –iness suffixes that I can’t bother to think of right now.

We take the stairs—no elevator in my Cambridge triple-decker—and make our way to my car. It’s a cute, white Prius, a twenty-sixth birthday present to myself from a few months ago. I say this as though I regularly buy myself expensive gifts.

Not true.

My last car was fifteen years old and counting, a total death trap, and to get it to start I had to spend five to seven minutes shoving a butter knife into its gear shift as I whispered sweet nothings against the steering wheel.

We parted quite amicably after she died and left me stranded on the side of the road in Middle-of-Nowhere, western Massachusetts.

I slide into my new baby, patting the dashboard with a happy sigh, and tap the start button to the left of the wheel. The engine hums to life on cue.

God, life is good sometimes. 

“We’re not that late,” I tell Jenny as we turn off my street. A car honks behind me when I cut it off, but this is Boston, and I am nothing less than the driver my dad taught me to be: aggressively dickish. “In fact,” I add, “some might say that we’re early.”

Jenny grumbles into her thick, floral scarf. “We’re late.”

“Girl, we aren’t Mel’s maids of honor. We don’t actually have to show up an hour early to this thing.”

We’re on our way to our friend’s bachelorette party, though the wedding isn’t taking place for another month. We met Mel during our sophomore year at Boston University, and have been thick as thieves ever since. Alas, Mel is one of six sisters, leaving Jenny and I to serve as mere guests at her wedding.

This upsets Jenny way more than it ever bothered me. Despite having a more subdued personality, Jenny strangely lives for the moments when she becomes the center of attention.

I, on the other hand, live for the moments when I can hug a wall and pretend I’m wearing my PJs and reading a book. When Mel informed me that she didn’t have room for me in her bridal party, it took everything in my power to not fist pump the air.

Thankfully, my responsibilities now languish among the Just Show Up variety.

Knowing that Jenny is wallowing in self-imposed guilt over our “tardiness,” I bring up a topic that I know will infuse the color back into her cheeks. “Do you think Gwen will be there today?”

Jenny gives a little growl. “I hope not.”

I bang a U-ey and head for Harvard Square, where TeaLicious (the start of our day) is located. “Still feeling sour about it?”

“She flirted with my husband. Of course I’m sour about it.”

Mel’s cousin, Gwen, is nothing if not classy.

“Ty put her in her place, though. Hell, one more second and I really thought he would Heisman her.”

There’s another growl from Jenny in the passenger’s seat. “First,” she says, holding up a finger, “No more sports analogies outside of work. We’ve talked about this. Second”—another finger goes up—“I know that Ty would never cheat on me, especially not with that . . . ”

Jenny trails off and I help her out. “Evil witch? Crazy nut-job? Home-wrecker? Let me know when I’ve reached the magnitude of your hatred for her.”

“We’ll be here all day,” she sniffs, and I can’t help but laugh because it’s true.

Over the years, I’ve been forced to hang out with Mel’s cousin frequently enough. At first I didn’t mind so much. We were in college and she’s one of those girls who possesses so much confidence that you can’t help but hope just a little bit of it will superglue itself to you. Permanently.

For a girl like me—a former hockey player and a young lady with no skill for flirtation—Gwen was like a shiny, redheaded beacon of inspiration.

It wasn’t so much that I liked her, but rather, I wanted to emulate her feminine confidence, a feminine confidence which I myself lacked in droves.

Sleek hair? Well, there wasn’t much that I could do to my kinky blonde hair, but I certainly did my best with the inexpensive flat iron I purchased from the convenient store.

Leafy greens for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? I lasted only two weeks before realizing that my extreme level of activity demanded a high-protein diet, and no, I could not subsist on spinach and cottage cheese for every meal.

Glamorous make up? My winged liner looked a bit savage, but if I tilted my head just right both my right and left eyes looked even enough, I suppose.

It took all of three weeks for me to realize that Gwen existed on an unachievable ethereal plane. Subsequently allowing me to see that . . . Well, she wasn’t all that kind. A five-letter word that rhymes with “itch” would be a more appropriate description of Gwen James.

“I heard through the grapevine that she’s seeing someone now,” I tell Jenny as I pull my car into the TeaLicious parking lot. It’s packed to the brim, and I beeline for the remaining empty spot. “Ty’s sensibilities will now be safe.”

 “Thank God.”

We laugh at the same time and then climb out of my Prius.

TeaLicious is by far one of the most hipster-populated places I’ve ever visited. Think wine bar but with tea instead. It also happens to be Mel’s favorite place in the Boston-metro area, and therefore it only made sense to kick off her last few weeks of Singledom by drinking one too many cups of Earl Grey.

What can I say? Some people prefer rum and coke; Mel James prefers orange-scented tea that spent a former lifetime as a jolly-rancher.

We give the party name to the hostess and she’s quick to point us in the direction of the group of shrieking women at the back of the restaurant.

I purposely avoid making eye contact with Jenny as we sidle up to the group.

Mel spots us almost immediately, and she launches up from her chair to book it straight over, her arms outstretched. “You’re here!” she cries, cupping my face in her hands as she plants a smacking kiss on each of my cheeks. She does the same to Jenny, who squirms at the too-close contact.

Whereas Jenny carries hand-sanitizer everywhere she goes, Mel James—soon to be Mel Wellers—has no idea that some people require personal space.

“Charlie was running late again,” Jenny drawls, effectively throwing me under the bus.

I huff a little at that, even though it is sort of true. To Mel, I say, “I accidentally slept through my alarm. I didn’t go to bed until late last night.”

“Hot date?” Mel asks with a dash of hope in her expression.

I hate to disappoint her, seeing as how my love life is as silent as a graveyard, but . . .

“No, I was at work. You’d think that the boss man would want to head home early on a Friday night. Not the case. He decided at six p.m. on the dot that he wanted me to do research for a feature piece on Duke Harrison’s shit-tastic game from Thursday.”

Mel’s right eye twitches in that way it does when she’s hiding something. I pause, waiting for her to speak up like she always does when something is eating away at her.

She doesn’t, so I add, “I don’t get why everyone’s obsessed with Harrison. I mean, all right, he plays for the NHL. He’s quick with his hands, and he’s relatively good-looking—if you like that my-teeth-might-not-be-my-own appeal, which isn’t really my thing.”

“Sounds like someone’s got a crush,” Jenny snickers from beside me, and I promptly shoot her the bird. She mimes catching it, then ignites my offering in a pit of imaginary fire. Lovely.

“I don’t have a crush,” I mutter, tucking my crazy blonde hair behind one ear. You can dress me in fine clothes, but my hair is a beast of its own. There’s no taming it. “All I’m saying,” I stress slowly, “is that he should have retired by now. Just because he was a hotshot goalie for the last decade doesn’t mean that he’s adept at protecting the net anymore. He’s weak.”

 “Thank you.”

I flinch at the masculine voice behind me, my gaze immediately seeking help from my two best friends. Both Mel and Jenny look up at the ceiling, and I instantly kick them off of my short-but-sweet best friends list.

You see, there’s the minute fact that I recognize that voice. I spent six goddamn hours listening to interviews on YouTube last night, and that husky baritone was featured in every single video I clicked.

I really don’t want to turn around and face the music, and I can practically hear my bones creak in protest as I do so. My thoughts go something like this:

Ah, shit.

Why is this happening to me?

What Karma did I accrue?

And, most importantly, what the hell is Duke Harrison of the Boston Blades doing here?

When I turn around, I have my answer.

Mel’s cousin Gwen is suctioned to Duke Harrison’s side like an octopus after its next meal. I’m not kidding. Her arm is wrapped around his back, her fingers stuffed into the front pocket of his jeans. Her bottle-dyed red hair cascades over his arm, she’s that close to him. Unsurprisingly, she’s shooting daggers at me with her eyes.

I blink back at her coolly, just to show that I won’t be bullied.    

Then I take my first look at Duke Harrison in the flesh and I’m surprised to find that I’m still standing.

I blink rapidly in an attempt to refresh my vision. My first glimpse of him has to be faulty, because there’s no way that he is as hot as—

Holy baby Jesus. The camera does him no justice, no justice at all. He’s huge, which is to be expected of a professional athlete of his caliber. Broad shoulders, encased in a black, fitted button-down shirt, taper into a fit waist. His jaw is cut from granite, which I understand makes no sense at all, but that doesn’t even matter. A cleft punctures his chin. Honestly, I’m shocked by the handsomeness of his rugged features, not to mention his thick head of golden hair.

His overall attractiveness is almost unfair.

Blue eyes, the color of a bird’s egg, narrow down at me. I ignore the obvious annoyance in his expression to continue my slow once-over of Boston’s Hottest Bachelor Under 40.

Except, by the looks of things, he’s not a bachelor any longer.

An engagement ring glitters on Gwen’s left hand. It’s huge. Probably the size of a toy poodle. If she punched someone with that thing, they’d be laid out cold in a heartbeat.

I inch back, just in case she gets any ideas. Gwen and ideas aren’t commonly associated with one another, but you never really know. Once, when we were all in college, Gwen snatched a woman’s hair at a club and ripped out a handful after the girl told Gwen that her dress was hideous.

I may not particularly like my hair—doesn’t mean that I want to have any bald spots on my scalp.

“Charlie,” Gwen says now, her voice a pitch lower than Death’s. “This is Duke Harrison.”

Mel makes a choking noise behind me. I feel no remorse. Serves her right for not alerting me to the fact that Duke freakin’ Harrison has been standing right behind me this whole time.

 I force a smile, hoping that my red lipstick hasn’t imprinted on my teeth from all of my recent gnashing, and blandly murmur, “How lovely.”

I look up, up, up to Duke’s face. I’m not exactly petite, but nor is he exactly average in height. Towering over me, he must be at least six-foot-something. He’s still watching me, I notice, his full mouth twisted in a frown. It’s sort of sexy now that I’m up close. His face, I mean, not the frown. Although the frown isn’t too bad either. It’s sulky, a little brooding. I find that I like it.

Gwen glowers and I realize that my greeting hasn’t met her standard. For the sake of not throwing down at my best friend’s bachelorette party, I try again. “It’s so lovely to meet you, Duke. What made you decide to join our women-only tea party?”

Jenny joins the fake-choking train. My lips finally tug upward in a genuine smile.

Duke Harrison, goalie extraordinaire for the Boston Blades, does not return my smile. “Gwen encouraged me to come,” is all he says.

“Ah.”

It’s all that needs to be said, really. What Gwen wants she generally gets—aside from Jenny’s husband, that is. My gaze flicks down to Gwen’s hand and the diamond ring sparkling under the soft, overhead lighting. “Maybe she wants you in the wedding planning mood,” I say. “You know, to bring you up to snuff.”

“We’re not together.”

Now I’m the one gasping for air. I pound my fist against my chest, rubbing in tight little circles. And, oh God, my eyes—they’re stinging. Laughter, I think, not tears. Gwen’s mouth opens and shuts, even as her gaze turns squinty.

“I was just trying it on my ring finger,” she snaps. Yanking the diamond off her fourth finger, she fits it on her middle finger of the opposite hand. “Just to see how I feel about it. Duke likes to play hard to get.”

“I’m not playing anything,” he says evenly.

I can hear Gwen grinding her teeth from here. If she does so any harder, she’ll turn them to dust. With her hand still wrapped around his arm, I nevertheless have the sneaking suspicion that while they might not be together they’ve probably swapped spit a few times. Crossed each other’s hockey sticks, if you know what I mean—not that Gwen’s got a penis. At least, I’m not aware of her having a penis.

Regardless, even if they haven’t done the dirty, it’s clear from the dog-in-heat expression on Gwen’s face that she wants to get close and personal with Duke Harrison’s twin pucks.

I glance over at Duke, expecting to see that same look of lust darkening his blue eyes. Instead, he appears bored. A little on edge, maybe, but there’s no flare of desire in his expression when he attempts to pull away from Gwen’s death grip.

Suddenly our gazes clash, hold, and I lift my brow, as if to say, I wouldn’t bother trying.

He returns my brow-lift with one of his own, and I read his message loud and clear: Get her off of me.

 My shoulders lift in a shrug—not my problem, it translates to—and I notice a pulse leap to his jaw.

“We have an event to go to after this,” Gwen says, oblivious to the fact that the man beside her is on the verge of fleeing. “Duke agreed to be my date.”

With a heavy sigh, Duke finally manages to detangle himself from the octopus otherwise known as Gwen James. “I’m not your date,” he grumbles in overt frustration, “I’m your damn cl—”

Whatever he’s about to say is cut off by Gwen’s high-pitched voice: “It doesn’t matter. Tea, Duke? Let’s go grab some tea.”

She doesn’t wait to make any more small talk, not even with her bride-to-be cousin. Latching her hand around his wrist, she gives a quick tug and pulls him toward the table of women.

“Excuse me,” Duke murmurs as he brushes past me. I objectively admire his butt as he walks away. It’s a great butt, no doubt thanks to the fact that he’s constantly squatting in the net. He moves like a lethal predator, and there’s no shortage of female sighs as he settles into an empty chair at the end of the table. Gwen sits next to him, immediately turning to him with an accusing finger jab.

Trouble in paradise, it seems.

And then it hits me: I just met Duke “The Mountain” Harrison. Holy crap. This is . . . this is crazy. I cannot wait to tell Casey, my coworker, on Monday morning. Even if I do think he’s overrated, there’s still the fact that I am a sports journalist and I’ve been following his career for years. Since he was a rookie a decade ago.

But while I might be a sports journalist, I also happen to while away thirty-five hours per week at The Cambridge Tribune. To say that the newspaper is second-rate would be a stretch, and for one very good reason: my boss, Josh, doesn’t believe in handing out press badges. No one takes us seriously because half of the city doesn’t even know that we exist.

Who wants to read an online newspaper where the quotes are regurgitated from other publications? No one knows who I am—this isn’t a bad thing, necessarily—but my chances of even freelancing for a more reputable newsletter, like The Boston Globe, are slim to none.

Honestly, I wouldn’t even hire me.

My clips are decent, but there’s only so much that you can do with lackluster story material.

“I don’t like that look on your face,” Jenny says from beside me. “Whatever you’re thinking, you stop that right now, Charlie Denton.”

Bristling at her suspicious tone, I say, “I’m not thinking about anything.”

“You are,” Mel jumps in. “You so are.”

They’ve got my calling card. I need a story—a story that will land on screens all over the Northeast—and Duke Harrison just became my muse.

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