8. Sophie
CHAPTER 8
SOPHIE
I tap the thirty-second rewind arrow to listen to Luke’s answers about why he chose hockey. I’m not so much listening to what he’s saying as to how he says it. His words speed up at key points, revealing a hint of his passion for the game. Then it’s as if something sneaks in and shuts him down. I jot down a reminder to do some research on his time with the Barracudas. Maybe that will help me figure out the enigma that is Luke Jameson.
The recording continues playing what’s left of his curtailed interview. My pen pauses at the way his voice deepens and gets rougher. My chest aches, and my pulse spikes all at once. It’s like his words sprouted vines that are tangling with my heart and tying knots in my chest. Maybe those vines have thorns because this is a weird mix of compassion and prickly attraction.
The memory of his smile and that dimple in his right cheek flashes in my head for the umpteenth time. I’ve tried to blow it off as a smirk. He was just being his usual arrogant self, insinuating that I make assumptions, which I do not. A natural conclusion is NOT an assumption. I looked it up, and Webster has two definitions for a conclusion and an assumption.
The man held the door open for me when I left and continued to walk beside me. How was I supposed to know that he parked next to me? And I asked him if he was walking me to my car. I didn’t assume he was. That’s why I asked, for crying out loud!
I growl to myself, then open my laptop to scan through the photos I have so far. Marty asked for an outline of my plan for the series so he could plan the spreads, but my eye is drawn to the images I took of Luke before his phone call interrupted the interview.
His face is turned away in most of them, reminding me of one of those angsty shots from a reality show. You know, the ones that are supposed to tug your heartstrings and capture your interest. But in this particular one, he’s looking directly at the camera. His expression holds a mysterious feel—almost as if he’s on the verge of saying something meaningful or, heaven forbid, a smile, which he doesn’t seem to do a lot.
And his eyes…they’re captivating…dark and piercing…a well of mystery in of themselves. And, of course, I search for a hint of that dimple to see if it’s there all the time, which it’s not.
That old expression about a picture speaking a thousand words comes to mind. I don’t think I’d have much trouble writing a thousand words to define Luke Jameson. On the outside, he appears like a man of quiet strength, but upon closer look, there’s something tumultuous brewing on the inside of his hot exterior.
Cue a cliche needle screeching across vinyl, bringing an end to my errant thoughts and imaginations involving one very attractive yet mysterious hockey player. A reality check moment, you could say, where the girl—that would be me—realizes she’s way too interested in a guy who might not be into her.
But the way he kept watching me last night, then smiling with amusement as I left in a huff…what if it’s more? What if he’s attracted to me as well, but his entire issue with reporters—and journalists—is holding him back ?
Oh, please tell me I’m not one of those women who’s drawn to broody men. That’s the last thing I need in my life. I could quickly fall down a rabbit hole here and get overly involved, figuring out why Luke is so distrusting of reporters. It’s hard enough sharing his pain over losing a parent. Unlike Luke, I’ve had more time to recover and heal since losing Dad five years ago.
Like Luke’s mother’s death, my dad’s was unexpected. A heart attack took him from this earth way too young, leaving me an adult orphan. All my friends still have at least one parent in their lives. I have none.
Despite his father being alive, Luke said he hasn’t been in the picture since he was eight. So, in that sense, he and I are a lot alike. At least I have Marty. Even if he is my boss, he’s always been in my life, like a favorite uncle—my funcle, as I call him. I never expected to wind up working for him, though. So far, it’s worked out okay. Occasionally, he has to appear a little more strict with me, but I know that’s his way of ensuring the other reporters and journalists realize he’s not about favoritism. And I wouldn’t want him to be.
That must be it—I’m drawn to Luke because I understand his loss in a very real and personal way. In college, one of my professors said my articles and photos revealed my compassion for my subject’s pain and struggles, which would make me a great journalist one day.
All three of my previous boyfriends implied at some point that I was either too emotional or too sensitive. My first boyfriend in high school said I should join the drama club when he broke up with me. That was right after I told him he wasn’t the inspiration behind the chivalrous and kind hero I’d written in a short story for English Lit. He threw a tantrum, slamming his locker, and stormed off. I did NOT miss the irony in that encounter.
The second one happened in college. He admitted he lacked the energy to deal with my constant perkiness. That it was him—not me. That should have clued me into his idiocy right there. Seeing him a few months later, dressed as a Goth, explained a lot. But in all honesty, he didn’t like to get excited about anything. He broke up with me at an art gallery because I was so moved by a piece that I wept. I think he was more embarrassed than anything else.
That brings me to my last boyfriend, who implied I was too impassioned. Seriously? Just because I love going to the aquarium to watch the sea otters? I can’t help it if their cute antics make me forget I’m an adult and act like a five-year-old. I mean, come on! How can you not squeal and laugh at those adorable furry creatures?
I realize I’ve stared at that picture of Luke for almost ten minutes while my brain took an analytical day trip. He asked if I could avoid capturing his full face, so I should probably delete it. But the image captures more than his appearance. His essence shines through the light reflected in his eyes, the way he’s leaning forward as if he wants to have a conversation, and the potential promise of a smile tipping the corners of his mouth up just so.
There’s a definitive mood to the picture as if it’s alive. I can’t really describe what it is, but I recognize that feeling in my gut when I’ve captured near perfection. And Luke Jameson is pretty darn perfect.
Bummer. This would make a fantastic introduction to the fans. I can’t bring myself to delete it, so I’ll just move it to another folder.
Before I can do that, though, Payton shows up in my doorway for our scheduled interview. I slam my laptop shut so he won’t think I’m pining after his teammate, which I’m not.
At all.
I wave him in, then point to the bench seat. “Hey, Payton. Go ahead and sit down.”
“There?” His brows lift to his hairline in that signature way I’ve come to recognize with him. He pushes on the surface of the bench.
I giggle behind my hand. “I promise it won’t break.”
He shoots me a grin, then positions himself in a series of awkward poses.
“Just relax. No need to pose.” I suppress another giggle at his attempt to look like Rodin’s The Thinker .
He chuckles yet sounds nervous. “Just a little sport there.”
After starting the recording on my phone, I grab my camera and go over my process with Payton so he knows what to expect. He relaxes visibly and answers my questions with that smooth accent of his. I can tell this interview will go much easier than Luke’s did. For one, he’s more engaging, although he didn’t seem to want to talk about his family in Britain. He would redirect and ask me a question, which I found fascinating. Another mystery to solve, perhaps?
I place my camera on my desk as we finish. “Great. I think I have everything I need. Did you have any questions?”
He gets to his feet but pauses in front of me like a shy first-grader. “Just one, if I may.”
“Sure.” I nod to encourage him to go on.
“Are you free for dinner tonight?”
Before I can answer, the sound of someone clearing his throat from behind me brings both mine and Payton’s attention to the doorway.
Luke walks into the opening, his facial expression bordering on the dark side. At least I’m not the one on the receiving end of his impaling stare this time.
Payton bounces his gaze from Luke to me. “Right. Let’s just forget I said that, and I’ll be on my way.”
He darts out the door so fast I think my bangs fluttered. I didn’t realize a hockey player could move as fast off the ice as on. Look out, Flash. You have some serious competition.
I don my fiercest expression to give Luke an indicator of how I feel. “What was that? ”
His terminator impression shifts to confusion as he walks into my office, making the limited space feel even smaller. “What was what?”
“I was in the middle of an interview?—”
“Sounded as if you finished.” He smirks, as if he thinks he has me cornered like a cat chasing after a mouse.
Well, this mouse just found her teeth. I cross my arms. “How long exactly were you standing there? In case you didn’t notice, you’re not a small man, which means your hulk filling the doorway is very noticeable. So that makes me wonder if you were listening in before you made your presence known?”
There. Take that, Mr. Cat.
His eyes sparkle with amusement as one side of his mouth quirks up. “So, you think I’m noticeable?”
I drop my arms, tempted to squeak for help. “Is that all you took away from that?”
He does a curt shrug. “All that matters.”
I point to my door. “You can leave now.”
“But I just got here.”
“Okay, then, why are you here? Are you ready to finish your interview?”
For the first time since he made his presence known, his gaze wavers, dropping to his feet, then up to some spot over my shoulder.
I’ll take that as a no. I’m tempted to turn around and see what he’s looking at, but I have a feeling it’s the photo I just hung this morning of my dad and me at my college graduation.
“Is that your father?” He gestures to the picture.
I keep my gaze forward. “Yes.”
“He looks proud of you.”
“He was.”
“Was?” His brows pinch, and his eyes soften as they connect with mine, as if he’s seeing me for the first time.
My patience appears to be limited today because I’m out of conversation points. “He died five years ago. Heart attack. Anything else you’d like to know?”
He tucks his hands in the pockets of his trainers and shakes his head. “No. Sorry to hear about your father. You must miss him.”
His question almost sounds curious. I remember feeling like that after my father’s death. Anytime I met someone who’d suffered a loss, I wanted to ask a million questions about how they dealt with their grief. Probably my way of looking for ways to process mine. Maybe Luke’s doing the same thing.
My irritation slides into this desire to help him find some answers, even if it means being vulnerable with him. I take a breath, then let out a harsh exhale. “Every. Single. Day. He was my best friend.”
He nods before turning to leave.
I lurch forward a step. “Wait. You never said why you came.”
Luke comes to a stop and pivots halfway around, giving me the full effect of very photogenic profile. “Doesn’t matter.”
Then he strides down the hall and turns the corner, leaving me a tad shell-shocked by our conversation. Or was it a confrontation?
What set him off more? The interview with Payton? With his clear distrust of the press, I’m almost positive he was snooping. Or did he overhear Payton asking me out?
But that would mean Luke was jealous, right?
Perhaps the bigger question I should consider is, why does that make my heart stutter?