I’d never know if a man wanted me for me or for my money. Even though I saw it as my grandparents’ money, the five-figure deposits they made into my bank account every month were mine whether I wanted them or not, and so was the trust fund. I appreciated their generosity; it had allowed me to build a writing portfolio in my early twenties that had landed me my dream job at twenty-seven.
I was in the home stretch on my column now, writing that Robert McGann had gotten some, but not all, of what he deserved. His life sentence in prison wouldn’t compare to what he had done to those two little girls. Sometimes I wondered if an “eye for an eye” approach to crime would actually be more civilized than the humane approach we took in the US.
Reading our reporter’s coverage of McGann’s crime, arrest, and trial earlier today had hurt my heart. As soon as my column was filed, I closed down my computer, put on my trench coat, and locked my office.
It was a small, windowless office, but it was all mine. That was a rarity in the news business, and I was proud of my space. I liked that I could lock the door, putting up a physical barrier between me and the workday.
Tomorrow was a new day, and I hoped to write a column about something that might put a smile on readers’ faces.
Forty-five minutes later I stood at my apartment door, large pepperoni and mushroom pizza balanced on one hand, apartment keys in the other.
Vanderpump Rules and yoga pants, here I come.
I’d just unlocked my door when Ford’s front door opened. My gaze was drawn to his bare chest, then to his eyes, and then down to his abs. I had to look like a cartoon character with its eyes bulging and its tongue rolling across the ground.
“Eleanor,” he said, his tone the opposite of friendly.
The pizza box started to slide, but I couldn’t seem to tear my gaze away from his perfectly formed eight pack. It flipped and hit the ground with a thud.
“Shit,” I said, crouching down to retrieve it.
This had escalated from embarrassing to humiliating in a matter of seconds.
“I’d help, but I’m just a caveman,” Ford said.
I winced. Had I really used that word in a column about hockey?
“I apologize for any offense I caused you,” I said, standing up with my upside-down pizza box in my hands.
“That’s a bullshit non-apology. What you should be sorry for is writing about something you have no knowledge of.”
My heart wasn’t racing over his muscles now. It was anger making me clench the pizza box so hard my fingertips burned.
“No knowledge?” I fired back. “There are an average of six concussions in every one hundred pro hockey games. The NIH estimates a quarter of youth ice hockey players are affected by concussions. Ice hockey causes more concussions in children than football. Chronic traumatic encephalopathy is a degenerative brain disease caused by years of brain injury from contact sports, and a recent study found that every year of playing ice hockey increases the risk of getting CTE by twenty-three percent.”
Ford narrowed his eyes and stepped out of his doorway, closing it behind him.
“Okay, so you know some stats,” he said. “And I’ll agree with you that head injuries are a major issue in hockey. But we go into it willingly. We know the risks.”
“You romanticize the violence.”
He scoffed. “I don’t romanticize shit. Why don’t you come to a few games and see what hockey is really about? Or do you just want to rely on statistics you find online?”
The pounding in my chest wasn’t letting up. Nice, helpful Ford was above-average level attractive. A ten, basically. But intense, scolding Ford was…more like an eleven. It was all I could do not to say yes just to please him.
Who was I and why had the feminism left my body the moment I laid eyes on him?
“I’m sure hockey means a lot to you, and to many other people, too,” I said. “But that doesn’t change the facts.”
He edged closer to me, and I forced my feet to stay planted. “Have you ever been to a game? It’s a yes or no question.”
I tipped my chin up a notch, hoping I looked defiant. “Yes, I’ve been to a hockey game.”
“A pro one?”
I’d been opposed to contact sports for more than a decade now, and attending a game was akin to supporting them, so…
“No,” I admitted.
“Come to a game as my guest,” he said.
I balked. “Why, so your entire team can berate me along with you? I’ll pass.”
“I don’t—”
“Look, it’s been a long day,” I said, cutting him off. “I just want to go inside.”
He took a step back. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“Have a nice run,” I said, only half-sincere. “Or night out, whatever it is you’re doing.”
He arched his brows, amused. “I don’t go out in running shorts with no shirt on.”
“Of course not. That would be arrogant.”
I held his gaze, unwilling to back down.
“Enjoy your pizza, Eleanor.”
I opened the door and went inside, closing it harder than necessary.
Why was I so attracted to that asshole? And why did I have to live next door to him? I was probably in for lots of headboard banging against the wall when he brought women home.
I put my pizza box on the kitchen counter, slipped out of my heels and went to the bedroom to change into comfortable clothes, making sure my blinds were all completely closed.
Ford Barrett would never get another look at the inside of my apartment. Next time we saw each other, I planned to ignore him completely. No eye contact whatsoever.
And absolutely no staring at his chest. Or his abs. Next time, I’d be ambivalent, even if he broke out that broody scowl again.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ford
“See you assholes in the morning,” I said as I exited the bus that had taken us from the airport back to the arena.
Thank fuck that hellish road trip was over. After dropping our first two away games, we were now 0–3. We were scheduled to fly out of Vancouver late this morning, but our plane had mechanical problems and it took several hours to get another one. So we were just getting home at 9:45 p.m., and we had practice in the morning.
I clearly wasn’t inspiring my team. My role as captain was to lead and inspire, and we were playing like a steaming pile of shit. I was disgusted, with myself and everyone else.
“Ford,” a voice called from behind me.
I stopped and turned to see Dom hustling over.
“What?” I said.
“You want to go out?”
“No.”
He shoved my shoulder. “Come on, man. Let’s blow off some steam.”
“I just want to go home.”
The airplane food had been cold and shitty. I was planning to pick up some steamed chicken, rice, and veggies from a Chinese place nearby and do nothing for the rest of the night.
“We could play Call of Duty,” he suggested.
“Fuck off,” I said shortly. “I’m sick of everyone right now.”
“You don’t need to be a dick.”
I scowled at him. “The fact that you don’t seem to care that we’re 0–3 is a little concerning.”