CRAVINGS: Faking It with the Defenseman

Reyna I get paid to witness history, tell the stories behind the scoreline while capturing the thrilling moments, the triumphs, the challenges faced by the athletes, and share the pulse of the game with the world. Now I have a new target: Cole Bennick. I have seen the footage of all of his four hundred and twelve games. I even had to watch a particular clip four times before I forced myself to stop. It was a post-scrimmage footage featuring a child, in full gear, crashing into Cole Bennick with such power that the boom mic even shook, and the strength of one word—"Daddy"—resounding clearly through the whole ice rink. In response, Cole Bennick caught the kid on reflex, and for just one second, before he remembered he was on camera, his face had an expression that I had never seen in all of his games before it closed off again. “You going to wear that clip out, Reyna?” I said as I forced myself to close my laptop. I had six hours to dress up and look ready to mingle while acting professional, in case and just in case I met the man I had just studied to exhaustion; I would have to get into him somehow, after all, he is my route to a masthead promotion. So, I am giving it my all. He will probably be at the gala tonight; all the sports executives will be there, so obviously my person of interest. ** The gala was for pediatric cancer research, so I found a corner, got a drink I wasn't drinking, and looked around till I found him. Dana Pierce found me in my spot at a time I least wanted company. "You're staring," Dana said. "I'm working. There's a difference." I replied. "Is there a draft yet?" "Dana. The season hasn't started." "Nine days." Her eyes tracked him across the room. "He's not in a good place. Fans love him, but the board is nervous. One more bad headline and we lose the Larssen deal." "That’s not my problem." "No," she said. "But it could be your story." I didn’t answer, since just then Cole raised his head and surveyed the room and saw that I was looking at him. We maintained our gaze; neither one of us looked away. In a moment, I saw that Dana had vanished; disappearing just the way she appeared - unannounced. He crossed the room to me, going directly through the center, letting me sense his intent even from afar. I held his stare as he approached, but my heart could not help but thump faster in rhythm. He is very handsome, dressed in a bespoke tux, a classic black jacket featuring sharply defined peak lapels that accentuate his broad chest. At a height of over 6ft 2 inches, he has a powerful, V-tapered physique. His broad shoulders and wide chest fill out the jacket perfectly. His robust lower body, probably sharpened from years of skating, gives him an undeniable, anchored posture. “You’re the journalist,” he stated while holding my stare with his sharp eyes, bearing the poised intensity of a player used to shutting down the league's top scorers. His hair was thick and styled effortlessly to the back, showing off a confident and easy smile on his face. I couldn’t help but inhale a bit to take in his presence before I said, "Reyna Voss. Season feature." "I know who you are. I read the piece you did on Hartmann. The skating one." A quick unreadable expression moved through his face as he said. "It was good. Better than good." "Most athletes don't read bylines unless they're planning to complain about them," I replied, unable to suppress my surprise. "I'm not most athletes." "No," I said, before I could stop myself, "you're the one who's one bad week from losing his Larssen deal. Your own PR team's words, not mine." There was something different in his eyes; it wasn't anger exactly; he seemed weary more than anything else. "Too much talking from the PR people," he whispered. "But they're not wrong." I countered. He looked at me thoughtfully for a minute. "No," he conceded. "They're not." "So, which is the real you?" I challenged him. "Is it the photo-perfect image in the magazines? Or is it the you here in front of me right now?" "Cool it. That was almost a legitimate question." "It was a legitimate question." "Well, then I don't know yet," he told me with a slight smile. "Ask me that one again when you figure out which version you're dealing with." "I'm not dealing with any version. I'm just a reporter." "We all have our versions, Voss. Yours just happens to come with a byline." I tried saying something but was surprised that I didn't have anything to say. For a while, I stared at his chiseled face, with an angular jawline framed by a neatly trimmed five-o'clock shadow. Then a waiter came along a little too close to me, and his hand automatically went around to steady my elbow before I even knew that I was losing my balance. It was not intentional but pure reflex, the kind of catch only a person who is practiced on someone smaller than myself could do. “Just so we’re clear. You didn't spill anything,” I joked. “I could see that you almost got crushed.” He replied with a slight tug of his lips in a smile that made him look smug but also cute all at once. “You didn't know that. You acted before it happened.” “I have quick reflexes. It’s an occupational hazard.” “That’s not an explanation.” “No,” he agreed. “It’s not.” At that point, there was an audible click of a shutter somewhere in the corner of the room. Neither of us even bothered looking in its direction. My mind was preoccupied with the fact that he had not yet released my elbow. He stared at me, his green eyes capturing my attention. "Reyna Voss," he repeated slowly, almost like trying out the words. "Yeah, that's still my name," I replied. "I'm gonna remember it." "You say that like it's a threat." "It depends on what you do with it." Finally releasing my elbow, he continued, "Ask me again when the season starts. Which one you got tonight." "I don't think I'll have to ask for it twice." "You will," he answered. "Everyone does."