Read Online Power Play (Center Ice Book 2) by Katherine Stark - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katherine Stark
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jerseys, and I have to force myself to look away. Mariko leaps up onto her seat and screams wildly, so I muster a half-hearted “Woo!” as the Washington Eagles team take the ice, one by one.
“Left Wing, Sergei Drakonov!”
So he really is back. The crowd erupts in stomps and whistles and cheers. Someone blasts an airhorn right behind us, and I jump.
“Center, Marcus Wright!”
The cheers are nearly as enthusiastic, but I do my best not to vary my volume from cheering for Sergei. Marcus circles the ice, waving to the crowd, and am I just imagining it, or does his gaze rest on my seat? I glance away quickly.
Then look back at him.
It really is a shame that hockey requires so much body armor and warm weather gear. Mentally, I summon up an image of his bared chest and abs, flawlessly sculpted, heaving and sweaty beneath my palms.
The announcer iterates through the rest of the Eagles team, then introduces the Nashville Hunters. I try not to think of Marcus. Anything but Marcus. It doesn’t mean anything that he gave me the tickets. We’ve had our fun, and now he’s done with me.
I tried starting to write up my notes on Marcus earlier today. Wright looks like a brutal, efficient hockey machine, but he nurses a lingering heartache . . . Sure, his admission was off the record, but I can find other ways of confirming it. I dug up a few of his old college friends through a little Facebook magic, and I’m hoping to get a little confirmation of the story he gave me.
It’s not a smear job—not about Marcus. If anything, it paints him in a far more human light than I’ll be shedding on the rest of the Eagles administration. If I can just find the rest of the dirt that I know is there. I make a mental note to pester Jael Pereira some more, and soon.
The buzzer sounds, and the first period begins.
Marcus is magical on the ice—he can weave and bob through any wall of players. I don’t yet have the sports vocabulary to understand what’s going on, and it’s all I can do to keep up with a puck, but I can tell he has an edge to his movements that some of the other players lack. Sometimes, though, it looks like he gets ahead of himself. A smirk to myself, remembering how I scolded him to be patient. Reminding him he had to earn his way.
Shit. No, Fi, you cannot be thinking that way. It was a one-time thing. Never to happen again.
Mariko watches breathlessly right alongside me, and when she realizes I’m not fully grasping what’s happening, she starts to point out key elements of the game to me.
“Okay, see, the Eagles have the power play, so the Hunters are doubling up on defense around their goal. Now watch Drakonov—he’s looking for a way through the Hunters’ screen. He’s looking for Wright. Snakes it between their legs—and Wright connects the pass beautifully and—YESSSSSS!!!!!”
She flings her arms skyward as the sound of the goal buzzer fills the arena. I join her, screaming, as sirens crash and the air horns wail and everyone shouts themselves raw. And in that moment, I can see how someone can get caught up in the drama, the tragedy and triumph, of sports. I can see how they might matter to people who need something to care about.
But it can’t change anything. I have to get my story. When the trail goes cold, find a new trail.
Like Mum always says.
At the period break, I check my phone, and grin to see one of my Facebook messages has already been responded to. David Gresham, now a law student in DC, but formerly a dear friend of Marcus Wright’s from College of Adams & Jefferson.
Okay, sure, I can meet. But please—I don’t want you to name me in the article. I’ll bring a confidentiality contract. Bar None, 9pm. If you’re not there, you’re SOL.
I raise one eyebrow. Something has him spooked about whatever it is he’s going to say. I quickly thumb back a response. I’ll be there.
“Sorry, the investigative trail calls,” I tell Mariko. “I’ve gotta go.”
“What? But
“Left Wing, Sergei Drakonov!”
So he really is back. The crowd erupts in stomps and whistles and cheers. Someone blasts an airhorn right behind us, and I jump.
“Center, Marcus Wright!”
The cheers are nearly as enthusiastic, but I do my best not to vary my volume from cheering for Sergei. Marcus circles the ice, waving to the crowd, and am I just imagining it, or does his gaze rest on my seat? I glance away quickly.
Then look back at him.
It really is a shame that hockey requires so much body armor and warm weather gear. Mentally, I summon up an image of his bared chest and abs, flawlessly sculpted, heaving and sweaty beneath my palms.
The announcer iterates through the rest of the Eagles team, then introduces the Nashville Hunters. I try not to think of Marcus. Anything but Marcus. It doesn’t mean anything that he gave me the tickets. We’ve had our fun, and now he’s done with me.
I tried starting to write up my notes on Marcus earlier today. Wright looks like a brutal, efficient hockey machine, but he nurses a lingering heartache . . . Sure, his admission was off the record, but I can find other ways of confirming it. I dug up a few of his old college friends through a little Facebook magic, and I’m hoping to get a little confirmation of the story he gave me.
It’s not a smear job—not about Marcus. If anything, it paints him in a far more human light than I’ll be shedding on the rest of the Eagles administration. If I can just find the rest of the dirt that I know is there. I make a mental note to pester Jael Pereira some more, and soon.
The buzzer sounds, and the first period begins.
Marcus is magical on the ice—he can weave and bob through any wall of players. I don’t yet have the sports vocabulary to understand what’s going on, and it’s all I can do to keep up with a puck, but I can tell he has an edge to his movements that some of the other players lack. Sometimes, though, it looks like he gets ahead of himself. A smirk to myself, remembering how I scolded him to be patient. Reminding him he had to earn his way.
Shit. No, Fi, you cannot be thinking that way. It was a one-time thing. Never to happen again.
Mariko watches breathlessly right alongside me, and when she realizes I’m not fully grasping what’s happening, she starts to point out key elements of the game to me.
“Okay, see, the Eagles have the power play, so the Hunters are doubling up on defense around their goal. Now watch Drakonov—he’s looking for a way through the Hunters’ screen. He’s looking for Wright. Snakes it between their legs—and Wright connects the pass beautifully and—YESSSSSS!!!!!”
She flings her arms skyward as the sound of the goal buzzer fills the arena. I join her, screaming, as sirens crash and the air horns wail and everyone shouts themselves raw. And in that moment, I can see how someone can get caught up in the drama, the tragedy and triumph, of sports. I can see how they might matter to people who need something to care about.
But it can’t change anything. I have to get my story. When the trail goes cold, find a new trail.
Like Mum always says.
At the period break, I check my phone, and grin to see one of my Facebook messages has already been responded to. David Gresham, now a law student in DC, but formerly a dear friend of Marcus Wright’s from College of Adams & Jefferson.
Okay, sure, I can meet. But please—I don’t want you to name me in the article. I’ll bring a confidentiality contract. Bar None, 9pm. If you’re not there, you’re SOL.
I raise one eyebrow. Something has him spooked about whatever it is he’s going to say. I quickly thumb back a response. I’ll be there.
“Sorry, the investigative trail calls,” I tell Mariko. “I’ve gotta go.”
“What? But
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