Human interest stories were all well and good, but I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself in front of three or four million readers. I spent the rest of the morning learning everything there was to know about hockey, from game rules to player hierarchies and history. It wasn’t the first time I had given myself a crash course in something I had previously held no interest in, and I was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

By the end of it, I had developed a legitimate—if only slight—interest in the game itself. Not enough to go buy a fan jersey, but certainly enough to make the next couple of weeks enjoyable.

My computer chimed again with a response from Jim. A rink-side ticket with my name on it was attached, for the team’s opening game that evening. The message itself had me raising an eyebrow.

Livia,

Spoke to the manager. You’re interviewing Palmer and Drake tonight.

“Cutting it kind of close, aren’t we, Jim?” I asked out loud.

I wrote a quick reply, thanking him, then returned to my research. I wanted to know exactly what I was looking at when I watched the game—as much to see why these two in particular stood out, as to assuage my boredom over the course of the game.

“Not that it’s definitely going to be boring,” I told myself. “It could be a lot of fun! Don’t sell the game short before you watch it.”

In spite of my firm admonishment, I found my attention drifting as I clicked through online videos of hockey games. I could, on an intellectual level, appreciate the skating skill, but under the football-like padding, there was little else to hold my attention.

One video caught my eye; the title was full of capital letters and exclamation points, declaring proof of a deep-seeded rivalry between Palmer and Drake. I clicked on it, intrigued.

The video was dark, and for a moment I thought it wasn’t working. Then, I heard the laughter, and realized that I was looking at a locker room door. It opened slightly to reveal a group of muscular men in various states of undress, crowded around one young guy in street clothes.

“What the hell?” he shouted.

He turned, and from his profile I identified him as Joel Palmer. He held his uniform in his hands, and was staring at it in disgust. The person behind the camera furtively moved around the group to show the problem: Palmer’s uniform was covered in smears of something that could have been barbecue sauce…or something much worse.

“Which one of you assholes did this?” he demanded.

Loud guffaws answered him, echoing mockingly in the locker room.

“Hey, don’t get mad at us, kid. If you’d showed up for practice, you would have had time to wash it.”

The voice was low and smooth as silk, even over the crappy audio. It sent a warm shiver through my core, activating my inner huntress. I scanned the faces, looking for the owner of the voice. The camera flicked up briefly, just long enough to show a glimpse of bare, caramel-colored chest.

I swallowed hard as my belly turned over in a delicious twinge of desire. Oh, yes, I was going to enjoy interviewing Mr. Drake.

“That’s bullshit!” Joel shouted, throwing his uniform to the floor. “You did this!”

He pointed an accusatory finger at Drake, who slapped his hand away with a bored expression. Joel pulled back to throw a punch, but was blocked by his teammates. Someone came in the door, then, yelling at the team to get their act together, and the camera shut off.

Pensively, I leaned back in my chair and tapped my chin with a finger.

“Oh yes, there’s definitely drama here,” I murmured. “Man, I wish I could be a fly on the wall in that locker room.” For a multitude of reasons, I had to admit.

My body was telling me that I had been single far too long. My mind, its partner in crime, whispered that I was more likely to get the truth if I had Dante Drake addled and naked in my bed. Like a sultry spy out of a movie, a master seductress. I laughed at myself and checked the time. I had three hours to figure out my angle and choose an outfit.

“The rink will be cold,” I told my closet. “But the interview room should be warmer…”

With that thought, I chose a bright, fiery red shirt with a significant cleavage advantage and a pair of black fur-lined leggings. Knee-high boots would balance the outfit nicely, as the top flared over my hips.

Satisfied, I moved on to my face and hair. My look would neatly serve dual purposes today, I hoped. Distract them enough to slip up and give me something I could use, and maybe snag me a date with Dante Drake. Or Joel Palmer, I conceded. He might be young, but he sure was easy to look at.