Page 14 of All That Glitters

“Is that so?”

Before he can answer, my attention is stolen by the feel of Jameson’s eyes on me. I glance away to find him skating toward Nash. He stops next to him. In his hockey uniform, Jameson looks even larger than usual. He’s taller than Nash, and broader too.

“Is he bothering you?” Jameson’s gravelly tone makes my stomach swoop. A natural reaction. It has nothing to do with him. Just his voice. I’ve got a thing for deep voices is all.

“No more than he bothers everyone he talks to, I’m sure,” I reply, making Nash’s mouth drop open in mock offense.

“I thought we were friends, Red,” Nash laments.

“Who told you that?” I ask, smiling.

Jameson wears a bemused smirk. Nash opens his mouth—probably to say something utterly ridiculous—when a whistle blows.

“Warm-ups are over,” Jameson says and tips his head toward the tunnel.

“You didn’t even say hi or thank her for coming.” Nash gestures to me. “No wonder she doesn’t like you.”

I stiffen. Jasmine knows about my issues with Jameson, and I’m sure she told Shepherd some of the details before bringing him tonight, but it’s not something I want yelled in a crowd. My contempt is more of the quiet sort. The kind you whisper to friends and write pages about in your journal.

“You’re an idiot,” Jameson growls, grabbing his friend by the back of his jersey and pulling him as he skates away.

“Well, those two are an interesting pair,” Jasmine comments after they’re across the ice.

“They’re something all right,” I mutter.

I frown as I see them arguing. Jameson tries to skate back toward the tunnel, but Nash keeps blocking him. Eventually, a player with a C on his chest indicating he’s captain skates up to break up whatever it is they’re doing. I’m not sure if it can be considered fighting. I’ve seen Jameson fight before; there’s usually a lot more blood involved.

The captain listens for a second, then holds up his hands in surrender and heads into the tunnel, leaving Jameson fuming. Suddenly, Jameson turns back and speeds toward me, spraying ice as he comes to a stop.

“It’s good—I mean, I’m glad you’re here,” he grits out. I almost don’t hear him over the chatter of the crowd.

My brow furrows. “I’m here for the article—you know that.”

He shrugs.

“Doesn’t change what I said.”

Then he skates away again, making sure to smack Nash on the helmet as he passes by. I grip my notebook, digging my fingernails into the leather.

“You okay?” Jasmine asks, putting an arm around me.

No, and I don’t think I’ll ever be.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I mumble, and lean against her shoulder.

I bounce a little on the sidewalk outside of the arena, trying to stay warm. The game wasn’t all that exciting, as the Thrashers dominated in a way that made for a boring watch. But there was a great shot made by one of the guys that I thought was worth sticking around to ask about. I’m regretting my decision, though, with how cold and windy it is tonight.

The door where the players exit opens, and the first person to appear is Jameson. I’m not surprised yet still not prepared. He was always the type to leave games as fast as he could. The only exception to that rule was when he won the championship in high school.

“Oh, hey,” he says when he sees me. “Came to interview Conrad?” he asks.

“Is he number twenty-two?” I ask, and he nods. “Then yeah.”

“I figured you might after that shot. He’s a good guy. He’ll answer whatever you ask.”

“That’s good,” I say quietly.

“Next time, I can ask the guys to meet you in the lobby, so you don’t have to stand in the cold,” he offers.