I take a deep breath and try to keep calm, because even though I now see why he’s so pissed off, I don’t think he’s really thought it through. Either that or he’s too blinded by the pressure he’s under. “You can be pissed at me all you want, because I get it now, but I also wanna say something without you getting pissed off more.”
“Doesn’t matter anyway.”
I chase after him when he starts walking again. “What doesn’t matter?”
“Save your breath.”
I step in front of him so he can’t take off again. “Hear me out, and then you can keep sulking, but I’m wondering if you’re the only person who sees my articles that way because of your self-guilt. I said you were hiding behind Tommy because of your skills. I wrote those articles with no hidden agenda, and I was honestly only referring to hockey. If you interpreted it differently, that’s on you. Not me. I promised you six months ago I wouldn’t say anything to anyone, and I meant it. I didn’t even tell Jet I already knew last night when he found out.”
Ollie stumbles backward. “You didn’t? But … why? I mean, he knows now, so—”
I shrug. “It’s your thing. Your life.”
“But you’re a journalist.”
“We’re not all vultures. If I’d stumbled across you in a bathroom six months ago and you were shooting up drugs or strapping a knee injury or doing anything else that would actually affect your career, then yeah, I would’ve exploited the shit out of you.”
Ollie snorts.
“The articles I’ve written? They were only about hockey. You might want to look at your guilty conscience before you continue to hate me.”
Ollie mutters, “I don’t hate you. For some reason … whenever I’m around you … Fuck, why is this so hard? I’m all edgy and I can’t think. I suck at this whole … thing.”
“Communicating thing?”
“Apologizing. And then on top of that, you slept with Jet, and for some reason, that makes me even more ragey, and—”
“Whoa, hell no. I mean, well, yeah, we slept together, but nothing happened. I like my men old enough to drink.” Not to mention I like them bigger than me, muscly, and well, the opposite of Jet.
Ollie laughs hard.
“What?” I ask.
“I said the same thing about Jet.”
“Nothing happened,” I say again, even though it really shouldn’t matter either way.
Ollie moves closer and lowers his voice. “Good.”
My breath catches in my throat, and it snaps Ollie out of whatever’s going on in his train of thought.
“Fucking hell.” He steps back again. “You make me forget who I’m supposed to be in public.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
“At this point in my life? It’s definitely bad.”
Right.
“Can we please start over?” I ask.
“Like, start over start over?”
“Start over as friends. I promise if it gets to you so much, I won’t write a single article about you. Not even if you score the winning goal of the Stanley Cup. I’ll describe you as that hockey player with the hair, some muscles, and the missing teeth. That could be a number of you.”
“Hey, I still have all my teeth.” Ollie smiles. “Except a few back ones. And okay, this one”—he points to his right canine tooth—“is an implant. But the rest are entirely my own.”
“Even with that in the description, it could still be any of you.”
“True.” He runs a hand through his hair and blows out a loud breath. “We can start again.”
I step forward and hold out my hand for him. “Hi, I’m Lennon, but you can call me Clark.”
Ollie shakes my hand. “I’m Ollie, and you can call me Ollie.”
“I’m a sports journalist who sometimes writes obliviously asshole-y things.”
“I’m a hockey player with a fragile ego.”
“Friends?”
Our hands are still joined, awkwardly moving up and down as if we’re still shaking when we’re not.
He swallows so hard his Adam’s apple bounces. “A hockey player and a sports journalist walk into a bar… Nope, doesn’t sound right.”
“We’re not all vultures,” I remind him again but can’t fault him. Some of my coworkers wouldn’t even hesitate to sell Ollie’s story.
His hazel eyes glimmer as he murmurs, “Okay. Friends.”
The Dragons sail through the first round of the playoffs thanks to Ollie’s scoring streak continuing. It’s like something clicked during that last Toronto game, and he’s been on fire ever since.
His gorgeous smile can’t be wiped off his unfairly handsome face during the press conferences after the games. It really does suck how hot the man is. And now that he’s not scowling at me every five seconds, it’s distracting, which means my post-game articles are a little thinner than they should be.
Oops.
In the middle of the last press conference, as an act of faith or perhaps an olive branch for our new formed friendship, Ollie gets Ava’s attention and whispers something in her ear. The next thing I know, she’s calling upon me to ask a question.