FIREBIRD by Jennifer Loring
“When love is not
madness, it is not love.”
Stephanie Hartwell is a journalist chasing the story of
her career...
When superstar hockey player and notorious bad boy
Aleksandr Volynsky is traded to the Seattle Earthquakes in a blockbuster deal,
Stephanie demands the opportunity to prove herself by scoring an exclusive
interview with a man with no love for the media...the same man she once though,
as a naive teenager, she'd someday marry.
An Olympian and Stanley Cup Champion, Aleksandr has
achieved every goal he's ever set...
Now expected to carry a failing team on his shoulders,
Aleksandr's troubles deepen when he encounters Stephanie after a season-opening
loss. His lifestyle of drinking and random hookups has been a futile attempt to
forget the beautiful tomboy who stole his heart nine years ago. And worse, fame
and fortune have made it impossible for him to trust anyone--especially
Stephanie, who is engaged to another man.
When Aleksandr discovers the truth behind his
self-destructive behavior, will his newfound self-awareness be enough to
convince Stephanie to give him one last chance...
About the Author: Jennifer Loring’s short fiction has appeared in
numerous magazines, webzines, and anthologies. In 2013, she won Crystal Lake
Publishing's inaugural Tales from the Lake horror writing competition; in 2014,
DarkFuse published her novella Conduits,
and in May 2015, Omnium Gatherum released her debut novel, Those of My Kind. She is a member of the Horror Writers Association
and the International Thriller Writers. Jennifer lives in Philadelphia, PA,
with her husband, a turtle, and two basset hounds. She is currently at work on
the second book in the Firebird Trilogy.
Excerpt: Stephanie Hartwell marched into her editor-in-chief’s
office, flung the door shut, and slammed her stained coffee mug on his desk.
“No.
Give me that story, Dave. Those assholes out there have had the chance to prove
themselves. A million chances. I didn’t go to USC to write theater reviews.”
Dave
failed to suppress a smile. “Nothing personal, Steph. The Volynsky trade is a
big deal, and I need someone familiar with Seattle sports to cover it.”
The
veins in her neck throbbed, and a flush burned her face. She’d never been good
at controlling her emotions, especially anger. Especially when he was
underestimating her because she had tits. “I’ve been here three years. You want
‘familiar’? Volynsky has played all eighty-two games for the past four seasons.
Eighty points or higher in each of those seasons. Leads the league in shots on
goal and is top ten in assists. He’s a plus-three, plays at least twenty-one
minutes a game, and averages forty-eight goals per season. Shall I go on?”
Dave’s
eyebrows inched toward his receding hairline.
“You
know what they call me behind my back, Dave? ‘Puck bunny.’ I played hockey most of my life. I know
the game. You show me a puck bunny that does.” She stabbed her finger at him.
“Give me the story.”
“All
right, all right, Jesus.” Dave waved his palms at her like two white flags. He
clacked out what she presumed was a follow-up email relieving Shawn of his
Volynsky duties. Stephanie tensed in a preemptive, involuntary defensive
posture for the verbal assault she expected as soon as she left Dave’s office.
“How
do you know all this, anyway?”
“Would
you ask any of the guys that?”
“Not
everything is an attack on you, Steph. I’m on your side. I know you feel like
you have to be better than everyone just to be considered average.”
Stephanie
let her shoulders sink and her fingers uncurl. The muscles in her neck ached.
She expelled a long breath and shifted her gaze to the view of Puget Sound out the window. The past
had compromised her objectivity, but it would not compromise her job.
“Steph?
You still with me?”
"Yeah.
Sorry. Just thinking of the right lead.”
“That’s
why you’re the best. Okay, the season opener is tomorrow night. You’re on it.
Get him to agree to an exclusive story. I’ll see what I can do on my end. Rumor
has it he’s difficult.”
She’d
heard all the stories. Everyone had. The hard-drinking, womanizing bad boy. A
modern-day Derek Sanderson and stereotypical star athlete, whose behavior fed
rising public disgust with pro-sports salaries and Seattle’s own
taxpayer-funded, three hundred fifty million-dollar Amazon Arena. The Seattle
Earthquakes had struggled from day one two years ago in a market with an
inexplicable lack of hockey fans, fewer than even Arizona or Florida. Giving
away the farm for Volynsky—eight years, ninety-two million dollars, and two top
prospects—volatile as he was, became a last-ditch effort to avoid the fates of
the Predators, Coyotes, and Panthers, all relocated to Canada.
"I
deal with bullshit from entitled man-children every day. I can handle him.” She’d
done it before. In another life, when he’d been someone else.
Dave
chuckled and shook his head. “I almost feel sorry for him. Now go. Do me
proud.”
“You
got it.” Stephanie plucked her mug from his desk and left the office. Her spine
stiffened when she saw Shawn glaring at her over the long table, lined with
computers on either side, at which the staff worked. She’d have no privacy
unless she earned her coveted promotion and an office.
“We
all know why you wanted that story.” His gaze landed on her chest, which wasn’t
large, and she crossed her arms. The mug dangled from her fingertips. She
stifled the urge to smash it over his head. But that would be all the ammo he’d
need to prove he’d been right all along—that she was too irrational, too
emotional, to handle the job.
Too
female.
“Oh?
Do tell me, Shawn. I mean, we’ve had so many deep, meaningful conversations. It
couldn’t possibly be because I played hockey from age five until I graduated
from college and still play adult league.” She lifted her chin and drilled her
stare into him, hoping his head would explode Scanners style. “Why don’t you spend less time worrying about me
and more time figuring out why you’re such a whiny, self-absorbed, spoiled
little shit?”
A
chorus of chuckles and “oohs” rose from the table. Shawn’s jaw muscles
tightened, and his eyes were like an overcast day on the lake, reflecting her
hatred back at her.
“Bitch,”
he muttered as she walked away. With her back to him, she pretended to let the
word roll off her like a raindrop, unimportant and unworthy of her attention.
She slid into her chair, furious when tears pricked her eyes. She distracted
herself with the mail left beside her monitor during her meeting. The latest People, their “One Hundred Most
Beautiful” issue. Mindless eye candy. Just what she needed. She opened the
magazine and skimmed the list.
Her
heart stopped, skipped, restarted.
Number
ninety-eight.
Aleksandr
Volynsky: With his
GQ looks and killer body, this
twenty-five-year-old power forward has been setting the NHL on fire for seven
seasons already. The six-foot-five Russian stud, as notorious for his off-ice
antics as for his puck-handling skills, is surprisingly coy about his love
life. “There is someone, yes,” he says. “We’re just not in the same place right
now.”
He was naked from the waist up and clad in his hockey gear from the waist down,
holding his stick in his right hand. They’d Photoshopped the scar on his right
cheek, where four years ago an errant puck had split his face open, broken his
jaw, and shattered several of his teeth.
God,
he was beautiful.
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