Mistletoe Face Off (Chicago Blizzard Hockey #1)

Chapter 6Holly

Chapter Six

Holly

Burying my face in my hands, I can barely believe that I've now become headline news, and it’s all thanks to the deception of one Harrison Clarke, aka Fake Santa.

How could I be so stupid to engage in an argument with the one person I was there to interview—and do it in front of a whole host of journalists?

Very stupid. Very, very stupid.

This might cost me the article. Or worse, my job.

With nerves making my hands tremble, I pick up my phone once more and force myself to scan for more salacious headlines. It doesn't take long.

Naughty List Material? Harrison Clarke's Christmas Clash Caught on Camera.

It’s an Ice-Cold Christmas: Defenseman's Heated Exchange Melts Team Festivities.

Mistletoe Mishap! Harrison Clarke's Holly Jolly Argument with Reporter.

The last one is at least clever. All the articles are accompanied by photos of Harrison in his Santa costume, clearly recognizable without his wig, beard, and fake nose—a fake nose!—and me with my hands on my hips, glaring at him as though my eyes were lasers that could cut him down to size.

This is a disaster! Not only did I not get the interview my boss wanted me to get with Harrison, but I've inserted myself into the heart of the story in a thoroughly unprofessional way.

“You look like you've just read your own death notice,” my colleague and friend, Selena Washington comments.

I look across my desk at her. “Have you seen these?” I turn my phone around so she can see exactly what I'm talking about.

“Girl, everyone has seen those,” she replies with a light laugh, as though this is funny when it really is not. “My favorite is this one.”

It's her turn to show me her screen. Reluctantly, I read the headline.

Ho-Ho-Whoa! NHL Star's Santa Showdown Steals the Show. It’s accompanied by footage of us glaring at one another as the team coach tries to interfere.

Oh, good grief.

“Promise me you won’t read what they’re saying on social media.”

“Why?”

“Let's just say most of the people commenting are Blizzard fans, and specifically Harrison Clarke fans. They're on his side.”

I push out another breath. “This just gets better and better.”

“So, what gives? Why were you arguing with the star defenseman for the Blizzard in the first place? Did he put you on the Naughty List?” Selena asks, her eyes bright, and I shake my head at her.

“If anyone should go on the Naughty List it should be Harrison Clarke.”

Her eyes widen. “Why? What did he do? I always thought he was one of the good guys on that team.”

“It's not that terrible,” I admit, because really, it isn't that terrible. It's more embarrassing than anything else. Embarrassing that I admitted to having a crush on the very person I had a crush on.

Do I sound like I'm in middle school?

Yup. But it still stings.

“What was it?” she asks.

I look around the busy office. People are on the phone, talking with one another, and busy working at their computers. “He didn't tell me who he was when he was dressed as Santa last week at the Hawksworth Community Center and I, well, I kinda admitted to having had a crush on him when we were in high school.”

“You were in high school with Harrison Clarke?”

“Not the point.”

“Think like a journalist, girl. That's totally the point. Slippery Stephen wants you to get an angle on the guy. That your angle.”

I chew on my lip. “I guess? But the thing is, I might have known him back then, but there is no big story. He was just the new kid sophomore year that everybody thought was cute.”

“Where had he been at school before?”

“He transferred from out of state. I don't remember.”

“Find out,” she says simply. “That could be your story. Watch out. Shark circling.”

“Shark circling” is our code for Stephen, one of my least favorite people on the face of the planet, but regrettably, Selena’s and my boss.

He sidles up to my desk, and I look up at him with trepidation.

“You caused quite a stir last night, it would seem,” he says with a salacious grin on his face.

“About that,” I begin, only to be cut off by him.

“You're meant to write about the story, not insert yourself into it. As a journalist, you know that, right?”

“I’m really sorry, Stephen. I won't let it happen again,” I say hurriedly.

He purses his lips, sizing me up for what feels like at least two minutes, but in reality is probably only a couple seconds, and I squirm in my seat, wondering whether he's going to demote me or fire me or worse. Although what is worse than firing me, I do not know.

“You've got visitors,” he says, taking me completely by surprise.

“Excuse me?”

Who could be visiting me at work for an unscheduled meeting?

“They're in the boardroom. I suggest we go there right now,” he replies.

I leap to my feet. “Sure thing, boss,” I say as I grab my laptop, hating myself for calling him “boss.”

I trail after him, through the buzzing office, and into the boardroom where, to my utter astonishment, is none other than Fake Santa himself, Harrison Clarke, only without the Santa suit and padded belly.

He’s accompanied by the team coach and a pretty young woman in a navy blue skirt suit.

My first thought is, why the heck are these people here to see me, but it's quickly eclipsed when Harrison’s sharp green eyes lock with mine. They’re highlighted by a green shirt and charcoal suit, making him look both confident and in control in a very buttoned up and formal way.

Against my will, my breath hitches in my throat.

Why does Harrison Clarke have to be so dang hot? He was clearly first in line when God was handing out good looks. I feel bad for the other men out there. It's not fair on them.

“Thanks for waiting,” Stephen says. “This is Holly Coleman.”

“Hello, everyone,” I say uncertainly.

“It's nice to see you again, Holly,” Harrison replies, as though the last time we saw one another we weren’t hurling insults at each other much like the way him and his teammates whack pucks into nets.

“It's nice to see you again, too,” I mumble, heat flaming in my cheeks.

“We didn’t meet formally last night. I’m Trevor Newton, Blizzard Team Coach,” the other man in the room says with his hand extended. “And this here is Abbigail Sinclair, the team’s new PR person.”

“It's great to meet the woman at the center of the furor out there right now,” Abbigail says with a pretty smile as we shake hands. “And call me Abby.”

“Abby. Sure,” I reply. “But is it really a furor? More like a storm on a teeny tiny teacup, as far as I can see.”

I’m trying to downplay it, but Abby’s having none of it. “Oh, it’s a furor all right.”

Worry tightens my belly.

Stephen suggests we sit around the large oak table, which we do, while my mind fires on all cylinders, wondering what is about to happen—and fearing the worst.

Can they sue me for arguing with one of their players publicly? No, I’m sure they can’t…. can they? If they can, I'll be done, ruined—as a journalist and as a person with a roof over her head and food on the table. Soon, Macy and I could be living on the streets, sleeping under bridges with a cardboard box as our only defense against the harsh Chicago winters.

I stop my imagination from spiraling completely out of control.

There’s a chance I may be overreacting.

“I'm glad you could both meet with us today,” Coach Newton begins. “We've got a situation on our hands that needs to be controlled.”

I'm the situation. Well, Harrison and me.

I decide to get in with an apology before they call in the lawyers. “Look, it was never my intention for this to happen, and I'm deeply sorry that it has,” I say.

“We’re not here to point fingers,” Abby begins.

I pull my brows together. “You’re not?”

“In fact,” she continues. “We would like to take advantage of the situation.”

Wait, what?

I chance a look at Harrison across the table. He too appears confused. At least it’s an even playing field right now.

“In what way?” Stephen asks.

“The argument between Harrison and you, Holly, at last night's Blizzard Christmas event has gone viral, as I'm sure you're aware,” Coach Newton says.

“It's everywhere. All over the Internet with photos and video and there are even memes of you two,” Abby says.

My jaw drops. I hadn’t seen memes. “There are memes?” I croak as mortification sweeps over me.

“Quite a few, some rather witty,” Abby confirms. She slides her phone across the table and I look at a split image, one side of Harrison Clarke in his Blizzard team gear looking fierce on the ice, and on the other, him in a Santa suit with a shocked expression on his face as we argue. The caption reads, “When you go from checking opponents to getting checked by Mrs. Claus.”

“It is witty, I'll give it that,” I reply, humiliation now officially replacing all the blood in my veins.

“There are more, but there’s no need to look at them now,” Abby says as she takes her phone back.

“What are you proposing?” Stephen asks and I hold my breath.

“It’s unorthodox, but the general feeling within management is that we can use this to our advantage,” Abby says, and I almost fall off my seat in shock.

“Are you saying what I think you're saying?” I ask.

“That depends on what you think I'm saying, Ms. Coleman,” she replies with a smile. “The uncommon nature of a player-journalist feud has generated significant press coverage.”

Both Harrison and I protest.

“It's hardly a feud,” I say.

“It was just a misunderstanding,” Harrison says.

I raise a brow at him. We both know it wasn't a misunderstanding, but now is not the time.

“Come on, you two. Regardless of what actually occurred, the press has portrayed it as a feud,” Coach Newton replies.

“They sure have,” Stephen confirms.

“We see it as an advantage on a number of fronts.” Abby begins to list them off on her fingers. “For starters, it could keep the team at the forefront of people’s minds, even during slower periods of the season. Social media engagement is already up with fans taking sides, most of them at this stage pro Harrison, I'm sorry to report, Holly.”

I shrug. What else can I do? I'm an unknown journalist in an argument with a beloved Chicago Blizzard defenseman. It’s clear I don’t stand a chance.

“This coverage has already shown to increase team visibility across the various social media platforms, which keeps the team relevant,” Abby says. “It’s part of our job to keep attention on us, as you know, Harrison. Right now, our current sponsors are happy. They’ve told us so. Not only that, but this level of interest can potentially open up the opportunity to attract new sponsors. More specifically for the holiday period, it puts the spotlight on the month-long Christmas charity events the team is involved in, which we hope can only generate more interest in the causes and consequently raise more money.”

“That's a whole heap of good reasons to do it, as far as I can see,” Coach Newton adds.

“So, what are you suggesting happens now?” Harrison asks, echoing the very words in my mouth.

“Isn't it obvious, Harrison? We want you and Holly to keep the feud going,” Coach Newton says.

“There is no feud,” I protest once more.

But no one is listening to me.

Harrison raises his hands in the air, the look on his face telling me he had no idea this was why we were meeting today. “Let me get this straight, Abby. You want Holly and me to fake hate each other?”

“We do,” Abby replies as though it's no big deal at all.

“But—” I begin. I'm not quite sure what I'm going to say, other than “ are you crazy?” of course. Because this is crazy. Me and Harrison locked in some kind of publicity feud?

Certifiable.

“That's exactly what we're suggesting. People will want to see this. They will come to more games and more of the Christmas charity events. It's a win-win, as far as we can see,” Abby says.

“How is it a win for me exactly?” I ask, incredulous.

I mean, I've read enough romance novels to have heard of fake dating, but fake hating ? That's a whole other ball game.

“I think I see where you're going with this. Increased publicity for you also means increased publicity for us. Our journalist involved in a feud with an NHL star,” Stephen says, nodding his approval. “You can do that, right, Holly?”

I capture Harrison’s gaze. His face is lifted in a hint of a smile. “I'm up for it if you are,” he says smoothly.

“You're up for fake hating me?” I ask, surprised.

“Yup.”

“Why?”

“For all the reasons Abby explained.”

If I agree to this, I have to pretend to hate Harrison Clarke. It's not too much of a stretch. I'm still dark over the whole pretending to be someone else thing. But to do it publicly?

Stephen leans his elbows on the table. “We would want exclusive rights to break the stories first.”

“Of course. That's part of the win-win,” Abby replies.

“How long do you anticipate this feud lasting?” Stephen asks.

“We’ve agreed we would like it to last for the holiday period. The last team event is on December 22 nd before the team holiday party on the 23 rd . One final public argument then and I think we'll be all set,” Abby replies.

“Abby is right. It will become boring if we drag it on for too long. Christmas Eve is about three weeks away, which is ample time to let this play out,” Coach Newton adds.

“Maybe Holly and I can make up on at the final event on December 22nd?” Harrison suggests.

“I like that,” Abby says, nodding. “A kind of Christmas miracle.”

Harrison laughs. “A Christmas miracle might be taking it a little far.”

“No, that would work. People get super sentimental around the holidays, especially at Christmas. You two can attend the final Christmas event, holding hands and looking happy,” she says.

My traitorous belly gives a flip at the thought of holding hands with Harrison. Dang you, high school crush, rearing your inconvenient head!

Okay, I’ll admit it’s a current crush, but it’s far outweighed by the fact he knowingly allowed me to admit my past feelings to him.

I blow out a breath. Maybe it’s time to let that go.

“I'm happy. What do you think, Holly? You up for a feud with Harrison?” Stephen asks, and all eyes in the room turn to me.

“Will it mean you’ll support my bid for that promotion?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”

I pull my lips into a smile, only half wondering at my sanity. But if it means snagging that promotion into National News, I don’t have much of a choice in the matter. “I'm in.”