“Sure is. Who’s the lucky lady? Or maybe I should sayunluckylady, if the rumors are true.”
Dane scoffed. “Whatever. I know how it looks, but nothing happened. Believe it or not.”
“Idon’tbelieve it. But I also don’t care what, orwhom, you do in your free time.” She shook her head, a little miffed. “Can you please hurry up and take your shower? We’re running late.”
“Alright, alright. Sit tight. I’ll be back in a few.” He left for the master bedroom.
Chapter 9
Austen
Austen craned her neck to watch the athlete, wearing nothing but gym shorts, until he disappeared from view.
She didn’t think it was a coincidence that she kept running into DeHardt without his shirt on. Who was he trying to fool? Congratulations, Dane DeHardt—your body is a masterpiece. Thick, knotted biceps. Jutting, mountainous pecs. Rippling, washboard abs. Obliques a girl could sink her teeth into.
Yup, his physique was a work of art, alright. He was built like a Greek God.
Too bad the rest of himsucked.
And speaking of sucked: a hickey?Really?
As curious as she was to see it, she regretted having entered his house. Sure, it was bigger, more open and more beautiful than she’d expected. The winter sun filtered in from the enormous windows and skylights, bathing the house in bright, natural light.
But of course he’d only invited her in to pull some sleazy move like trying to separate her from her crew. And the way he ogled her when she sat on the sofa was justgross.Flattering in some strange way, maybe—but still gross. But was that why he invited her in? Did heseriouslythink she’d do anything with him, besides the agreed-upon interview?
Still.
When he asked her if there was anything she wanted to know, off-camera, it took every bit of restraint not to blurt it out—Campbell’s death, Hathaway’s absence, DeHardt’s struggles as the new captain, her sudden need for answers on how things had truly gone down ever since the Devils lost the Cup.
Because maybe, justmaybe,there was more to DeHardt than a douchey, horny bro always looking to get laid.
Thankfully, before she could ask, Thayer’s voice popped into her head to remind her:“The topic is absolutely off-limits.”
And it was a good thing, too, because who knew how DeHardt would react. What if he became enraged or violent? Without her crew there, who could save her if things went wrong?
Austen heard the faint hum of water rushing as DeHardt started his shower.
DeHardt was right about one thing; she was burning up in her jacket. She left it on, but removed her scarf for a little relief.
She checked the time and sighed.
We’re already late. I should go check on Johnny and Frederick.
Austen stood. In search of the front door, she began the meandering walk through DeHardt’s labyrinthine mansion. Somewhere along the way, she took a wrong turn.
She ended up in DeHardt’s den. Three gargantuan sofas were dwarfed by an even bigger television mounted on the wall. With Ping-Pong, foosball, and air hockey tables, the place looked like a teenage boy’s utopia.
Athletes are really just overgrown boys, aren’t they?
The framed memorabilia decorating the walls drew Austen deeper into the den. DeHardt had collected jerseys from teammates and rival players, too—including guys he’d fought with his fists. The jerseys were autographed, neatly folded, and framed.
It’s a shame we can’t film him in this room. The fans would love to see this place.
She peered into a glass display case that boasted all the medals he’d won and knickknacks he’d procured over the course of his career. A picture of a teenage DeHardt at the NHL draft, looking awfully boyish and cute: a picture of DeHardt with his helmet off and his hand over his heart, staring at the flag during the national anthem. The puck from his very first NHL goal, his hundredth goal, his two-hundredth goal …
Suddenly, a certain section of the display case caught her eye. The partition was dedicated to one player, a face she now recognized, thanks to her research.
It was Ryan Campbell.
