Heart of a Defender (Sable Creek Saints)

CHAPTER 1

THE ASSIGNMENT

***

Madison

I slam my car door shut, regretting the decision to wear heels to the press conference. The chilly wind cuts through my coat as I approach the arena, where the local hockey team, the Sable Creek Saints, is holding a pre-season event. I should be excited. A high-profile assignment like this is a golden opportunity for any sports journalist. But covering hockey? Not my first choice. Or my second. Or my tenth.

My phone buzzes with a message from my editor, Dave: Don’t screw this up.

Great. No pressure.

The arena looms ahead, a massive domed structure practically a second home for the town's hockey enthusiasts. As I step inside, the familiar scent of ice and rubber hits me, bringing back memories I’d rather suppress forever. I weave through the crowd of reporters, noticing their practical shoes and button-down shirts.

Why did I choose impractical footwear and a skirt? I stand out like a sore thumb.

I spot the media area, where the players will soon parade in front of us for interviews, and take my spot, elbow to elbow with journalist rivals. I take a deep breath and straighten my notebook. It's showtime.

The press conference starts with the usual pleasantries from the team’s PR manager. He then introduces the players one by one. When he gets to Zachary Brooks, the crowd perks up. He’s the team’s star player, and by the looks of it, he knows it. He strides onto the stage with an easy confidence that makes me cringe. He flashes a smile that probably melts hearts faster than the ice he skates on. But not mine.

I hold back the urge to roll my eyes. Arrogant athletes are my least favorite people. I’m way past being the fawning type.

Journalists hurl questions at the team, most of them softball fluff, not questions that make for compelling, career-defining articles. I wait for a lull, then raise my hand. “Zachary, Madison Collins, Sable Creek Times. Last season ended in disappointment for the Saints. What changes are you making to ensure this year’s outcome is different?”

His smile fades a fraction. He locks eyes with mine, and for a moment, I’m caught off guard by the intensity of his stare. Or is it more of a glare? Two can play that game.

“It’s Zach,” he says coolly. “We’re focusing on teamwork and discipline. Last year, we had some issues with consistency, but we’re determined to fix that.”

What kind of canned, non-answer is that? I press on.

“Can you be more specific, Zach ? What steps are you personally taking to improve?” Come on. Give me something I can use.

Zach’s jaw tightens. Good, he feels the pressure, too.

“I’m working on my game every day, refining my skills, and staying in peak physical condition.” Yep, his stare is definitely a glare pinpointed at me. “This season’s about pushing myself and my teammates to be better.”

I nod, jotting down notes. He’s good at handling the press. I’ll give him that. But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more beneath the surface, something he’s not saying. He’s too calm and calculated.

Sure, I get it. He’s been coached with soundbites, nothing too telling and nothing new. Working on his game, he says . It’s all about the team. Yadda yadda. I scribble in my notebook like he’s just spewed out the solution to The Collatz Conjecture, a mathematics equation the greatest minds in the world have been unable to solve.

I’m not getting anywhere with him, so I save my questions for later and give up the floor. The conference continues with more generic questions and polished answers. It’s a yawn fest, but I’m here to do my job. When things finally wrap up, I gather my satchel and head towards the exit, only to find Zach standing in my path.

“You’re the new reporter covering us, right?” His tone is neutral, but there’s a challenge in his eyes.

Beautiful, deep, penetrating eyes. Dammit, why does he have to be so handsome? Why couldn’t he be a cocky jerk with missing teeth and a crooked nose that’s been broken a kajillion times?

“That’s right,” I reply, keeping my voice steady, reminding myself what jerks hockey players can be. “Got a problem with that?”

“Just making sure you’re not here to stir up trouble.”

Why is he concerned? Does he have something to hide?

“Depends on what you consider trouble, I guess.” I brush past him, my heart pounding. I get a whiff of his aftershave or shampoo. It doesn’t matter which it is. My lungs only care about how good he smells. Geez, he could at least reek of sweat or something.

I walk quickly to my car, feeling the heat of his stare on my backside. I refuse to give him the pleasure of knowing he’s got me riled, but replay our brief exchange as I pull out of the parking lot. Zach Brooks is definitely going to be a handful. He’s not going to make things easy for me. But I won’t let him intimidate me. I’ve worked too hard to get where I am.

I just have to remember that this is a job. Keep it professional, keep it distant. No matter how good-looking or intense Zach Brooks is, he’s just another athlete with an inflated view of his self-importance. I’m not here to make friends or stroke his ego. I’m here for a story.

If Zach wants to play hardball, I’m ready.

***

Zach

I step onto the stage, the solid, echoing thwack of a hockey puck hitting the boards still ringing in my ears from morning practice. Camera lights flash, and I plaster on my usual smile. Another season, another round of press conferences. Coach taps the mic, and I long for the repetitive, hollow clap of hockey sticks against the ice rather than this circus show we’re required to attend. Interviews are part of the job, but it doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.

I scan the crowd of reporters, most of them familiar faces, throwing the usual questions. It’s all routine, and I’ve got my answers down pat. Stay positive, keep the team foremost in mind, and don’t let the news guys rattle me. But when a new voice cuts through the noise, my ears perk up.

“Zachary, Madison Collins, Sable Creek Times,” she identifies herself with a reputable paper. At least it isn’t a rag magazine. “Last season ended in disappointment for the Saints. What changes are you making to ensure this year’s outcome is different?”

I zero in on her, the woman with sharp eyes and a determined set to her jaw. Her chestnut brown hair falls in soft waves just past her shoulders. Her lips are full and rosy, giving her a subtle, summertime, bee-kissed pout. I shouldn’t notice the way her mini skirt accentuates her long legs or the sexy kitten heels she wears. We’re not friends, lovers, or anything in between. She’s the press, so she might as well be the enemy. She’s new, and her tone accusatory. She’s clearly not here to toss me softballs. I adjust my smile, trying to mask the irritation her question sparks.

“It’s Zach.” Only my mother calls me Zachary. “We’re focusing on teamwork and discipline,” I say, keeping my tone even. Short, curt, practiced answers. Don’t throw her a bone. “Last year, we had some issues with consistency, but we’re determined to fix that.”

“Can you be more specific?” she asks, unsatisfied with my standard reply. “What steps are you personally taking to improve?”

I take a deep breath, resisting the urge to snap back. She’s making this personal, setting last year’s failures on my shoulders as if I don’t already carry that burden. Who does she think she is? And why is she getting under my skin? “I’m working on my game every day, refining my skills and staying in peak physical condition. A winning season starts with pushing myself and my teammates to be better.”

She nods, scribbling in her notebook, and for a moment, I wonder what she’s writing about me. The Q&A session continues without another question from Madison. She listens attentively, her eyes falling on me every few minutes like she’s sizing me up. The rest of the conference blurs as I mechanically answer questions. But my mind and eyes keep drifting back to Madison and her striking green-rimmed, hazel eyes.

When Coach finally releases us from the presser, I purposely seek Madison out. Call it curiosity or plain stupidity, but I deviate from my usual duck-and-run from the press room. The team... I ...don’t need the kind of distraction Madison poses.

I catch her at the exit and cut her off. My chest tightens, and my pulse quickens to a ragged staccato. My skin prickles with heat, and I chalk it up to irritation rather than to the visual of her tits jiggling beneath her blouse.

“You’re the new reporter covering us, right?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral, but it’s difficult when my body has a mind of its own.

She flinches, clearly not expecting me to pop into her field of orbit. “That’s right,” she replies, quickly recovering from the slight nervous inflection in her voice. She’s quick with attitude. “Got a problem with that?”

“Just making sure you’re not here to stir up trouble.” I have a gut feeling I’m the one stirring the pot. If I’d followed my usual routine, we wouldn’t be toe-to-toe, facing off like this.

What is it about her that has my skin tingling and my radar on high alert?

“Depends on what you consider trouble, I guess.” She brushes past me, her shoulder grazing my upper arm. The hairs on the back of my neck stiffen, along with the snake in my pants that should be lying dormant. I catch a whiff of her perfume, and it lingers on my nose, fruity and alluring. The scent weighs heavy on my lungs, throwing me off balance and filling me with a strange sensation.

My heart pounds as I watch her walk away. The sway of her hips and the swish of her skirt play tricks on my gut. My mind races with questions that have no valid answers, like why am I attracted to someone who’s butting heads with me? Madison’s trouble, and I have a funny feeling I’m already wading knee-deep in it.

I head back to the locker room, but I can’t shake the nagging thoughts that something big’s on the horizon. Madison threw me off guard, and I immediately went into defensive mode. I’m already feeling the pressure of the season. Maybe I’m overly sensitive about her putting me on the spot and laying the season outcome on my shoulders. But the churning in my gut feels like something more.

I lace up my skates for another round on the ice, needing to clear my head. I have a season to focus on, a championship to win. Madison’s just another reporter like the rest of the press pool, but she’s already under my skin and messing with my head. She’s different and not just because she’s new or drew me in with her pouty lips and gorgeous eyes.

I have a hunch this season will be one for the books. And it’s not just because of the game. It’s because of her.