Mistletoe Face Off (Chicago Blizzard Hockey #1)

Chapter 13Holly

Chapter Thirteen

Holly

I’m waiting at Paddy’s Irish Bar for Donald Mitchell, the place reeking of stale beer. There are only a few patrons, all sitting at the bar, looking maudlin. There’s sad and saggy tinsel decorations hanging on the walls, the wooden table I’m sitting at is sticky, and I have to resist the urge to pull out an antiseptic wipe and give it a clean.

On second thoughts I won’t resist that urge. I pull a wipe from my purse and give that table a much needed clean. I catch odd looks from the neighboring patrons.

“It’s sticky,” I tell an elderly man with a bulbous nose and ears that stick out at right angles from his head. He merely looks me up and down and turns away.

Friendly guy.

Despite my less than salubrious surrounds—and who I’m here to meet, more to the point—I catch myself smiling, as I have so often these past few days since Harry took me to the Art Institute for our amazing first date. That he would do that for me, knowing that I love art, shows what a truly great guy he is. I could tell he was totally out of his comfort zone, knowing nothing about any of the works we saw—other than American Gothic , and he made me laugh when he said the man reminded him of Hunter “The Enforcer” Adams with his hockey stick. But he did it all for me, and I’m so touched by it.

Top that off with his Hugh Grant inspired dance moves—which, incidentally, he did way better than Hugh Grant, sorry, Hugh—and those really rather incredible kisses we shared, that was one spectacularly unbeatable first date.

He's been travelling ever since, playing away games, but we've been messaging one another, and last night we Face Timed after his game. We talked about anything and everything, just as we always do, both of us opening up about our lives, our hopes, our dreams.

I've not felt like this about a man since I met Phil—with one key difference. This time I'm not some young, naive nineteen year old, dazzled by the good looking, famous hockey pro with a cheeky grin and smooth lines. Harry is as much like Phil as chalk is like cheese, which is exactly the way I want it. I might be scared by the strength of my feelings for another NHL player, but I know Harry is ten times the man Phil ever was.

I can see it in his every look, his every action, his every word. Phil would never throw on a Santa suit and charm kids. He would see that sort of thing as beneath him. And yes, I know Harry admitted he did it because he wants to be the next captain when Dan Roberts retires, but that doesn't mean he fails to put his all into it, acting the part with a warmth you simply can’t manufacture.

The dedication he shows at these charity events isn't just for show. I can tell he genuinely cares. And that is something I never thought I would say about an NHL player again in my life. But it's the simple truth. Not only that, Harry’s passion is infectious, whether he's defending Die Hard as a Christmas movie or talking about wanting to be captain, or showing a willingness to learn about my interests. He's already an incredibly attractive man but add his passion? Well, let's just say it more than adds to his appeal.

I’m getting in deep with Harry, and it seems incredible to me that I’ve only known him for a matter of weeks. That magical date at the Art Institute showed me how he really feels about me, and I found myself opening up to him in a way I've always been so hesitant to do, particularly with a man I have romantic feelings for.

But I haven’t been one hundred percent honest with him, and it’s begun to eat away at me.

I didn't tell Harry that I'm meeting Donald Mitchell to discuss his past.

Sure, I have a professional responsibility to my sources and I need to protect them. Mr. Mitchell approached us with information he wants to share. I can't disclose the fact I'm talking to him to the very man I meant to be writing an article about.

What's more, as a journalist, I’m committed to discovering the truth, and I have a moral duty to report what I find.

These are cardinal rules of my job. Any journalist can tell you that.

Besides, on a purely selfish level, I need this article to get the promotion into National News I so desperately want, and who knows, a big enough story can lead to many doors being opened, even to other media sites. Not having to work for Slippery Stephen? That is definitely a life goal.

But despite all of this, I can't help feeling duplicitous that I'm withholding this information from Harry. He has been so incredibly sweet, and I know I’ve begun to feel strongly for him. The last thing I would ever want to do is hurt him.

All I can hope is that whatever Mr. Mitchell has to tell me is no great revelation and not worthy of a story, even if it means I'm back to square one with my article.

I hear a throat clearing and look up as a stocky man in a flat cap and green plaid flannel jacket approaches my table. “You've got to be the reporter,” he says gruffly without any pleasantries.

What gave me away, I wonder? The fact I’m not a sixty-plus man with a ruddy complexion currently nursing a scotch?

I rise to my feet and offer him my hand. “I sure am. I'm Holly Coleman. You must be Mr. Mitchell. We spoke on the phone.”

He removes his thick black gloves and shakes my hand before he takes a seat opposite me at the recently sanitized table.

“I wanted to meet you because you're the one who hates the guy. You have all those arguments with him.”

“That's me,” I reply with a shrug, my new friend, Guilt, sliding its arm around my shoulders.

He gives me an approving look, as though the fact I have public arguments with Harry is something to be proud of. “Call me Don.”

I smile. “Sure thing, Don. Would you like a drink?”

“I'll take a scotch on the rocks. Make it top shelf.”

I make my way over to the bar where I order him a scotch and me a Diet Coke. Back at the table, I watch as Don takes a sip of his drink before wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“So, Don, I understand you have some information for me about Harrison Clarke’s background,” I begin. The faster we get this conversation over, the faster I can get out of this place and get home to Macy—and the faster I can send Guilt back to the shadows.

He glances around surreptitiously before he leans his elbows on the table, leans closer to me, and I catch a whiff of his scotch breath. “I know the guy who used to teach him figure skating back in the day.”

“You do?”

He narrows his eyes. “You don't seem surprised that a hockey player used to be a figure skater.”

I think of the way Harry coaxed Macy so sweetly and gently onto the ice, how he showed off his skills dressed in his Santa suit at the arena. No, I'm not surprised he was once a figure skater.

“I saw him perform at one of the Blizzard Christmas events recently,” I reply. “He was surprisingly good, even in his Santa suit, which must have been a hindrance to that kind of movement.”

“He did?”

“It was all over the media. Everyone knew the figure skating Santa was Harrison Clarke.”

He pulls his lips into a line as he scrubs the gray stubble on his cheek. “I bet you didn't know he was involved in a scandal back in his figure skating days.”

I pull my brows together. Harry was involved in a figure skating scandal?

As shocking as this allegation is, I remind myself I'm here as a journalist, not as the woman currently dating Harrison Clarke.

I rearrange my features into mild journalistic interest. “No. I did not. I'm assuming that's why you wanted to meet me? To tell me about this alleged scandal?”

“It's not alleged. It happened.” He takes another sip of his scotch, again wiping his hand across his mouth.

Someone needs to get this guy a napkin.

“Doping.”

I blink him in shock. “Excuse me?”

“Let me spell it out for you, missy,” He begins and I can't help but bristle at his condescension. “Harrison Clarke, Blizzard defenseman, the hockey player everybody loves, was involved in a doping scandal back when he was a teenager living in Portland.” He leans back in his chair, satisfied with his inflammatory statement.

I stare at him in disbelief. “By doping you mean performance enhancing drugs?” I ask, trying to keep my tone level.

“Yup,” he replies gruffly.

I might only have started spending time with Harry recently, but from what I know of him, I can't imagine he would ever be involved in something as down and dirty as using performance enhancement drugs, particularly not as a teenager.

I search my memory banks for something—anything—to do with Harry and figure skating from our time in high school. I draw a total blank. He was Mr. Hockey back then, right from when he arrived at our school at the start of Senior Year, attracting the kind of attention a cute new athletic guy does, but figure skating? He sure wasn't known for that.

But then there’s the fact he can move and jump and twist and turn like a figure skater, as he showed us that time at the arena.

“I didn’t think you knew,” Don says with a grin.

“When was this?” I ask, my heart banging like a drum.

“It all happened when he was about sixteen or seventeen, before he moved to Chicago. In fact, my contact told me he and his mom moved here because of the scandal. Fresh start and all that. That's when he switched to hockey.”

My brain races to make sense of all this. I didn't know him before he moved to Chicago. It's possible he was a figure skater back when he lived in Portland. But I cannot reconcile the man I know with a cheat.

“Can you corroborate this, Mr. Mitchell? If true, this is a serious allegation. It would mean Harrison Clarke broke the law.”

“Yup.”

“Could I meet your contact to talk about it firsthand.”

He shakes his head, twisting his face. “No can do. He's private like that, especially after the scandal.”

“Surely you can see that something as serious as an allegation of doping needs to be corroborated. I can't just go on a story from you, someone who wasn't present during this alleged scandal.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “I thought you hated the guy.”

This guy thinks I would run a story without getting my facts straight simply because I supposedly hate someone? I wouldn’t even do that to Slippery Stephen.

“My feelings about Harrison Clarke are irrelevant right now. It’s the facts that matter, Don.”

He puts his hands in the air. “Take it or leave it, missy. I got other people lining up to meet me.”

I take a sip of my Diet Coke, stalling for time. I need to be objective about this, get what Don knows and then go digging further.

“What can you tell me about what happened back then?”

He leans his elbows back on the table, a smile teasing his lips. “He was a hot shot figure skater. You know the type: crazy good from a young age. They were calling him a child prodigy. He got local press coverage and everything.”

I knit my brows together. Surely I would know about this if he was such a big deal back then, if not now then back when I was a teenager?

“No one’s ever talked about Harrison Clarke being a figure skater.”

“That's because he changed his name after the scandal.”

My jaw drops. “He changed his name?”

“His parents got divorced so he took his mom’s name. Used to be Harrison Soutar. You should look him up. I don't know who told him to change his name, but it was a smart move. Nowadays he’s a hot shot in the NHL and no one knows that he once was an illegal drug user in another sport.”

My mind races like a go cart down a hill. Harrison’s a cheat? Worse, a cheat who used performance enhancing drugs to get ahead in his sport?

“Thank you. I'll do that,” I say as I tap the name “Soutar” into my phone.

“It's all there. Videos of him performing, and what happened when the scandal broke.”

“What made you come to me about this now?”

He shrugs. “These NHL players get too big for their boots, getting the fame, earning the big bucks, and having all those women just throwing themselves at them simply because of what they do. Guys like Harrison Clarke need to be taken down a peg or two.”

If I haven't thought it before, I do now. Don is a super nice guy.

“I'll have a look into it, but with all due respect, I can't report on something that's not coming from the actual source. I'm sure you understand.”

My hope is that this is all some made-up story that Don in his bitterness has decided to share. Maybe he wanted to be a hockey player himself but couldn't grow over six foot. I throw my eyes over him. Or five foot five.

“It's the God's honest truth,” he assures me. “My friend swears by it.”

“On that. If what you're saying is true, it's a big story. I’ll need a name.”

Part of me hopes he won't give me what I'm asking for and this story can die here in this Irish pub at the sanitized table. The other part of me, the journalist who can see that this has the potential to be a big story, the kind of story that can get me that promotion and more? That side of me wants it.

Even if I fear what it would mean for Harry and me.

He seems to think about it for a moment, taking another sip of his drink. As he places the glass back on the table, the ice clinking, he says, “The coach’s name was Garth Gluckman, But you didn't hear it from me.”

I tap his name into my phone. Noticing the time, I tell Don I need to get going.

“Thank you for this,” I say, not sure if I mean it.

“I look forward to seeing how Clarke reacts,” he sneers, and once again I think what a nice guy as I rush out of the pub, my mind whirring, desperate for air.

The thoughtful, funny, kind man I know could never do something like this. I know it, just as I know myself.

But then my fears begin to rear their heads, whispering that I should never trust a man, that he will always deceive me. That Harry’s just like my ex, and that it’s only a matter of time before he brings my world crashing down around my ears.