Rogue Hearts Read online

  Of course, she’d follow up on this story and investigate further.

  Especially considering the lead would bring her right to the ‘Rogue Files!’ She could hardly contain herself. So many rumors, false leads, and discussions had arisen since December, to the point where quite a few people had decided the ‘Rogue Files’ did not exist. She had a strong sneaking suspicion that other journalists had ignored this lead because it seemed ‘sportsy’.

  Morons.

  The email she’d received told her that the RV was white, with a mass of maroon and other random streaks painted in waves along the side. The email also reminded her the guy inside waiting for her, stressed out and driven away from home and his job by death threats, was John DiCenza.

  It took everything she had not to flash back to that series of moments five years before, where she fell into John DiCenza’s eyes and wanted to stay there. The real reason she didn’t want to watch HockeyNet after Empires games was the way this guy wore a suit. He was smart, insightful, and had touched her in a way that still haunted her dreams. And dear god she’d tried to do her best to forget him and that night, those moments. Unfortunately, that would be practically impossible when staying with him in the close quarters of an RV for the three days she needed to research the story.

  She shoved herself back to reality, hefted her backpack up on her shoulders, put her hands in her pockets and headed out into the snow-covered trailer lot. Finally, she found a trailer with maroon streaks on the side and headed towards it. She looked closer, then removed the printed email from her pocket and looked up again.

  Yep. That was it.

  Satisfied, she headed towards the trailer and banged on the door. It opened quickly, fluidly.

  “Don’t stand out there. Come in.”

  She almost fainted at the sound of that voice; the distinctive mix of British and Jersey, tight consonants and loose vowels in a contradiction she hadn’t heard up close and personal in a long time.

  She was a professional, and she shoved herself back to reality, focusing on those eyes- still dark and clear but hard with stress and possibly fear. But she didn’t have time to start meditating on the early shadows of beard darkening his face, which forced her to look upwards; she couldn’t concentrate on the strange mix of dirty blonde hair that brushed his shoulders. All she did was follow him and his tight ass inside.

  He reached behind her to shut the door. “Damn thing catches in the wind, and the last bloody thing I need is you taking forever and letting all the cold air in. So come the bloody fuck on.”

  She knew it was stress she was listening to, and maybe she’d have overlooked it another time, hot or not. But she was tired and had just driven from New York. She had no patience to spare, and anybody who’d survived a Baum mentorship would survive words she felt like saying. Yiddish, obscenity and contrast at the same time. “Fakakta,” she said.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  She gestured to her bag. “You fakakta schmuck, expecting me to climb a goddam mountain when carrying this?”

  He snorted. “Life on your back, huh?”

  “Mobile shell.” She gestured towards the trailer. “I like this.”

  “Convenient,” he replied, his mouth kicking up just a little. “There when I needed it. It works. But hard in a random snowstorm.”

  “Snow in southern Virginia in February, who’da thought, huh?” She shook her head and practically collapsed into the closest chair. She hoped it wasn’t the one he’d wanted.

  “Definitely not me, and absolutely not here.” He looked out the window, then turned back towards her, rubbing his hands as if he’d been looking for something to do with them. He put them on the table across from her. “Closest I’d have expected to be was in Carolina, or Nashville,” he said naming a few places in the area that housed hockey teams. “Not here though.”

  “Nobody expected the…penguin presidency?”

  He laughed, and she found herself smiling despite her intense desire to yawn. “That, too. At least,” he said, “nobody expected it to last this long.”

  She shrugged and smiled up at him. “I don’t know. It’s been a mess in general,” she said. “Hard to predict.”

  “But,” he said,” the end is getting closer I hope.”

  “It’s why I’m here, I think.” That was when she lost the battle against yawning. “Okay…”

  He laughed, and it made her smile when all she wanted to do was close her eyes. “Name your poison. Tea or Coke?”

  Sophie sighed. “First? Coffee. Second? Start at the beginning.”

  “Five years ago?”

  She laughed; she couldn’t help herself.

  “Hey,” he replied, a gorgeous grin on his face. “Better to have it out in the open in whatever way, as opposed to pretending to be awkward about it the whole time.”

  “Pretending to be awkward?” she quipped. “As opposed to actually being awkward.”

  “Either way. But it’s…here and I figured I’d cut to the chase.”

  “Smart,” she replied, relieved, relaxed, and not ashamed to be ogling him anymore. “I’m actually glad. I’m…and you’re…”

  “Relieved, actually. I wanted…to bring it up and either not talk about it again or…make plans to talk about it later.”

  She nodded, thinking about her reaction to seeing him. “So,” she said, folding her arms on the table in front of her. “What do you mean by ‘talk about it later?’”

  “I’m saying,” he swallowed, “when this is over. I’m not opposed to exploring what is, as opposed to what was.”

  “When you’re no longer my conduit to the second biggest story of my career, you mean?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I mean…if by the end of your story, you don’t want to throw me off a cliff or something.”

  She burst out into laughter that might have possibly been inappropriate, but his eyes were twinkling, and she knew that was something she could handle. Would love to handle.

  “Okay,” she said. “The hot caffeine first, then we get on with the story, now that we’ve got the awkwardness on the table. And,” she said, pausing as her heart started to slow down again, “we’ll leave that question on it, too.”

  “We’ll leave that question on it, too.”

  Within minutes of Sophie’s arrival, John had reverted to the tongue-tied stupidity he thought he’d lost years ago.

  Apparently not.

  Instead of trying to fight it or make it worse by trying to make it feel better, he defaulted to the hospitality drilled into him by both his parents.

  “Tea or Coke?” Because truth to tell, he needed a cuppa. It was that time of the day when coffee would be too much, and Coke wouldn’t be enough. Tea would give him just enough energy to get him through the rest of this day, yet still leave him a chance at sleeping.

  She sat at the table, tapping her fingers on the marble top, staring out the window. “Strongest tea you have. And nothing that tastes like toilet water.”

  He snorted. She drank tea like his father; with distaste and the obvious sense it was a substitute. “Black. Yes. Caffeine. Yes.”

  He pulled the kettle out and plugged it in. He pulled down two different mugs. The breakfast tea, flavored with a bit of mate, got spooned into two containers, which he closed and placed into the mugs. He took a breath, opened the fridge and took out the milk. “Milk? Sugar?”

  “Black.”

  He internally shuddered, but it was her tea, not his. It wasn’t his fault she wasn’t going to drink it properly.

  “I can hear you shuddering from here. You asked, right? ”

  “Fair enough,” he replied. “Fair enough.”

  “How’d you get into hockey anyway?”

  Good. She wanted to get to know him. Made sense as a source and for other reasons he didn’t quite want to think about. Either way, she deserved an answer. “Dad,” he replied. “Mum loved football, and when it was over for the year, Dad took over. Hockey. It was bloody expensive when we wer
e living in the UK, but when we were back in Jersey, it was perfect. Mum didn’t mind paying for the football though.”

  She nodded, and he wondered what she was thinking of. Where would she go next, what was she looking for ?

  “And the Palisades are…?”

  Aaaah. That was interesting. But he’d go with it. “Dad’s team. Why politics?”

  She laughed, and he loved the sound of it. He also loved the way she caressed the mug between her palms. “Would you believe I thought I was going to be an international reporter?”

  He snorted. Baum thought international news on its own was a waste of time, especially international news from a domestic angle. And any person Baum mentored would get that speech. The fact that Sophie would listen to that speech and ignore it made her even more fascinating in his book. “Really?”

  She nodded. “I mean I was for a while; the international desk for the Chronicle. Mostly the Canadian embassy, which got really interesting when Scotland had its recent referendum. The Canadians had a fit. And then PM Lee started traveling, which was great. Baum hated it. Said I was wasting my time.”

  He laughed. “Of course, he did. Anybody he mentors gets that speech.”

  “You got it, too?”

  She was surprised, but then why wouldn’t she be? “Yeah. I got it. And then reminded him I wasn’t covering politics, and the only international news I’d ever be interested in covering would be either the Olympics or the World Cup.”

  The sound of her laugh was glorious. “That’s amazing. But yeah, after that edition of his speech, one of my contacts at the embassy delivered my biggest scoop and changed my career completely.”

  “The notebook?”

  She nodded, blushed. “Yeah. That. It was surreal.”

  He laughed. Surreal was probably an understatement in relation to the way Sophie became the reporter who informed the known world that President Crosby’s legendary blackmail notebook was fact, not fiction. But because she probably didn’t want to analyze it then and there, he went for something easier, softer. “What did your family think…of either the change in your career path or the story in general?”

  There was the first sign of discomfort. Not that he’d gone too far in asking, but that she wasn’t sure how to explain. The way she tapped her fingers on the table, as if she was searching for words she didn’t have. “They’re not…hmm. They live a happy but small life. Mom’s a florist, and Dad’s an accountant. They’re happy for what I do, proud of me. But they’re not news people, you know?”

  He smiled. “Yeah. I do.” And whatever else he was going to say was cut off by the whine of the electric kettle. “Tea is served,” he said.

  “Hope you have a lot of it.”

  He laughed. “My mother raised me well enough to make sure my tea supply would last till a day after the world ended.”

  The sound of her laugh made him weak. He wondered whether he’d survive all of it.

  The tea big blond John gave Sophie tasted like shit, but the fact that he was sitting across from her made her smile feel permanent. Which was goddam unfortunate, considering he was her source for this story, regardless of what they were supposed to discuss once the story had run its course. “So,” she said, forcing herself back to task as she pulled a notebook and pen out of her bag, “Where do we begin? Where does this come from?”

  “Or, in other words, how did so many people miss this? Or at least, how did they go down so many random roads?” He grinned. “The beginning is that before he was elected president, one of the most important things to Crosby were the New Jersey Palisades. He stuck to a box, away from the rabble. He was a fixture; didn’t miss a home game for years. The true fans had to explain his horrible reputation.” He paused and winked at her. “In fact, most people assumed he was an Empires fan…”

  She snorted. She was an Empires fan. Baum was an Empires fan. But this wasn’t about the snarky snippy rivalry between hockey teams separated by the Hudson River. “Keep the editorializing out of it.”

  “It’s good for context,” he replied. “Average American who doesn’t understand hockey won’t get this.”

  “Just like they won’t get the random ‘Empires Suck!’ chants at Palisades ’s games.”

  He laughed, and god she loved the sound of that laugh. It made her feel less bad about bantering with him, maybe flirting with him through insulting his hockey team.

  “Good shot,” he finally said once he’d stopped laughing. “But yeah, Crosby’s got a box. Elite, posh, whatever you want to fucking call it, it is. Same box from when I was young. Same usher.”

  She nodded, intent on either the story, the sound of his voice or both. She wasn’t sure, nor did she care.

  “Man’s an institution, really. The usher, I mean. He’s the guy you look for, when you walk in, probably because he’s as familiar to the place as the wallpaper is.”

  She nodded, but didn’t say anything, not wanting to disturb him.

  “But the thing is, he’s always split his time. His second periods have pretty much always been with the VIP crowd, providing polite quiet service to the VIPs in the boxes. And out with the fans making himself known during the first and the third. Fifteen years, this happens as far as I can tell.”

  He shifted in his seat, as if this was going to get difficult.

  “Right around the time the Pals moved to the new building, they make his VIP duty exclusively to Crosby. That happens for…about 5 years? Then he gets moved to Crosby full time. They take him from the public and make him serve Crosby. For ten fucking years, why the bloody fuck I have no idea, but yeah. That’s what they do.”

  “That’s…”

  “Yep.” He nodded, and the anger in his eyes told her that decision still burned him, not just for journalism reasons, but for hockey reasons. For personal reasons.

  “One of the most confusing decisions the Pals management have made. Ever. And that includes that mountainous mascot. Anyway, they take the usher out of circulation completely. Nobody hears from him.”

  “For how long?”

  “Ten. Fucking years. Till the last Cup, possibly?”

  “Okay.” She tried to calculate when the Palisades last championship was. Twelve years ago? Thirteen? Well before Crosby decided that he wanted to get involved in politics. But there was something going on then. “Now what?”

  “Well then he’s back. Still working for Crosby’s box but more…out in public. Like they realize they’ve lost a good thing and they know it. But there’s something about him now…”

  Something about him. Scared? Angry? Afraid. “What do you mean? Like…”

  “He’s more careful, more suspicious. He’s being watched. But it’s one of those things y’only notice if you knew him before, right?” She nodded, sitting at the edge of her seat, and against every bit of will she possessed, let herself get caught up in the sound of his voice.

  “Which means he’s worried. Come to find out he was being watched.”

  She gasped, worried for this usher, this man she didn’t know, who’d probably hate her based on the name of her favorite team. “Why? What?”

  John sighed, and she watched helplessly as he dragged a hand through his hair. “Anybody who’s been listening to anything recently has discovered that Crosby’s a snitch, a sneak, and a worthless piece of garbage. Doesn’t treat people like they’re supposed to be treated. So, you have this usher, this institution, who’s now watching his back and suspicious. Which says to me that he’s been threatened.”

  “What happened?”

  He looked up at her, his eyes enveloping her like a woolen blanket. “Nothing really for a few years. But that’s where part two happens.”

  She nodded, not sure where he was going. “Okay. We have the usher who was being threatened and now who isn’t. Or…might be now? What next?”

  “This,” he said, “is kinda where I came in. See all of this would have been nothing except the penguin left his box, got elected and shit started happening
. Including the extended moment where I ran afoul of the ‘stick to sports assholes.’”

  “Wait, what? How the hell did that happen?”

  He rolled his eyes and she understood. “How does it happen these days? A few Empires bloggers and some STV hosts spoke their mind on political issues. Specifically, about some of the garbage that Crosby and his administration’s been peddling. Education, a whole bunch of things. Anyway, there was a social media backlash. And I didn’t start it, wasn’t at the center of it, but because I don’t have the worry the lot of ‘em do, yeah? I’m a white, straight, cis, Christian dude. I’m the son and great-grandson of immigrants, but I have so much privilege. I’m a Pals fan and I was taught better than to sit down and stay neutral.”

  “What did you do, then?”

  “What would anybody do in that situation? Elevated, deflected conversation. Got a lot of nonsense, but none of it was anything close to what any of them got. A lot of people stopped talking when I opened my mouth. Which surprised me at first, but again,” He gestured widely in a way that was meant to encompass his whole body. “White dude."

  Sophie stared at him then remembered she was supposed to be researching and not staring. So, she clicked her pen, settling it once again in her hand. “You made yourself a target. Stuff calmed down, people yelled but they remembered you. Now what?”

  She watched him cover his tea mug with both hands, watch his eyes dart away from her. “Well, that’s where the story begins. We’ve got two things that are unrelated but connect everything you need to know.”

  She nodded. “Right. This is the context for the files, for the story behind them?" She paused, covering her mouth with a hand, stopping he yawn that wanted out. “Right? Sorry.”

  He nodded back. “It’s fine. I get it.” She watched the light catch his hair. “Yeah. I know. It’s been difficult…partially because the story isn’t fully mine, but entirely mine at the same time.”