“It’s crap.”

Two days had passed since I’d left Joel’s place, and I had finished the article. The finished product was an uninspiring, sugar-coated, manager-approved fluff piece. A compilation of common knowledge at best, a career-ender for me at worst. It was utter, complete, total…

“Crap.”

With a sigh, I closed my laptop. There had to be some way to fix this, but after wracking my brain for two solid days, I couldn’t come up with anything. This was the material I could use. Everything else was off-limits.

Deciding on a TV break, I curled up on my couch and flipped through the guide. I scrolled through without seeing anything the first time, still preoccupied by my conundrum.

The Harriers were a great team. That was undeniable. My entire article was forty sentences reiterating that point, and it was obvious. Maybe more obvious to me than it would be to an editor, since I had written it, but still…it obviously wasn’t earth-shattering news. Their name on the TV made me pause. Their game was on.

“Nothing like a little inspiration,” I sighed, turning up the volume.

The announcers certainly liked to hear themselves talk. I waited impatiently, suddenly aware that I was desperate to see my two guys in action. I missed Dante, which irritated me, but I was concerned about Joel, which surprised me. I hugged my knees as the players began to slide onto the ice.

There was Dante, flirting with his fans. There was Joel. My concern deepened when I saw his behavior. He barely acknowledged the hordes of people screaming his name. He was looking at something else with a burning intensity. Dante.

Dante caught the look at the same time I did, and gave a challenging sort of nod. My heart lurched with anxiety.

The game began without further incident, but I could feel the tension cutting like a hot knife between them. Their teammates gave each of them a little extra room and stayed between them as much as possible, and it was definitely deliberate. There must have been an altercation in the locker room.

“Whoa! And Palmer misses his first goal of the season. Easy shot, too, wasn’t it Steve?”

“That it was, Dave. Palmer could make that shot in his sleep. This’ll be a moment for the rumor mills.”

“Shake it off, Joel,” I told the TV.

He didn’t. I watched him compress into his rage, vibrating with tension. The game went on, and Dante managed to maneuver into the key position. He hit the puck…and missed.

“All right, who hexed this team?” Steve asked with a laugh. “There is definitely some tension in the air today. Puck goes in the net, Drake. Man, this is not looking good for the Harriers.”

The team was regrouping. Dante’s body language was terse and aggressive. He made a pointed gesture in Joel’s direction, lighting the short fuse on the powder keg. Joel snapped and skated into him, pushing him backwards with his chest. Dante shoved back, and soon they were locked in a bloody brawl. The other players moved back, giving them room.

“Whoa! There’s that tension, Steve. What was that you were saying about rumor mills?”

“They will have a field day with this, Dave. The Harriers’ PR team must be pitching a fit as we speak. Oh, looks like the referee has finally made it out there, breaking up the fight between Dante Drake and Joel Palmer. And they are being escorted off; the Harriers receive two major penalties. Both star players are out for five. We’ll see how this affects…oh, and the Harriers score their first goal!”

“Oh, no.” I buried my face in my hands, my stomach rolling with guilt.

There was no way this wasn’t my fault. Joel and Dante had been so careful to keep their animosity out of the public eye, and now they were fighting on the ice? I should have kept my mouth shut, no matter how much Dante had pissed me off.

I looked at their faces as the camera panned over the penalty box. I saw fury etched into every line of Dante’s face. Joel just looked like a whipped puppy, sulking under his own personal dark cloud.

“Dante’s going to kill him,” I muttered, my heart lurching. “Or Joel’s going to quit. Damn it, Livia, why did you have to go and screw with everything?”

I buried my face in a pillow and screamed. I should have known that sports writing was a bad idea. I should have stuck with what I knew, stayed a little fish in the big pond, but no. I had to get all ambitious and reckless and…ugh.

This was not a good look for me. I threw the pillow away and stood up. Without a thought to my appearance, I shoved my feet into a comfortable pair of shoes and pulled on a thick-hooded sweatshirt. People always said that walking cleared their heads. It was time to test that theory; ice cream and pajamas certainly hadn’t helped.