My boss seems content with the work I’ve sent her so far, so I guess I should call that a win. I do have the tiniest glimmer of hope that the games will be a bit more entertaining. But I’m not holding my breath.
And I can’t hold my bladder much longer either. I’m starting to think drinking a large frozen latte before coming to the arena wasn’t my smartest move. Or maybe it was. At least I’ll have an excuse to stretch my legs a bit.
I squeeze past my fellow reporters and exit the bleachers, trying to find the bathroom, but the people who run this rink seem to be allergic to signage. There’s no one to stop me, either, so I just wander, holding my bladder the best I can.
Finally, I spot the restrooms and go in to relieve myself.
I walk back the same way I came, or at least that’s what I think. I’m honestly starting to doubt my sense of direction, because I don’t recognize anything right now. I’m in a corridor with a bunch of doors, smelly equipment, and massive industrial laundry carts that look like they’ve seen war.
The smell of must and body odor grows stronger, and before I know it, I stumble into a large locker room. It’s empty, all the players being on the ice. And though I have a strong feeling I shouldn’t be here, that only fuels my curiosity even more.
I know, I know. I’m not supposed to be investigating anything, but hey, it’s still reporting on the sport, right? It’s not my fault if I stumble onto a scandal while I’m here. Actually, it’s myduty. Not to mention I might very well die if I don’t have something juicy to work on. I avoided yet another seedy conversation earlieras I was waiting for my latte. I ran out of that coffee shop so fast, I almost fell into an open manhole in the middle of the street. This assignment is starting to threatenmy life.
I take a step back and reenter the corridor, making sure it’s empty. I open a few doors and find an office.
Bingo. If there’s dirt, it’s probably in here.
“Hey,” someone calls, and I freeze, my hand still on the doorknob.
I suck in a small breath and force a bright smile, pivoting to face whoever just caught me red-handed as I crank up the charm to full throttle. “Oh, hi. I’m just—”
My words catch in my throat. It’s Baptiste Marchand, skates still on, arms crossed over the heavy equipment on his chest.
“Oh. It’s you,” I say, dropping the explanation I was cooking up.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I quickly reply.
A shadow of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looked an awful lot like you were about to snoop in my coach’s office.”
I start brainstorming a clever lie, but the look on his face tells me he won’t believe anything short of the truth. “Fine,” I say, my shoulders sagging. “I’m bored, okay? I hate sports. I hate hockey. I need something to get me going, or I willdrop dead, I swear.”
He presses his lips together. “And you think you’re going to find something to spark your interest…here?”
“Don't tell me there's no scandal behind the scenes in the NHL, or I will be highly disappointed.” And it would mean that this sport is even more boring than I thought, if that’s even possible.
“I really don’t think there is.”
“Come on,” I press. “Don’t you know a coach who embezzled charity money or a player who leaked play strategies to impress a girl? Or maybe a mascot who runs an illegal betting pool for extra cash? You’ve gotta give mesomething.”
He shakes his head, coughing out a laugh. “You're seriously unhinged, you know that? We’re here from different teams, and it’s a temporary tournament. I’m pretty sure you won’t find any big scandals here. You’d have to infiltrate each team separately.”
I cross my arms. “Is that your way of telling me your team have secrets?”
He chuckles. “Definitely not.”
“Great,” I say with a scoff, then pause.
We just stand there, eyes locked, and for a moment, there’s nothing I want more than to understand everything that’s hiding behind those piercing green eyes and that lingering accent.
“Could you at least give me an exclusive interview or something?” I ask, seizing the opportunity. “I noticed you don’t talk about your life much.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You want to investigate my personal life?”
I cock my head to the side, challenging him with my eyes. “Why not? You have something to hide?”
“No,” he immediately says.
