At least not more than I care about the other athletes I’ll be interviewing during this tournament.
So what if his voice sends chills down my arms, or if he’s built like a Greek statue?
They all are. And besides, I'm just here to pay my dues.
Bide my time until I can get back into action again.
And I won’t let some pretty boy with a murky past pull me back into the investigation vortex.
Unable to focus on these boring interviews, I decide to grab lunch to clear my head and get some fresh air. I order a sandwich at a local bakery before taking a stroll around the block. I spot a pharmacy, and after a moment of deliberation, I head inside. I forgot to packTylenol—I’m sure I’ll need some if I’m going to survive this—and snacks would be nice to have around. Maybe they even have my favorite Twix here. None of the vending machines at the hotel had them. Mr. Celebrity probably cleared them out.
I’m scanning the candy section when I overhear two women speaking in hushed voices. My ears perk on instinct.
“I’m telling you, he was back again this morning,” one whispers, clutching a shopping basket to her chest.
“Don’t say that here,” the other murmurs, glancing over her shoulder. “If anyone hears us, we’re in trouble. They said to keep quiet until they sort it out.”
Needles of unease prickle down my spine.
I try not to eavesdrop on their conversation, but I’m hooked.
What are they talking about? Who told them to keep quiet?
Could it be a piece of local news that can’t be leaked yet, or someone showing up where he shouldn’t be?
No. I force my attention away as they continue swapping whispers and murmurs, focusing instead on the big display of sugar and fat in front of me. Then, a familiar bright package catches my eye—Salted Caramel. Yes. I grab a bag, but the women distract me again.
“Honestly, someone’s going to notice,” the first woman hisses.
“Keep your voice down,” the second mutters. “We’ll lose our jobs if this gets out.”
Resisting the urge to start humming loudly to cover their voices, I grab all the Twix bags from the shelf and hurry to the cashier.
I bag my purchases and practically sprint back to the hotel. Okay, maybe going out wasn’t such a good idea after all. Well, it wasn’t acompletemistake, since I’m now cradling a heavy bag of chocolate caramelly goodness in my arms.
I barely take two steps in the hotel before a familiar towering figure fills my vision. Baptiste is sauntering in the opposite direction, on his way out. He’s wearing a fitted navy jacket over a white T-shirt, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that should really come with a warning label.
His eyes rove over me before dropping to my overflowing bag. A small grin pulls at his lips.
“Sure you have enough there? I still have some in my room, in case you need more.”
I roll my eyes in lieu of an answer and keep walking.
“Hey,” he calls after me, forcing me to turn around. “I didn’t see you at practice today. You know the media is allowed to watch from the sidelines, right?”
I cock my head. “Why, you missed me? Didn’t have enough fans there to watch your every move, Mr. Celebrity?”
He just looks at me, still expecting an answer—steady, unbothered, annoyingly patient. There’s something infuriating about the way he refuses to take the bait. Most people either snap back or laugh a little too hard. But this guy, he just waits. Like he knows I’ll cave first.
“I’m covering the women today,” I finally say, switching my bag to my other hand. “They have practice this afternoon. There’s only so much hockey I can take in one day.”
“In that case, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, his gaze not leaving mine.
Ugh. Don’t remind me. Another day of hockey drills and locker room interviews, pretending I care about this sport.
I don’t even bother to hide my grimace. “I can hardly wait.”
6
