Page 9 of Something to Prove (Smithton Bears #2)

WALKER

Ty Czerniak was a monster. No, he was an overgrown man-child, high on his warped idea of power.

Terrible questions. Try again.

As if requesting me to revise a hundred questions over the past few days was somehow…fun. I growled at my cell and pushed it out of reach to avoid throwing it across the room.

Grr! I blew out an exasperated breath and retrieved my phone.

It’s customary to begin with standard noninvasive queries and end with something personal.

Three dancing dots later, Ty responded with a thumbs-down emoji. Boring. No one cares if I won a trophy in Mighty Mites.

Yes, they do. That question establishes how long you’ve played hockey without asking directly. It stays.

He sent a warning sign gif. Whoa, Nelly. Who has two thumbs and gets final say? This guy.

I gave up, scrolled for his number, and tapped Send.

“I didn’t know we were doing the talking on the phone thing,” Ty answered in greeting.

“We’re not, but I don’t have the mental spoons required to continue an inane text thread with you.”

“All right, but I gotta warn you…this is gonna cost you a few minutes off the clock,” Ty said in a lilting tone.

“It will not,” I huffed through my teeth.

“Will too.”

I bit back another “will not,” and reminded myself to stay calm as I massaged the bridge of my nose. The jock was officially under my skin in all the worst ways. It was time to try another tactic.

“If you don’t like my questions, perhaps you should write a few and text them to me.”

The line went quiet for a beat. “Cool. I can do that. It’ll be a long list, though. I’ll bring it to the interview.”

“No.” I cleared my throat and continued in a softer tone. “I’ll need to review them first. Email me.”

“My computer is at home…and I might forget.”

I sighed. “You could recite them over the phone or?—”

“Nah, I’ll come by. It’ll give me a chance to inspect your studio.” Inspect my studio? The nerve! “What are you doing now?”

“Now? I’m a little busy. How about Thursday?” I asked.

“I have practice and I have to study for econ.”

“Friday?”

“I have a game and?—”

“Fine,” I interrupted sharply, eyeing the stack of notes I was supposed to review for my journalism theory seminar. “Come now.”

Ty chuckled…an honest-to-God snicker of mirth. He was enjoying this, the egotistical, puffed-up, self-serving, pompous hockey hooligan.

“Cool. Gimme your deets.”

I gave him my address, disconnected the call, and lowered my forehead to my desk in defeat.

Ugh. I hated hockey.

Fifteen minutes later, the doorframe shook under the onslaught of a forceful knock. Mabel, my white Himalayan, meowed her annoyance and darted up the stairs to safety. I glanced after her wistfully, patting my wayward hair and pasting a smile on my face as I checked the peephole.

If there was one upside to my current pickle…Ty was easy on the eyes. His snug-fitted black T-shirt drew attention to his pecs and the dragon tattoo on his biceps. And don’t get me started on those delicious faded jeans.

Down, boy . Ty might be unbearably handsome, but he was a tiresome jerk. I regretted the necessity of pursuing this interview. I would have loved to forget about it entirely or choose a different player. But he was Smithton’s rising star, and I needed this to go well.

I opened the door with a flourish. “Welcome.”

Ty stepped inside, unabashedly scanning the foyer and adjacent living area. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.” I held out my hand expectantly. “Do you have the questions?”

“On my cell.”

I frowned. “You could have sent them in a text.”

He rocked on his heels smugly. “I wanted a sneak preview of where the magic happens.”

I sensed he was up to something, but I had no idea what.

“My office and studio are upstairs.” Without further ado, I led the way to the second story and gestured for him to sit in one of the chairs opposite my desk.

He strolled to the kitchenette in the corner instead, and whistled in appreciation. “You have a fridge in your office?”

“I do.” I plucked two water bottles from the open shelves next to the mini refrigerator and handed one to Ty before taking a seat behind the desk. “I’m ready for the questions.”

He ignored me, twisting the cap on his water bottle as he studied the family photographs on my bookshelves. “Who’s this?”

“My Aunt Kay and my cousin Jack.”

He set the frame down and pointed at the one next to it. “Another cousin?”

“Yes. Do you?—”

“No one in these pics has red hair. Where’d you get it?”

“My mother.”

“Oh, that must be her.” Ty pointed at a photo of my mom riding a camel in the Sahara. “Cool pic.”

“Yes.”

“She was a reporter, huh?”

“Uh…yes. How did you know?”

“My agent mentioned it. Tell me about her,” Ty prodded.

I stared at him for a beat, unsure how to handle the scrutiny. He was making this so much harder than it had to be.

“Why?”

He pulled his cell from his pocket and flopped onto a chair. “Just curious. I figured this is part of the interview process. I should get to know you too, right?”

I wrinkled my nose. “That’s not how interviews work.”

“Well, they should. I’ll be more willing to share shit if you do the same.”

“I don’t think?—”

“Where are you from originally?”

What was he doing?

I steepled my fingers and leaned forward with my elbows on the desk. “Manhattan. You?”

“Utica.” We played the no-blink staring game for a whole minute before Ty chuckled and took a swig from his water bottle.

“Let’s try another one. I have five siblings—three older sisters, me, and two younger brothers.

We all play hockey. Dad coaches high school PE and teaches freshman English, Mom’s a kindergarten teacher. You?”

“I’m an only child.”

Ty bugged his eyes out. “I can’t imagine what that would be like.”

Lonely.

I bit the word back and wiggled my fingers expectantly. “Questions?”

Ty narrowed his eyes, but must have decided he didn’t care enough to press. He scrolled his cell and cleared his throat theatrically.

“Number one: What are your chances of survival in a zombie apocalypse? Number two: Favorite smell? Three: Could you eat ice cream with your bare hands? No cone. Just the ice cream. Four: What kind of?—”

“Stop.” I ran my tongue along my upper lip and sighed. “We can’t use those. Or rather, we can if you insist, but our audience will want to talk about your college experience at Smithton and your thoughts about going pro. Not so much about zombies and odd ice cream eating habits.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Those questions are gold…

and they stay,” Ty insisted. “By the way, I would totally survive a zombie apocalypse, freshly cut grass and a refrigerated rink are the best smells in the world, with chocolate chip cookies just out of the oven at a close second, and I can eat ice cream anyway anyhow. You?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to remind him again that I was not the subject here, but…in his own way, Ty was cooperating. Maybe he couldn’t help that he had the attention span of a goldfish.

“Okay, well…I would never, ever, ever, ever survive a zombie encounter or an apocalypse. My standards are far too high to be a zombie. They’re ugly and ill mannered, and I simply wouldn’t fit in.

As for an apocalypse, I get edgy when the market is out of La Croix.

Say no more. I love the smell of the ocean, and no, I don’t eat with my hands.

See exhibit A…not zombie material.” I brushed my hands and spun to my monitor. “Now, let’s try a few of my questions.”

“Hold your horses, Woody. I’m not done.”

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood and shook my head. “Two things. One: Do not call me Woody. I’m not a woodpecker or a penis pecker. Two: Turkeys are done, not people. Proper English would therefore be, I’m not finished. May I proceed with my queries now?”

Ty’s sharp gaze didn’t waver, but his lips twitched. “Hold up. I’m still on the penis pecker line.”

I groaned in exasperation. “This was a bad idea.”

“No, it was a great idea. But I think you’re supposed to be nicer to me. You’re the one who wants the interview…not me.”

“One more.”

Ty gave a devilish half smile. “You have a fresh box of crayons, not a single soul has used them yet. What color are you choosing?”

“Red,” I replied automatically. “You?”

“Blue. Bears colors. And that’s a good lead-in to boring questions.” He gestured broadly as if giving me the floor. “What d’ya got?”

Okay…

I cleared my throat and asked the first thing to pop into my head. “What have you liked best about your four years at Smithton?”

“Uh, lots of things. I love being at a small college, I have great friends, I?—”

“You don’t have to answer right now,” I intercepted. “I’m giving you a sample of what I’ll ask when the camera is rolling.”

“Oh. Well, roll it now. I’m here.”

“I’m not the videographer. That’s Robin’s domain, and he’ll be all kinds of ticked off at me if I take his fun away.”

Ty nodded. “Right. Other questions?”

I inclined my chin in a businesslike fashion. “Do you have any pregame rituals? How do you handle pressure situations on the ice? What’s your fitness routine? Do you ever get nervous before a game?”

“Really? No weirdly personal questions? That seems like a sketchy oversight.”

I bristled at the critique. “Out of curiosity, what constitutes weirdly personal?”

“How about, ‘Are you dating anyone? Girl, guy? Do you ever date both at the same time? Have you ever been caught in a compromising position with your dick out in an alley and?—’ ”

“I wouldn’t ask you those types of questions,” I said between my teeth. “My goal isn’t to make you uncomfortable.”

Ty crossed his arms. “If that was true, you wouldn’t have been sneaking around a parking lot in the dark, looking for me.”

I growled. “That’s not what happened.”

“We’ve been round and round on this one. We both know that’s exactly what happened.”

Okay, yes, that was true and I was still mortified, but darn it…

“You’re mean,” I snapped, unthinking.