Chapter Two #2
I closed the door to my office and turned on the television. Nothing new to report for the ten o’clock spot, so I flipped the channels, stopping on a replay of the hockey game. Maybe if I forced myself to watch, I’d understand what the hell the fuss was.
“Okay, well, yeah, that was pretty awesome,” I said, watching Rip skate backward while passing a puck.
The speed the players maintained, all the while keeping their feet under them and watching the puck, was impressive.
I sat forward as the opposing team’s player raced toward the Blades’ net.
Recalling that the obnoxious Denis was the goalie, I homed in on him.
There was a scuffle in front of the net, and I couldn’t see how Denis prevented the puck from going in, but he did. “All right. That was good.”
I ended up watching the entire game. It was fast-paced, heart-pounding, and I hated to admit, damned awesome.
And yes, Denis Bouvier was an incredible machine, slapping away shots left and right.
I understood why Rip was named the Most Valuable Player, but in my mind, Denis had earned it.
Not that I’d ever mention it to that pompous jerk.
I checked my phone, shocked to see I only had about half an hour to review the script and see what we were going live with. “Dammit. I never should’ve watched that stupid game.”
I turned on the lighted mirror on my desk and checked my face.
“Pretty good, considering you’ve been up since six.
” I brushed my hair and checked my shirt and tie.
The television show had moved on from the hockey game to “Superstars Then and Now” in hockey, and I was treated to Denis’s publicity picture.
Snapping dark eyes, a wicked grin, and slightly longer hair gave him a rakish appeal, almost like a pirate.
I couldn’t look away as they showed him and Rip hugging after their first Stanley Cup win the previous year.
What would it be like…?
Horrified at my thought, I hurried out of the office to the newsroom.
**
The drive to Adrian’s brother’s house upstate took close to two hours. I could’ve taken the train, but that would put me at the mercy of someone else’s schedule, and I liked to be in control of my time. Especially when it came to leaving.
The house was a beautiful Tudor on several acres of land surrounded by towering trees. Birds chirped overhead. I’d worried about parking, but a valet had been arranged, and all I’d needed was to hand my keys to a kid in a white jacket.
A woman with a clipboard in hand met me on the path leading to the house, and behind her, a server waited with a tray of champagne flutes, the golden bubbles sparkling in the sunlight. I rarely drank, but my one weakness was champagne.
“Hello. May I have your name?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, how silly of me. You’re Sterling Forest, the newscaster. Adrian told me to be on the lookout for you. Just go right up the path. Please have some champagne and enjoy yourself, Mr. Forest.”
“Thank you.”
I took a flute and meandered around the house, enjoying the sunlight and birdsong.
I entered the backyard—a huge expanse where a billowy white tent had been set up.
An arched canopy filled with flowers stood at the end of a runner, and white chairs were set in rows.
A violinist and flutist played softly, but I saw a DJ booth under the tent and knew I’d be long gone before that part of the evening started.
As expected, I didn’t recognize anyone—almost all the men were large and obviously athletes.
Some were with women, others with men or single.
I spotted Adrian with Rip at his side, talking to the only other person I recognized, Adrian’s brother, and walked over to greet them.
“You made it,” Adrian exclaimed. “I’m so glad. Thank you so much for coming. It means a lot to me.”
“Thank you for having me, and congratulations.” I raised my glass in a toast and took a sip.
The bubbles danced on my tongue. He really was a sweet guy, and it was clear that he adored Rip.
And from the possessive heat in Rip’s eyes, the feeling was mutual.
I wondered what it would be like, giving myself up so completely to someone.
I drank more champagne.
“You’ve met my brother, but not Lisa, his wife.” Adrian introduced us, and I smiled.
“Hello. You have a beautiful home. Thank you for having me.”
“Thanks, but that’s only because I had a cleaning crew in.” Her good-natured laughter rose in the air. “With two kids, three dogs, a cat, and a rabbit, it’s impossible otherwise. We come up here for the summer and long weekends, and it’s amazing what can accumulate.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Neil said with affection and kissed her cheek. “She’s the glue. All that plus a full-time job. I couldn’t do it.”
“Of course not, darling.” She patted his shoulder. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Sterling. Adrian talks about you all the time, and of course we watch your newscast. You’ve elevated Channel 8 the past few years.”
I didn’t normally allow compliments to go to my head, but I couldn’t help the rush of pleasure.
“Thank you. I’m trying to make this local station be more investigative and not into the fluff.
More like the national news.” I tipped my head to Adrian.
“And I was lucky to have Adrian join me. I think he’s got a terrific future in newscasting. ”
Adrian blushed. “Thank you. That means the world to me.”
We stood for a minute or two, idly chatting. I finished my champagne and handed the flute to a passing server.
“We really should mingle,” Rip pointed out to Adrian. “I see some of the guys, and Dev and Brody just showed up. Plus a few board members from GAINS.”
“GAINS?” My brow furrowed. “What’s that?”
“Gay Athletes in Sports,” Adrian explained. “Rip, along with Devlin Summers and Brody Martin from the Brooklyn Kings, are the co-founders. Other gay athletes have joined as well. I’d better go say hello.” Adrian gave us a quick smile before hurrying off with Rip.
“Would you excuse me for a moment too, please?” Lisa asked. “I need to check with the caterer.”
“Of course.” I was left with Neil Hunt, whom I knew to be in charge of a vast sports media conglomerate. “I’m not much of a sports person, I’m afraid. Neither of those names mean much to me other than they’re on a New York team. I’m sure I won’t know any of the people here.”
“Au contraire, monsieur journaliste de télévision,” a husky voice purred in my ear. “You know me.”
I turned, and despite my dislike of the man, I almost swallowed my tongue. Denis Bouvier stood before me in a navy-blue suit and white shirt open at the neck. Golden stubble shadowed his jaw while his hard eyes clashed with mine.
A grin—evil or devilish, I couldn’t decide which—kicked up his lips. “We meet again.”