Page 11 of Ice Devil

“Six Heinekens and six shots of Mezcal.”

“Comin’ right up.”

I didn’t say anything, deciding it was best to see how she handled the closeness. However, I did tap on the bar’s surface a few times, humming a tune that I was pretty certain didn’t exist.

“Do you mind?” she finally asked in the same demanding tone as I’d heard before we’d gotten into the heat of the interview, which I had to admit had gone very well.

“I’m sorry?” I slowly turned my head. “Oh, you’re that reporter. Right?”

She lifted a single eyebrow the moment she finally acknowledged my presence. She’d yanked the ponytail holder from her hair, allowing the long, dark curls to fan over her shoulders. In the lighting of the bar, I was clearly able to see the scorn in her eyes as well as the same minuscule twitch from before.

I’d annoyed her.

“You knew the moment you walked in who I was, Mr. Kendrick. Or perhaps I should call you Man-whore of the Year. Isn’t that what your bunny girls call you?”

“Bunny girls?” I’d give her credit. She was quick with the tongue. “My puck bunnies know what I’m capable of.”

“Now I’m just going to vomit a little bit in my mouth, Mr. Kendrick.”

“I would think, given how close we became during the interview, we would be comfortable using first names at this point.”

When she snapped the lid of her laptop closed, I jumped on purpose. “Nothing personal, Mr. Kendrick, but we’re not going to be friends. No amount of pressure you might be inclined to use will change my article.”

“Is that what I was doing?”

“You and I both know you were. Or perhaps,” she offered with a smile while swiveling her barstool as she’d done upon my arrival, “you think I’m one of those women.”

“Those women? I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Please. The puck bunnies who hang all over every hockey player. The ones that turn up all over social media. I’m surprised I don’t see any outside the window waiting in droves, all hopeful you’ll pick them for the night.”

Her calm and cool demeanor from before showed signs of cracking. What was I saying? The cracks were turning into a fissure with the dam threatening to break wide open.

“Contrary to what you’ve heard, not every hockey player is a whore.” I purposely shifted my expression into looking hurt, my sister calling it a puppy dog look that I’d learned to perfect.

Her chuffed look was adorable, so much so I found myself sliding closer. Taunting her was a pleasant alternative to drinking with the guys. Not that I didn’t enjoy their company, but I’d grown weary of shoptalk every night of the week. I lived with two players and all they talked about was hockey.

“You’re right. That wasn’t fair. Including to the women.” She licked her lips. Again, on purpose. Oh, I could spar with her for days on end.

“I’ve met women who are there for the sport more than some of the men.”

“You mean the ones with their team’s colors painted on every inch of their bodies.” Her smirk was adorable. Should I tell her that?

Cringing, I cocked my head. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been forced to see a naked man painted in purple and gold.”

“You don’t see them when you’re on the ice.”

“Forgive me, but I’m just a little bit busy.”

My lousy attempt at making a joke brought an easier round of laughter, which sent a chill straight through to my bones with how crystal clear and lyrical hers was. “I guess you’re right. Just trust me that there are some men who take being a super fan just a little too seriously. Plus, they really shouldn’t run around without their shirts. Or their shorts.”

“Ugh. Maybe I’m glad I can’t see them,” I gritted out.

“If you’d like, I’ll send you a picture as a souvenir.”

The laughter continued until we both realized we didn’t have much to say to each other.

Me because I was suddenly the scrawny kid in junior high crushing on the girl in algebra class. Her because she obviously had been around the wrong men in her life.