Free Game On by Wylie Snow

.”
    “Pshht.” Charlie glared at the two of them, eyes wide, mouth tight. “Behave.”
    But… but… but surely Charlie would stick up for her! “How do you expect us to co-write? How can we possibly conjoin his kind of sports with my kind of food?”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” Luc sniped.
    “I don’t write about day-old hotdogs and nachos dripping with faux cheese, and I doubt you’ve ever cracked a bottle of Beaujolais nouveau during the second quarter.”
    “Periods.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Hockey has periods, three of them, not quarters.”
    “What does that have to do with food?”
    “If you’re going to write about hockey, you should at least know the basics.”
    Bartel placed the phone in the cradle and eyed the three of them. “Problem?” he asked, probably in response to the misery on their faces.
    “Mr. Bartel, I just don’t think…” Surely, someone would tell her this was a big joke, a ruse to make her quit instead of coming out and firing her. “Charlie? Tell him!”
    “Now Clara, I think Kingsley’s plans are spot on—”
    “But Char—”
    “And if you just calm down,” he interrupted, “and look at the numbers, you’ll see that it makes perfect sense. This marriage could revitalize our industry; put the pep back in journalism!”
    Bugger! Clara felt trapped. Helpless. Betrayed by her former best-boss-ever.
    “You’ll have to excuse our Clara, Kingsley. She was ever-so attached to her little dog, and I think she’s still in mourning.” He patted her hand, which had a white-knuckled grip on the arm of the leather chair. “Just look at the bags under your eyes, dear. You should speak to Sue about a nice soothing eye mask.”
    “You were actually the inspiration for this, Clara,” Bartel said.
    “Me? How?”
    “Our marketing department failed miserably in coming up with a grabby promo. I was just about to fire the lot of them when Charlie’s weekly report landed on my desk. It contained news of your dog’s death. Charlie suggested we needed to find you a new Biscuit.”
    “Biscuit? That was your dog’s name?” Luc gave an agonizing groan as he leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands.
    “Yes,” she said, looking between Luc and Bartel. “Why?”
    “What do you know about Luc?” Bartel asked.
    Clara shook her head. How was she supposed to answer that?
    I know he makes me laugh. I know he has the most luscious mouth I’ve ever kissed. I know his touch can bring me to orgasm in minutes. I know I want him, desperately, to look at me like he did last night, like I was beautiful and desired.
    But she couldn’t say that, so she shrugged and hoped nobody would notice the dampness on her upper lip or see the tremble in her fingers as she tucked her hair behind her ear.
    “Did you know Luc played pro hockey?”
    “Yes. I mean no. I mean, yes I knew that he played ice hockey, but pro, no. It didn’t really come up,” Clara explained with a side-eye toward Luc, who was shaking his head like he wished he were anywhere but in this room. He pushed up from his chair and began to pace.
    “I’m surprised, Miss Bean. Luc is as recognized on this side of the pond as Mr. Beckham is on yours.” Bartel chuckled.
    “Oh.” Lydia was going to laugh herself blue. “But I don’t understand. What’s this got to do with my dog?”
    “Ah! You will love this. I promise.” Bartel’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he sank into a deep, throne-like chair behind his desk. He steepled his fingers and leaned forward, as if he were about to tell her something profound. “Luc is from Quebec, Miss Bean. He’s French Canadian, so although his last name is pronounced biskay , it is spelled B-I-S-Q-U-E-T.”
    Tired, cranky, and sick of playing games, Clara shook her head in confusion.
    Bartel smiled, clearly loving this little game. “Early in Luc’s career, during a particularly significant game, the Olympics to be exact, some idiot sportscaster mispronounced it,