Prologue #2
“Is it true that hockey players have as many affairs as they say? Are you all womanizers?”
Now I knew he was smiling. It was obvious he knew the word womanizer. “Yes,” he said simply. “Women…” He gave two thumbs-up.
Now I knew why the word yes was so familiar to him. It was probably groaned into his ear by many said women. I felt the urge to flip him the bird for that last comment, but that might damage my professionalism, so I decided against it.
“What about team spirit?” I pressed on, my voice a little more impatient. “Do you see your team as a family, or… or are you only friends when you’re playing with the ball on the ice, and not otherwise?”
An expression crossed Tero Nieminen’s face that would have terrified the Norse gods themselves. His brows drew together, his light blue eyes flashed, and he echoed softly, “Ball? You say: ball?”
I waved a hand dismissively. “You know. That disk thing. What’s it called again?”
“Puck?” he said harshly.
“Right.” I winced. I knew that! It had just slipped my mind.
My head was so full of Regency-era fashion terms and British aristocracy titles that I just didn't have room for sports jargon. Like I said, I wasn’t writing sports romance entirely by choice.
“See why I need to do research?” I said with a nervous laugh.
He stared at me, unmoved. His expression was grim, like he was auditioning for the role of the devil. Or a serial killer.
Okay, either he didn’t understand me or he had no sense of humor. I was betting on both. I cleared my throat pointedly. “So: team spirit. Good?”
Nieminen nodded slowly. “Good,” he confirmed, giving another thumbs-up. “We done?”
“Done?” I asked, stunned. We hadn’t even really started!
“Cool.” He stood up, turned, and disappeared into the tunnel behind the stairs.
I stared after him, my mouth hanging open. What the hell?
What was wrong with Serena, sending me to this giant who had been about as informative as a spam email?
Annoyed, I shoved the notebook back into my purse and pinned my hair up with the pen. This had been a complete waste of time!
My excitement fizzled out. He hadn’t given me any ideas for a romance novel, at best maybe a murder mystery.
“Shit,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut. I hadn’t wanted to admit it, but I’d been hoping this meeting would finally get me out of my writing slump. Instead, I felt like I’d just dug myself in deeper.
Sighing, I stood up and followed Nieminen into the tunnel, which also led to the exit. I made a quick stop at the restroom to splash some cold water on my face.
I squared my shoulders. It wasn’t time to give up yet. There had to be other hockey hulks hanging around who were more helpful and, hopefully, fluent in my language.
Determined, I pushed open the restroom door and turned right instead of toward the exit. Judging by the smell, the locker rooms couldn’t be far. As if I’d summoned it with my thoughts alone, a male voice sounded from around the next corner.
“What are you still doing here, Nieminen?”
“Ugh, Serena sicced some author on me who needed a research partner for her little hobby project.”
I froze, my jaw dropping. Where the hell did his accent go?!
“An author?” the other man asked.
“I’m not sure. I have a feeling she’s a gossip columnist trying to squeeze some scandals out of me,” Tero continued. “Because fuck, if she’s really an author and wants to write about ice hockey, she’s going to go down like the Titanic…”
Rage coiled in my stomach. Red, hot rage that seared my lungs and made the cup in my hand crackle.
He spoke English. He spoke accent-free English! Shit, his English was more articulate and flowery than most people’s on the internet!
“She called the puck a ball, Nathan! A ball! I could have cried. How stupid can an author be to want to write about hockey and not even research what our ball is called?”
A synapse in my brain fried. His condescending tone was too much for me to handle. The last few months were too much for me to handle! I was so damn sick of arrogant men – and in the next moment, I was on the move.
Nieminen was standing next to a tall, tattooed guy with dark hair. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw me. I didn’t give him a chance to explain. I ripped the lid off my cup and threw the iced coffee right in his face.
The ice cubes hit his cheeks first, then shattered on the floor, while the brown liquid soaked into his beard and dripped onto his shoulders and chest.
I was incredibly grateful to the Boston Badgers for choosing black and white as their team colors. It made the coffee stain stand out so much more beautifully against his shirt.
His teammate jumped back in shock, but Tero Nieminen didn’t move.
He glared at me, his eyes narrowed. God, even with coffee dripping down his face, he was still intimidating.
But I didn’t give a shit that I barely came up to his shoulder and that he could probably immobilize me with his pinky finger. My rage fueled me.
“What kind of an asshole are you?” I demanded furiously.
He slowly crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t even seem the least bit ashamed that I’d caught him in a lie. “The kind that doesn’t like to waste his time with stupid questions from some wannabe author who wants to write about hockey but can’t tell a puck from a soccer ball!”
Oh, sure, so one gets kicked, the other gets whacked. Tomay-to, tomah-to! “I’m here to fucking find out the difference between ice hockey and soccer. As far as I’m concerned, they’re exactly the same – men running around, spitting, and swearing!”
His teammate gasped. “Excuse me! We don’t run, we glide on our skates. Like angels, you might say.”
“Oh, shut up,” I snapped. “Angels don’t pretend they can’t speak English and force an innocent romance author to make cat noises.”
The player was visibly trying not to smile. “Dude, Nieminen. Did you do the dumb accent thing again?”
“It helps get rid of annoying people,” the goalie whispered, his voice dangerously low as he leaned down toward me. “By the way, your pantomime skills suck.”
“Oh yeah? Well… well… you suck!” I retorted eloquently.
He tilted his head, intrigued. “You write books, you say? You don’t seem to have a very good command of the English language.”
My eyes widened in disbelief. “What is your fucking problem? I didn’t do anything to you!” Not yet. The day was still young.
“My problem is that you’re apparently using your friendship with Serena to get some hot inside scoop for whatever gossip column you’re writing. I Googled your name. You’ve written for several tabloids.”
“Years ago! When I was just starting out.”
“I don’t give a shit. You’re not here to learn anything, you’re here to take pictures and show them to your friends on Instagram.
And I can’t stand it when journalists ask me stupid questions just to chop up my answers, paste them back together, and make me look like an arrogant idiot or a dumb asshole. ”
“I’m not a journalist, I’m an author,” I snarled.
“It’s a completely different thing. I haven’t written an article in ages, only books.
I took pictures so I could describe the stadium better.
And for God’s sake, you don’t need my help to make yourself look like a dumb asshole, you’re doing a perfectly good job of that on your own!
” I kicked his shoe with mine. “But thanks for the helpful lesson in ice hockey. Apparently, rich athletes are all bastards who think they’re better than everyone else and would rather lie and cheat than have an adult conversation about their insecurities with the media. I’ll be sure to write that down!”
With that, I spun on my heel and stomped away.
“Dude,” the other guy muttered. “That was bad for our reputation…”
I didn’t wait for Tero Nieminen’s reply. Instead, I threw the empty coffee cup in the trash and pulled my phone from my bag.