Page 5 of Something to Prove

“That was painful,” he conceded, chuckling.

I nodded in agreement. “I have a lead on a retired Smithton professor who just published a cookbook—all desserts. A cooking-class segment could be fun, and God knows I could use a break from athletes.”

The problem with good friends was that they tended to know you too well. Robin narrowed his eyes. “What happened with the hockey player?”

“Let’s just say, I like football players better.”

“That bad?”

“Worse,” I grumbled. “Ty Czerniak hates me.”

Robin snorted. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“Oh, yes, he does. You should have seen the way he looked at me. Pure contempt with a side of malice. I don’t think I’ve ever been hated to my face. I didn’t like it.”

“Poor baby. What are you going to do?”

I shrugged helplessly. “WhatcanI do? He’s holding a grudge for his former teammate who forgave me a year and a half ago. I don’t want to dredge up that ugly chapter again. It was horrifying the first go-around.”

“A Smithton senior signing with a professional team is big news, Walker. Are we even relevant if we don’t report it?”

“But if I do report it and Ty finds out, which at a school the size of a postage stamp, he certainly will…he might accuse me of using his name for ratings and tear me apart, limb by limb. For real.” I tossed my bag into the back seat and leaned against my car.

“Sounds dramatic,” he deadpanned.

“Maybe so, but I’ve never had anyone look like they wished I fell off a cliff and hit a hundred boulders before landing facedown on concrete.”

“So whatareyou going to do? Give up?”

I sighed. “Of course not. Perseverance is part of the job. I’ll try again. If the answer is still no, I’ll accept it…along with the sad truth that hockey and I will never have a good relationship.”

Robin patted my shoulder condescendingly. “There, there. If you ask me, what we have here is a collision of prejudices—your personal hockey angst and his grudge.”

I crossed my arms defensively—my way of admitting he was right. “Any suggestions?”

“Make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

“That’s very mafia chic of you, and very off-brand for me,” I snarked.

“Maybe, but everyone has a price.”

“We’re college students, Robby. We don’t pay for interviews.”

“You could make a trade, a barter of some kind.”

“If your mind has wandered to the gutter, steer it to safety. There’s no way and no chance for carnal persuasion in this situation.”

He squinted like an owl through his thick glasses. “I honestly hadn’t thought of that, but…”

“But…” I prodded. “What were you thinking?”

“I—no, never mind. I’ll ponder the dilemma over a cup of hot cocoa,Assassin’s Creed, and?—”

I caught Robin’s elbow, jostling his camera bag from his shoulder. “If we’re reporting this story, we have to act now. Timing is everything. So…out with it.”

Robin hesitated a beat, no doubt studying my body language before blurting, “Ty’s idol is Ketchum Clomsky.”

My mouth fell open. “No.”