Page 3 of All That Glitters

It’s going to be awful, and I’m going to hate every second of it, but I’m going to make sure this is the best article Charlie has ever read. I narrow my eyes at Jameson.

Game on.

Chapter two

Spinning Out

Jameson Sinclair

That did not go the way I planned it. Charlie was supposed to like my idea, agree that I shouldn’t be the one to write it, then give it to Marigold. It would have meant maybe an interview or two with her, and pretending not to see her at games and practices while she took notes in her little brown notebook. That would have been torture enough, but it was worth it to give her an article she would excel at. Instead, I’m stuck working with the woman who hates me for the rest of the season.

I focus on my laptop, pretending to work when I know that Marigold is staring me down across the aisle. Ten years from now, I’m convinced I’ll still feel her hazel gaze. Even if we stay enemies or whatever it is we are in her eyes. This sort of instinct doesn’t go away. It’s as much a part of me as my DNA.

My mind conjures up a depressing scene of us passing by one another in a bookstore. Her with a stack of classics in her arms, me with a mystery tucked against my side. I feel her stare and I just know. We lock eyes for a breath before she pretends she didn’t see me at all. Maybe she rushes to leave, or maybe she hides within the shelves. Either way, she’ll leave me spinning out like a car on black ice. The same way she did the day she found out about the internship.

I close my eyes for a moment, willing myself to push away the pain. To shove it down, only to let it out when I have a helmet on and a stick in my hand. It’s not like I don't deserve to feel this way. After all, it’s my fault we’re in this situation. I’m the one who betrayed her, though I know it’s deeper than that, whether Marigold will admit to it or not. She didn’t push me away because I applied for the internship when we agreed not to. That was the excuse. A good one, I’ll admit, but still an excuse nonetheless.

“You can’t ignore me forever,” Marigold says, forcing me to open my eyes and look at her.

She’s wearing a fitted black turtleneck today. It makes her auburn hair stand out even more, despite that it’s piled on top of her head. A matching black pencil sticks out of it. I know her desk is hiding a plaid skirt and tights. I got to the newsroom earlier than her—a feat, given that she’s determined to beat me here—and watched her walk in. As always, I had to force myself not to stare. She’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.

“I wasn’t aware that I was ignoring you. Did you say something before now?” I ask.

She frowns. I’ve gotten used to seeing the expression on a daily basis.

“I need your schedule, so that I can know when practices are and when we can meet up to talk about the article.”

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms.

“Give me yours, and I’ll give you mine,” I reply.

She rolls her eyes. Another thing I’ve become accustomed to. Though that one I used to see even when we were friends. Marigold is fond of sarcasm and sass.

“I’m not the star of the article, so you don’t need my schedule.”

“I’m not the star either. It’s about the team, not me,” I retort.

Marigold leans forward over her desk. The newsroom is busy around us, as always after a pitch meeting. Unless someone chooses to listen in, it’s unlikely that anyone will know we’re arguing. Everyone is too preoccupied with their own articles or tasks.

“About the team that you play for. Was it not enough for you to have your name in the byline? Did you have to have it in the headline too?”

I scowl.

“You know me better than to think that.”

“I don’t know you at all,” she lies through her teeth.

I clench my jaw.

“If this is going to work, we’re going to need to be cordial,” I grit out.

“I disagree. I think I’ll accomplish the task just as well with hostility.” The smile she wears is in contrast to the barbs she throws. “Now, the schedule?”

“Yours first,” I demand in a cool tone.

“You don’t need mine. And if you won’t give me yours, I’ll simply look around for the first guy in a hockey sweatshirt and ask him for the practice schedule.” She stands up and smoothes her skirt. I avert my gaze from her legs.

Thinking about her seeking out one of my teammates has irrational anger coursing through my veins. They’re all good guys, but that doesn’t mean I want her asking for their schedule.