Page 5 of Ice Devil

If anyone actually bottled and sold arrogance, a solid seventy percent of male sports stars and more than half that of female athletes would keep them in business forever, keeping a bottle in every location.

Refrigerators.

Lockers.

Glove compartments.

In my career as a sports reporter, the expression ‘I’ve seen it all’ had carried an entirely new meaning. Arrogance came in a dozen creative forms from confronting me in darkened hallways to a very nice and well-thought-out, let alone expensive marriage proposal to the typical act of bribery disguised as a special ‘gift’ because I’d rocked their world.

Bullshit.

What I’d learned in only recently being assigned to interview hockey players, especially those who’d made it to the NHL, was that most, although not all, were cocky sons of bitches. Before anyone, including their fans, decided to confront me on how dare I say something so atrocious, I had a thing or ten to show and tell providing proof.

And that was based on the shift in my career from covering football only occurring three months before. My boss hadn’t asked if I’d wanted to change directions. He’d told me in no uncertain terms I’d be taking over for a reporter who’d been covering hockey since the beginning of time. At least Jeff had only retired and not died while forced to watch yet another dull game. Evidently the lateral promotion, as Matthew had insisted had been bestowed on me, had come down from the owner of the media firm himself.

As if I should feel like the hand of God was showered down on me. The truth was they had no one else to fill Jeff’s shoes.

I knew what people would say. Hockey was exciting. Violent. Even passionate. But to me, the concept of a man with a stick in his hand hitting a rubber puck into a net held no appeal.

Yes, I knew all the right terms. Cold. But that didn’t mean I ate, drank, slept, and fucked hockey. Not a snowball’s chance in hell.

I’d been sent to Phoenix from Chicago with one goal. Interview the Kendrick brothers. Both drafted into the same new franchise, they were supposed to be the next Saint and Steven Masters, brothers who’d taken the hockey world by storm. They’d become stars on a grander scale, their talents turning both into national celebrities. Hell, the two had even walked the red carpets.

What was it with people worshipping male athletes?

I digressed. I was here to do my job and that’s exactly what would happen.

Beck offered a killer smile, finally lifting his gaze from my tits, where they’d been locked for the last sixty seconds.

“Hi,” he said. So coolly. So coyly. But there was something very odd about the way he was looking at me. Over the years of being in a heavily male-oriented field, I’d learned to read men fairly well. His reaction wasn’t the same as I’d seen with other players, other than the sweep of his gaze before noticing my physical reaction.

If I wasn’t mistaken, his reaction was possessive. That seemed to confuse us. With me, I was used to charging in on a series of preplanned questions. My silence was as unexpected as the way his chest rose and fell. At least I wasn’t sticking a camera in his face, forced to capture the awkward moment for both of us.

Snap out of it, Winters. You have work to do.

Blinking, I shoved aside the fact the man was at least six foot five of all muscles, the tiny towel unable to hide his thick, carved-to-perfection thighs or the deep V leading from his abdomen, disappearing under the pesky towel.

Somehow, I managed to pull out my notepad. While I’d tried using electronic equipment when chasing interviews, they always seemed to get in the way.

Especially in tight quarters.

Or wide-open spaces where the players liked to crowd mine on purpose. At least he was keeping an arm’s length away, which was almost chivalrous in comparison to what I was used to.

“Mr. Kendrick. I’m Sloane Winters from Channel 7 news and the Chicago Tribune here to interview you. How does it feel to be the reason the Hellions won this game?”

His smirk drew attention to his handsome face, aristocratic features with high cheekbones that seemed perfectly symmetrical. When he took a deep breath in preparing to answer, his strong jaw clenched. The action highlighted a pair of dimples. Wearing my Converse shoes, I was forced to tilt my head to try to look him directly in the eyes.

Which you always did with athletes. You never allowed yourself to look anywhere else. However, in doing so, I was caught studying his disheveled, sweaty, and perfectly sexy thick mop of hair.

The smirk widened and I fought everything in my reaction to keep from blushing. “I’m not going to lie and suggest my actions weren’t thrilling, but the win was an entire team effort. Without all the work, dedication, and sacrifice from my teammates, we wouldn’t be standing here today.”

When he’d started his soliloquy, I’d almost thought him humbler than I was used to. Then he had to give a speech as if accepting an Academy Award. I could feel my expression harden, my chest tightening.

Had I mentioned I couldn’t stand hockey players?

Make that double.

“Mr. Kendrick. While you might not understand or appreciate that I have a job to do, that’s why I’m here. The fact you have more talent in your little finger than most men do in their entire bodies is the reason I’m standing here asking you questions. Now, if you’d prefer, I can always find someone else who is far more… interesting to interview.”