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“Nope, but it’s okay,” I reply, bending down to grab the stylus. Something small and yellow catches my eye under the chair and I pick it up, too, turning it over in my fingers to find it’s a tiny yellow duck. Where the hell did this come from? Did it fall out of the hot angry guy’s bag? Why would he have a tiny yellow duck, though?
I shove it into my pocket and click the stylus to the side of the pad. “You’re a better secret keeper than I remember. How did you manage to keep this to yourself?”
“Are we on the record or…?”
“Off the record. Pens away, promise.”
“I was dying to tell everyone but couldn’t risk losing my shot. Oh, sorry, this is Harrison Roe and Phillip Marks. They’re Animal Control, too.”
“Nice to meet you both,” I say, shaking their hands. Their hands are like mitts wrapping around my tiny fingers, but I don’t mind it.
Benny slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Ian and I were mates through school. He wrote an article for the school paper about me that got the scouts at Whitmore’s attention. So I pretty much have him to thank for my whole career.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” My cheeks burn, and I quickly try to deflect. “Your affinity for home runs probably did more for it than I ever did.”
“So we were going to grab a bite. Want to come?” Harrison asks.
“Seriously? Oh my god, that would be amazing.” As if right on cue, my stomach grumbles loud enough for them all to hear. “Lead the way before I decide to take a bite out of one of you.” Harrison bites his bottom lip in a way that makes me think he wouldn’t be opposed to that idea. And as much as the thought of having his large hands on my body makes my dick twitch, I’m not about to mess up my shot as a real sportswriter by hooking up with a player.
Into the bank you go, Harrison Roe.
Chapter three
Duckie
I was all readyto let bygones be bygones when he asked to sit down beside me, but then I spotted his badge and name. Ian fucking Levram. The same Ian Levram who wrote the story that got me assigned to this tour.
I check in to the hotel and find a press package waiting for me on the bed. It has the whole itinerary laid out. I’ll be traveling on the bus with the players and six other journalists covering the tour. Nothing like it has ever happened before. We all signed agreements ensuring everything we hear while at practice and on the bus, places where the players normally don’t have to be too careful about what they say, is confirmed on or off the record before publishing. And unlike normal, they can claim off the record after whatever it is they’ve let slip that they would rather keep to themselves. I have no idea if it’s going to work, but it’s not like I have a hockey game to write about.
I skim down the list of names joining me and clench my jaw when I see Ian’s name, too. Urgh, this is going to be the longest twelve weeks of my life. I try to distract myself by going throughthe rest of the box. They’ve added a heap of swag, caps, water bottles, coffee mugs, shirts, and socks, for both sides. How I’m going to fit all this in with my things, I have no idea. I probably should have bought a proper suitcase. I take a quick shower, then scramble to get my copy finished and sent off to Yarro by six. Just as I click send on what was one of the hardest articles I’ve ever written, there’s a knock at the door.
“You have a package,” the older gentleman says, handing over a large cardboard box.
“Umm, thanks.”
Who would be sending me a package here? Maybe it’s another press thing.
I rip open the top of the box and burst out laughing. It’s filled with ducks and they’re in every size and almost all of them baseball themed. There are ones that have a cap and uniform painted on, ones that are all white and have the baseball stitching wrapping around them, and others that look like a tiny yellow duck’s head popping out of a baseball body. I tip them out onto the bed to get a better look at them and a card slips out, too.
Thought you might need a reminder to have a little fun. P.S. Lucas has bought us tickets to game seven. See you there, little bro.
I should have known Carter would do this. I had no room for all the press stuff. How the hell am I going to fit a box of ducks? That settles it. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to have to buy a bigger bag. I dump out my carry-on and backpack and scoop a heap of ducks into each before topping off the backpack with my jacket, a spare shirt, my laptop, and a digital notepad. Having the last two in my carry-on on the plane was stupid. I mean, I thought I would have time to hit the hotel before the press conference and could grab them then, but the delay and Ian fucking Levram meant I was scrambling with a fucking paper notepad and pen like a fossil.
I shove a couple of ducks into my pocket and head for the bar across the street. I know Yarro told me to stay out of trouble, and I will. Might even go home alone, too. But I need a distraction right now and music and a few drinks will be exactly that.
The bar is packed, and I make my way to the front, signaling to the bartender as I slide onto an open stool.
“What will you have?” the thirty-something bartender asks me.
“What’s good?”
“I make a great Manhattan.”
“Manhattan it is,” I reply, and he sets about making my drink. I scan the room. Booths surround the space with cocktail tables and stools scattered throughout. People are everywhere, their chatter barely audible over the music, but then I spot a few of the players sitting in a booth across from me. Maybe I can get in a few extra questions while I’m here.
“Anything else, darling?” the bartender asks, placing my drink down in front of me. I shake my head and pass him a ten. “Keep the change,” I say, grab the drink, and head through the crowd toward the booth.
“Mind if I join you?” I ask them, pulling over a seat before they can reply one way or the other. I’ve never really been shy. What’s the worst that can happen, they tell me to piss off?
