Mistletoe Face Off (Chicago Blizzard Hockey #1)

Chapter 8Holly

Chapter Eight

Holly

“Girl, you are everywhere today,” Selena says from behind her desk. “Well, you and your super hot frenemie , Harrison Clarke.”

“He's not my frenemie ,” I protest as I place a takeout coffee on her desk, but it falls on deaf ears.

Selena has been scrolling through her phone since I arrived at the office this morning, sharing the headlines of all the stories about Harrison and me today. “Look at this one.” She turns her phone around and I read Blizzard’s Clarke Labeled Man-Child by Feisty Journalist. “Did you really call the Blizzard’s star defenseman a man-child?”

I sit down at my desk and take a sip of my own coffee. “Of course I did. He was acting like one, so I called it. You know me. I call a spade a spade.”

“Girl, that is brave. Isn’t he 6’5”? I think I’ve got new respect for you.”

“Thanks?”

“Did you really argue about how to unwrap Christmas presents with him? Isn’t that a little… irrelevant?”

I can’t argue with that. “Yup.”

She laughs. “This one says Yuletide Yelling Match: To Rip or Not to Rip? Stephen didn’t come up with a clever title like that.”

As promised, I called Stephen after last night’s argument so he could get the story about us out first. All I can say is I’d better get that promotion out of all this.

“It wasn’t a yelling match. More a disagreement about something totally not personal.”

“I think you crossed that line when you called the guy a man-child.”

“Yeah, maybe.” An image of his twitching lips and bright eyes enters my head. The way he looked at me sent a light, tickly feeling through my belly. “I got the feeling he enjoyed it.”

“He enjoyed being called a man-child? What kind of masochist is this guy? Don't tell me: a hockey pro masochist.”

“No, I meant it seemed to me he enjoyed our banter.”

Selena's eyes get huge. “Are you saying the Blizzard defenseman flirted with you?”

Our staged argument felt different from our first, and not just because it was fake. The first time was fuelled by my mortification that I’d told him I'd had a crush on him back in high school before I knew I was admitting it to the very person I had the crush on. This time, there was nothing fuelling the argument other than doing the job we’d agreed to do, and I'll admit, as ridiculous as an argument over the best way to unwrap a Christmas gift is, it was kinda fun. Fun and sexy.

The image of him in his suit and tie looking all buttoned up and formal but still with his undeniably masculine aura flashes before my eyes. He’s this big guy, gazing down at me with those intense green eyes of his, his bulk filling the space, his lips quirking with every line I spat at him. It was obvious to me that he was enjoying our banter, and I'd be lying to myself if I hadn’t enjoyed it, as well.

Yup. Definitely sexy.

But I've got no interest in flirting with an NHL player, because as nice as Harrison seems, and as easy as he is to get along with, I've been down that road before, and just look at how well that turned out.

I scrunch up my face. “I think Harry did flirt. At least a little. You know how these players are.”

“Wait. You call him Harry now?” she asks, and I pull my lips into a line and nod. “Why do you look like you've got a bad taste in your mouth from sucking on a lemon? This is Harrison Clarke we're talking about, aka super famous hockey player, adored by women right across the city, a guy who is hotter than Arizona in summer, and you don't look happy about it? What the heck is wrong with you, girl? Do you know how many women would kill to be in your position right now?”

I twist my mouth as I toy with my cup. “I don't know,” I mumble despite the fact I know very well why it bothers me.

My ex-husband.

Selena, good friend that she is, tags on quick. “It's that no good ex of yours, isn't it? That man ruined you for all other men, hockey players in particular.”

“He showed me you can't trust pro athletes, that’s all. It’s a good lesson to learn. Too bad I learned it the hard way. These hockey players get women throwing themselves at them all day long. They even have a name for them: Puck Bunnies. It's only a matter of time before they give in to temptation, which is what my ex did, and what I bet most of them would do.”

“Talk about tarring all hockey pros with the same brush. You have a grim view on humanity.”

“It’s facts, Selena.”

“Tell me if I've got this wrong but all it is right now is a little flirting and some hot banter. He hasn't proposed to you. He hasn't asked you out. He hasn't even kissed you.”

I laugh. “I think I would have led with a proposal if that had happened, don’t you?”

And the thought of kissing Harrison Clarke does things to my belly I don’t want to think about.

“Then I say enjoy it. Flirt with the guy. Have some fun. We all know you need it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You work hard, you're a single mom, and your ex doesn’t even live here anymore. You don't get a lot of chances to have a whole lot of fun, and bantering with Harrison Clarke definitely seems like fun.”

“But—” I begin.

Selena cuts me off. “No buts, Holly. Well, other than Harrison Clarke’s that is. His butt is f iiii ne.” She waggles her brows at me and I choke out a laugh.

“You're not wrong there.”

Immediately, my mind turns to the photo I snapped of Harrison wearing his Santa pants and not a lot else. Of course I didn't know it was him at the time. All I knew was this was a taut, muscular guy with broad shoulders and an impressive six-pack who had somehow been roped into dressing up as Santa for the kids.

But the thing is, when you've seen something like that, you can’t un-see it.

She shakes her head. “You’re totally overthinking this.”

“You're right. I am overthinking it,” I reply. “If he so happens to flirt with me when I see him next, I might flirt back. Just for the heck of it.”

“Just for the sheer fun of it.” She clinks her coffee cup against mine. “Here's to hot hockey gods and flirty Christmas feuds.”

We both take a sip of our coffee. Mine is the same coffee I have at this time of year every year. A gingerbread latte. It never fails to put me in the Christmas spirit, which is decidedly lacking in our office environment.

“When are you seeing him again?” Selena asks.

“In a couple days.”

“You get to see that guy almost every day of the week?”

“No. It’s a gingerbread house making event, which I’m covering.”

“You're making a gingerbread house with Harrison Clarke? Somehow I'm finding it hard to picture that burly defenseman in an apron.” A smile grows on her face. “Wait. I've got it. An apron and not a lot else.”

“Selena Washington! You are a married woman,” I scold jokingly as I try not to think of Harrison in an apron and not a lot else.

I may need to take a moment.

“There is no law against married women thinking about hockey players in aprons, you know. You get to feud with him, I get to imagine him in a kitchen with a bowl of frosting.”

I raise my hands in the air. “Thank you for that mental image. I do not want to think about that.”

She waggles those brows of hers. “Yeah, you do.”

I scrunch up my face. “I haven't told you the whole truth,” I admit.

“There’s more? Spill,” she instructs.

“Harrison offered to take Macy out on the ice. Today.”

If I thought Selena’s eyes got huge before, they're the size of dinner plates now. “In a hockey game? That poor little thing will get crushed!”

“Not a hockey game,” I reply on a laugh, the thought completely improbable, not to mention insanely dangerous. “It turns out Harrison has some skills as a figure skater, and as you know, Macy's dream it is to be a figure skater one day. But she has trouble overcoming her anxieties in order to get on the actual ice.”

“Macy is such a sweetheart. Your ex sure has done a number on her, letting her down the way he does. That poor pumpkin gets her hopes up and then he dashes them time and time again. Jerk.”

My heart hurts for my daughter. “That's why I love you. You see things the way I do.”

“What other way is there to see it? A man has a responsibility to his child regardless of whether he and the mom get on. It's not right.”

“No, but it's him.”

“I think it's wonderful that Harrison’s offered to help Macy out. In fact, I would say that he is cut from an entirely different cloth from your ex.”

“I sure hope so,” I reply, a knot forming in my belly. I don't typically introduce men to my daughter. I know I'm not romantically involved with Harrison, so there's a lot less at stake, but nevertheless, I'm super protective when it comes to Macy. She's my world, and I don't want anything—or anyone—to hurt her.

“Are you worried about Macy getting on the ice or Harrison being the right kind of man to have around your daughter?”

“Both?”

“In that case, go along and see how it works out. If she doesn't get on the ice, she doesn't get on the ice. You've been there before. And if it turns out that Harrison isn't who you think he is, then you can leave.”

“You make it all sound so easy.”

“Look, I get it. I'm a mom, too. We want to protect our babies at all cost. But think about why you agreed to this in the first place before you started second guessing yourself. How has he been with Macy?”

“Amazing.”

“There's your answer.”

I spot Stephen walking across the floor toward us.

“Slippery Stephen at eleven o’clock,” I say under my breath.

“Just when things were getting juicy,” Selena replies with a roll of her eyes.

Stephen stands over me and immediately slaps a piece of paper down on my desk in front of me. “I've got a lead for you on the Harrison Clarke story. A solid one. Don't ask me how I got it, but you're going to want to hear this guy out.”

“And hello to you, too,” Selena mumbles into her coffee.

If Stephen hears her, he doesn't react.

I pick the piece of paper up he’s unceremoniously slapped down and read the name. Donald Mitchell. “Thanks. I'll get onto it straight away.”

“Good.” He doesn't move.

“Was there something else?” I ask tentatively.

“What are you waiting for? Jump to it,” he instructs.

“Sure thing.”

Selena and I share a look before I pull out my phone and start to dial the number, pushing all thoughts of Harrison Clarke being a nice guy in nothing but an apron with a bowl of frosting in his hands to the back of my head. Apparently he has a past, and it’s my job as a journalist to find out what it is.

“Hello?” says a voice at the other end of the line.

“Hi. Is this Mr. Mitchell?”

“Who wants to know?” is his gruff reply.

“This is Holly Coleman from the Chicago Beacon. My boss, Slip—” I catch myself before I blurt “Slippery Stephen.” Not the time. “Stephen McFarland gave me your contact details.”

“Oh yeah. That jerk,” he replies.

I can neither confirm nor deny whether Stephen is a jerk. Not to a potential source, anyway.

“I was hoping we might be able to have a chat about Harrison Clarke. I understand you have some information that I might find useful for a story I’m currently researching.”

“Yeah, I do, but I’ll only talk to you in person. This is sensitive information. I'm only talking to you because you're the one who gets into all those arguments with him, right?”

Guilt worms its way across my chest, but I ignore it. I don't owe Harrison Clarke anything. Sure, things might have got a little flirty between us last night, but I wouldn't be doing my job as a journalist if I let something like a brief flirtation come between me and a story—particularly not a story that could lead to the promotion I want so badly.

“That's me. Just tell me where you want to meet, Mr. Mitchell, and I'll be there.”

“I’m not back in the city until next Friday. How’s 6:00PM?”

I’ll have to hope Mom can sit Macy. “I can do that.”

“I’ll meet you at Paddy’s Irish Bar on Charleston Street,” he replies, naming a bar in a less salubrious end of town.

“No problem. I'll be there,” I reply, thankful there's no Blizzard Christmas event on that night, and hoping Mom is free to sit for Macy. Which will mean I can spend as much time as I need with this Mr. Mitchell and his story about Harrison Clarke’s past.