Crossing the Line
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CAROLE73
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671K
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52
April, a fierce political journalist, hates sports. Samuel Bardan, the arrogant captain of the Quebec Gladiators, lives only for the ice. When April is forced to cover his team, the spark is immediate and explosive. Between a stolen kiss and the pressure of the Olympic Games, one night of passion changes everything. But Samuel's coach sees April as a fatal distraction. To protect Samuel's dream, April walks away with a heavy secret: she is carrying his child. Five months later, as Samuel reaches the peak of his glory, will he discover that his greatest victory awaits him off the rink?
First Assignment
APRIL
My name is April, and I used to be a political journalist. Then my local paper folded, and I had to reinvent myself in a whole new field: sports.
This morning is my first team meeting with the big boss, Nicolas. During my interview, he came across as a little tense, a little pushy, but I pretended not to notice. He has to be in his forties, and he always looks like he’s bracing for something.
He carries himself stiff and straight, like the world has a personal grudge against him.
I take a seat at the long conference table, and my new coworkers watch me with open curiosity. I try not to stare back, but I can feel their eyes on me—their judgment, maybe, or just their curiosity about what I’m going to bring to the team. Finally, the big boss walks in.
He flashes everyone a quick, almost mechanical smile before sitting down and getting started.
“I’d like to introduce a new member of our team, April Curtis, our new sports reporter. She’ll be replacing Andy, who’s moved on to New York.”
A heavy silence settles over the room, and discomfort crawls up my spine. Then one of them—a man with a thick beard—claps slowly, almost mockingly.
“Pathetic. A woman for the sports section… Couldn’t you do better than that, Nick?” he says with a smirk.
My heart pounds, but I keep my expression neutral. Nicolas, like he’s been expecting this, snaps his head toward him.
“Shut up, Baltazar. She’s more than qualified. I read her résumé, and it’s perfect.” Then he turns to me. “What were you covering again?”
I swallow, but my voice comes out firm and proud. “Politics.”
Baltazar bursts into a loud, disdainful laugh. But Nicolas doesn’t let him have it.
“Yeah, politics or sports—same thing. Always a winner and a loser,” he says with a dry smile, like he’s spinning the dig into his own joke.
Everyone forces a laugh, except me and Baltazar. That’s fine. I already don’t like him. Nothing’s going to change that.
I’m the grudge-holding type. There are two things I hate in this life: idiots and sports.
So when I agreed to become the paper’s “sports reporter,” I wasn’t exactly thrilled. But like they say, you have to eat and pay the bills, and this was the first job I landed.
And as for the idiots, I’ve already got one sitting right in front of me. Something tells me the world of sports is full of them. How does the saying go? All in the muscles, nothing in the head.
Nicolas loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt, like the room just got too warm for him. Meanwhile, a coffeepot is making its way around the table, and when it reaches me, I pour myself a generous mug. I need it, especially after barely sleeping last night thinking about my first day.
I take a deep breath and a sip. The coffee is disgusting…whatever.
Suddenly, I notice everyone is staring at me. I’ve missed something. I wasn’t listening—too distracted by my coffee.
“So?” Nicolas says.
“So what?”
“I was asking if you knew about the big sporting event coming to the city.”
“Football?” I throw it out there kind of randomly. I don’t know. I’m not really into sports.
He sighs, and of course it’s the idiot, Baltazar, who answers.
“Hockey! We’re in the city of hockey!”
“Hockey. And you’re going to go set up an appointment right away with the number one player on the team, Samuel Bardan.”
I write his name down and smile like an idiot.
“Do you at least know who he is?”
“Yes, of course.” I lie so easily it shocks me. I’ll just look him up online later.
“The goal is an interview and a special issue on the whole team,” Nicolas tells me.
I nod, already telling myself this is going to be way more complicated than I expected. I take a deep breath and force myself to stay calm, even as a knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach.
An interview with Samuel Bardan… I didn’t see this one coming at all. And now I really have to throw myself into a world I know nothing about.
Nicolas stares at me for a moment, then leans forward, his hands clasped on the table.
“You know hockey, April, but it’s not just about who scores goals. It’s a whole universe. Have you watched full games? Do you know why people lose their minds over guys with sticks and skates?”
I feel cornered by his questions. I search for the right words, hesitating before I answer.
“I know the basics, but I’m not going to lie to you, Nicolas. I’ve never really followed the sport.”
Silence. Nicolas stares at me, then nods, like he’s thinking it over.
“That’s what I want to hear. The truth. But it means you’re going to have to dive in, April. Get out there. Get your hands dirty. This Samuel Bardan isn’t just a player—he’s the face of the team. His interview has to be flawless. No room for winging it.
“You’re going to ask him about his career, obviously, but also about his role on the team. Why he’s so important. You need to understand why everyone follows him, why everything rests on his shoulders. You have to push him to talk about his personal struggles, his relationships with the other players.
“You’re there to dig, not to hand him a compliment session.”
I’m still trying to digest all of this when he keeps going.
“Be careful with his answers, April. Don’t let anything slip past you. This could be a pivotal moment. If you can get him on more personal ground, it’s the jackpot.”
He stops, sizes me up for a beat, then straightens in his seat.
“And then you have to start with a broader piece. Not just Samuel. The whole team. What unites them, what divides them. Why they perform—or don’t. Something that grabs people, you understand.”
I feel more and more lost, but I don’t have a choice. “Yes, of course.”
He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes cold and piercing, before he takes a breath.
“This isn’t just an interview, April. It’s an investigation. A mission. You have one month to finish it and publish it. One month. And you don’t have the luxury of screwing it up.”
Every word he says feels like it weighs a ton. One month. I have one month to understand an entire sport, a team, and a player.
It’s terrifying. But I can’t fail. He stands up, gives me one last look, and his tone sharpens.
“Get ready. And most importantly, remember—you’re part of the team now. There’s no way you’re giving up.”
Before I can get a single word out, he’s already heading for the door. I stand there, frozen, trying to digest everything he just dropped on me.
This interview, this assignment… I don’t even know where to begin. I glance over at the infamous Baltazar, who’s practically laughing in my face, shaking his head side to side. When I say he’s an idiot, I mean it.
The woman next to me smiles. “Hi, I’m Sheila. Fashion and beauty section.”
“I’m April…”
“Sports section,” she finishes, almost mocking me. Her eyes flick to my coffee cup. “It’s disgusting. He’s cheap. We have a very, very tight-fisted but very, very demanding boss. And I really don’t want to pile on the pressure, but he’d fire you in a heartbeat if he thinks you’re slacking.”
“I don’t intend to slack.”
“Well, that’s good, because you don’t exactly look motivated.”
“I am, though.”
“Really?”
She stands and walks out, throwing Baltazar a little smile that gets under my skin. I down the coffee in one gulp. As bitter as it is, it should at least wake me up.
Then I head back to my office. Well…office is generous. It’s a converted broom closet. But the important thing is that I’m alone, with no one around to distract me.
I open my laptop and type in the name—Samuel Bardan. I’m going to dig up every single thing I can about him, and then I’ll figure out how to reach him for this fucking interview.
