Page 2 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
And I really, really hate that somewhere in the last seventeen years, the skinny kid who sprayed ice in my face turned into this, and that my stupid, traitorous novelist brain thinks it’s interesting.
Sure, he’s hot. I can admit that. The sky is blue, water is wet, Beckett Benson is devastatingly attractive. I’m not blind.
But I’m not going to let all that go to my head, because I know him from before. Before he was the Blue Line. Before the jaw and the shoulders. Back when he was just a skinny kid who needed extra coaching. Beckett Benson.
A.k.a. the kid my father chose over his own family.
So yes. I am writing a romance novel with a hero based on Beckett Benson. A grumpy, emotionally-walled-off hockey player. In my fictional book, he’s a hero who learns that vulnerability is strength and love is worth the risk.
See what I said about lying?
Here’s the problem, however. I can’t make it work, because deep down, I don’t believe Beckett Benson—or any hockey player—is capable of any of those things, at least in real life. In fiction? Well, anything’s possible. And admittedly, my heroes are compassionate, heroic, and vulnerable. (I did mention the fiction part, right?) But in this book…well, I can’t seem to land it. My editor’s feedback rings every time I open the manuscript: The hero feels generic, emotionally distant. Where’s the vulnerability?
Great question. If I figure out the answer, I’ll let you know.
Truth is, and we all know this, vulnerable heroes sell books. So I have to dig deeper, find some reasonable-sounding truth in all this.
I might be doomed.
I tear my eyes away and focus on the EmPowerPlay highlight reel, which is a mistake of a different kind. A boy, maybe ten, in a helmet so big it wobbles. Laughing. Falling. Getting up. A coach—not my dad, someone younger—is skating beside him. Not holding him up. Just there.
My throat tightens.
I touch my wrist—the bracelet with the tiny silver book charm I’ve worn since college—and the cool metal settles me. Slightly.
“I’m going to grab food before signing,” I tell Bree.
“Grab me a few mini quiches if they have them.” She straightens, reaching toward me. “Oh, hey, I think we’re short on books. Only brought twenty, and I count forty in that line.” She snatches her purse. “There’s an extra box in my car.”
A glimpse of fresh, clean, non-self-impressed-hockey-player air flashes in front of me. “I can grab it after I eat.”
Bree smile-grimaces. “If you eat first, that line hits fifty and we run out halfway through, and people give you the disappointed face and?—”
“Fine—fine. I’ll get the box first.” Anything to stop the spiral forecast. “Where’d you park?”
“Lower-level garage. Row C. Blue Civic. Box is in the trunk.” She hands over her leather jacket. “Keys are in the pocket. Wear it—it’s cold out there, and you only have a dress.”
“I’m fine.” I take the keys from the pocket.
“You sure?” Bree asks. “I can go.”
“You stay. Guard the table. If anyone asks where E.J. Hartley went, tell them…”
“I’ll tell ’em you’ve finally had it, and you’re running for the hills.” She winks conspiratorially.
“See, you get it.”
I slip away with the keys and practically run for the door.
The main elevators are packed—every donor in Minnesota apparently arrived in the same fifteen-minute window. But there’s a service elevator, which I spotted earlier during my initial reconnaissance.
Listen, if you’re casing your hotel as though you’re about to be part of a casino heist…well, maybe you’re completely normal. But I’m an author with thriller brain. Can’t turn it off.
The service hallway is blessedly empty. Dim. Quiet. The ballroom noise drops to a muffled hum, and my shoulders finally come down from my ears.
I press the Down button and exhale.
The elevator dings. Small—scuffed metal walls, a handrail that’s seen better decades, ominous-colored stain on the floor that I instantly catalog for future thriller stories. I press the button for the lower level and turn away to look out the window of the elevator, which betrays an icy, pre-blizzard Minnesota night.
