The Hockey Reporter's Diary
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Daphne Anders
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Camille is a former Olympic star who now reports on the hockey world she swore she was done with. She loves the game but rolls her eyes at the players, especially with her own father’s messy legacy trailing behind her. After every interview, she pours her uncensored thoughts into a private journal that keeps her sane. Until it doesn’t. One slip, and Benjamin—the charming new assistant captain with a grin that should be illegal—ends up with her secrets in his hands. He offers a deal she never expects. One date. One chance. Could the man she’s sworn to avoid be the one who shakes her walls loose?
Chapter 1
CAMILLE
“I’m Camille Willems, and thank you for tuning in to the Canadian National Hockey League,” I repeated.
I forced a picture-perfect smile onto my pink-painted lips, straightened my shoulders, and pushed out my chest. That’s what men were watching my before and after game interviews for anyway. They wanted to see their “prized hockey star” interviewed by a blonde bombshell with caked-on lipstick, a perfect smile, and perky boobs.
They didn’t tune in to see “has-been” Camille Willems, one-time Olympic gold medalist with a ponytail and a bare face.
A smile had been plastered on my face for approximately thirty minutes—no, thirty-two minutes to be precise. I’d been staring at the clock, after all.
It was hard not to, especially when the interview was set to start in two minutes and all he’d been doing for the last five minutes was looking at me. Well, mainly at my ass, my boobs, and anything else but my face.
I even caught him smiling at me. That was his lame attempt at flirting, even though it had quite the opposite effect on me.
I smiled as widely as I could and kept the less-than-endearing thoughts locked inside my head.
Today I was interviewing the Huskies’ captain, Ottawa’s very own top goal scorer, known for his offense and his charming good looks. I mean, he wasn’t bad to look at.
And he was also one of those guys who knew he was attractive, and I hated that. I mean, c’mon, you can still be humble even if you’re hot.
But most professional sports players were all the same. They knew what it got them: unlimited hookups and fame.
That’s why I would never date a hockey player. That, and my father being the grade-A asshole that he was, gave me a solid opinion of hockey players—and it wasn’t a good one.
I felt my smile wavering, so I forced it back onto my face as he strode over. Clark Bartlett.
His gaze locked onto mine, but I turned my attention back to the teleprompter and the camera, hoping Clark would too when we went live in a minute.
But he just kept looking at me with wide, googly eyes, and I had to force back an audible groan and an eye roll.
Be professional, Camille, I told myself.
“That was some win!” I said enthusiastically.
But of course, he was already staring at me intently.
“Yeah, I want to say it was a close one, but it wasn’t.”
God, I wanted to cringe at his comment. I mean, who even says that?
But I forced a wider smile before offering him my best grin.
“Absolutely. That was a great game, but what else could Huskies fans expect from their team captain!” I had to pad his ego—it was almost a requirement from the network.
I internally cringed at that comment. It gave me the literal ick, but still, a smile lined my lips.
I could tell that Clark liked me—or at the very least, liked me enough to want to see me naked. Another internal gag.
Clark smiled widely.
“And you brought home a hat trick, too!” I said cheerfully, another boost to his ego.
Clark smiled, straightening his shoulders and puffing up his chest. That also made me want to roll my eyes.
God, these players—they’re all the same.
Clark nodded proudly.
“I can see another hat trick in my future at the next game against the Grizzlies, too.”
I wanted to correct him right then and there, that he didn’t just magically score those goals without any help, but I knew I couldn’t.
Reagan took it away with the defense—he was incredible—and Thomas had the assist, but of course Bartlett had to take credit for it himself. There is literally no I in team, but the cocky jackass didn’t seem to know or care about that.
Instead, I held back my internal comments and kept smiling.
“Oh, I’m sure we would love to see that! We’re looking forward to you scoring again and to your showstopping goals. The crowd always goes wild when their captain scores!”
“Yes, they do!” Clark clapped his hands together and turned back to the camera.
“Well, thank you, Captain Bartlett, for your time. I’m Camille Willems, and thank you for tuning in to the Canadian National Hockey League,” I said. I reached out my hand to shake his, and the recording ended as the teleprompter went blank.
Thank God that was over.
I gave him a firm handshake, thanking him for his time, and turning on my heel to walk away.
“Hey, Camille, right?” I heard Clark’s voice call from behind me.
