Olivier (Chicago Blaze 9)

The rest of the world, though, can’t seem to get enough. And they’ve apparently decided that since both Daphne and I are single, we should be a couple now.

“I know you’re opposed to it, but I think you need to consider doing an interview,” Dana says. “Tell them you wish Miss Barrington well but have no interest in a romantic relationship. Once the question is answered, the attention will die down quickly.”

I stand up from the chair behind my desk and walk over to the other side of my office, where my collection of prized hockey memorabilia is displayed.

“Senator Barrington’s press conference wasn’t enough?” I ask Dana.

“No. People don’t want to see him—they either want to see his daughter or you.”

Groaning, I walk back over to my desk. I’m considering Dana’s idea of doing an interview when my assistant Hassan walks into my office, his cell phone in hand.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I just got a Google alert and I thought you’d want to know. Senator Barrington’s office just released a video statement from Daphne Barrington.”

I sit down at my desk and slide my reading glasses on, then Google the video statement. Dana and Hassan come around to watch the video with me.

A beautiful woman with blond wavy hair that falls just past her shoulders comes onto the screen. She’s wearing a white T-shirt with the word “Equality” on it.

“Hi guys,” she says, smiling softly. “I’m Daphne Barrington. I just wanted to say thank you so much for all your prayers and well wishes after my accident. I know there’s been a lot of news coverage about it, and my father’s office is getting inundated with calls about me, so I decided to do this video to update everyone.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I’m doing okay. I have a broken ankle and I have to wear a special boot for now. There’s a burn on my arm that’s healing well. Other than that, I was extra tired for the first week after the accident, but I’m good now. I’ve been staying at my parents’ house not only so I can heal, but because there are people staked out at my apartment and at my place of work. I appreciate your interest in my story, truly, but I just want to get back to my everyday life. Olivier Durand is a hero—he’s my hero, absolutely—but I imagine he also wants to go back to everyday life. I’m sure he’s a very nice man, and I hope to thank him in person one day for what he did for me, but there’s no romantic involvement between us. That’s all I wanted to say, and…while I have your attention, please consider a donation to Safe Harbor, the homeless advocacy organization I work for. It’s tax-deductible. My dad’s video people are going to put the web address at the end of this video. Thank you.”

As soon as the Safe Harbor web address pops onto the screen, it’s all I can do not to reach for my keyboard and restart the video so I can see Daphne’s face again.

She’s stunning. It’s not just her beauty, but the sound of her voice, the way she speaks, and her obvious reluctance to be in the spotlight. I’d seen still photos of her that her father’s office released after the accident, but they must have been old pictures.

I hardly gave the smiling young blond in those photos a second glance. But now, she has a different presence. A certainty.

“How old is she?” I ask.

“Thirty-one,” Dana answers.

Older than in her photos, but still ten years younger than me. I close my computer screen, dismissing my attraction to her. I don’t even know Daphne Barrington. How could I possibly be drawn to her based on a one-minute video clip? She might not even be single.

This Twitter thing must be getting to my head.

There’s a knock on my office door, interrupting my thoughts.

“Come in,” I call.

Alex, the head of the security detail I had to hire after I got out of the hospital, walks into my office.

“Mr. Durand, Sean says they got your daughter home safely.”

“Thanks, Alex.”

He nods, looking every bit the former Secret Service agent he is in his dark suit. “Let me know if you need anything else; I’ll be in our office.”

I had to set up a temporary office space for the security team at the Carson Center, the arena where the Blaze play that also houses the team’s corporate offices, and also at my downtown Chicago apartment. They’ve turned a guest bedroom in my apartment into surveillance central.

On cue, my sixteen-year-old daughter’s face pops up on my cell phone screen as it rings.

“Hello, Giselle,” I say in answer. “How was your day?”

“When can I drive my own car again?”

“I don’t know yet; it’ll be up to the security team.”