Free Game On by Wylie Snow Page A

said it phonetically, and it stuck. Miss Bean, you are looking at hockey legend Luc ‘The Biscuit’ Bisquet.”
    “Brilliant, isn’t it!” Charlie gushed. “See Clara? And you were worried about getting a new dog. This is better, eh?”
    It was Clara’s turn to groan. Couldn’t they just get her another dog?
    Having made semi-peace with the fact that she was about to join the ranks of the unemployed, Clara wasn’t disinclined to fight Bartel on this ridiculous scheme because she simply could not co-write with him ! He’d find out she was a fraud. Fear unfurled in the hollow of her gut. Panic squeezed her lungs, her brain, making it difficult to think rationally, let alone get enough air to keep from asphyxiating. She couldn’t let this happen.
    “Pray tell, how I am expected to keep my anonymity when forced to parade around with a sports icon?” she argued. “I’m a restaurant critic. I don’t merely pop in for a quick late night meal. In order to do my job properly and professionally, I visit an establishment no less than three times. I choose different meal times on different days so I get the full scope of the place, get a feel for the atmosphere, observe how the restaurant handles busier periods. Words are powerful, Mr. Bartel, and for the sake of my professional credibility, I must insist you reconsider.”
    She leapt to her feet so no one would see her shaking. “Charlie, tell them that it’s important they don’t know who I am. It would ruin everything!”
    “A simple disguise would be most effective, Miss Bean.” Bartel’s words cut through her panic attack. She dropped back into her chair.
    Bartel took a deep breath and sat on the side of his desk. His tone was fatherly when he spoke. “Clara. Just hear me out and I know you’ll understand why this pairing is a stroke of genius.”
    Clara looked up and tried to appear interested but couldn’t relax her facial muscles enough to unfurrow her brow.
    “Everyone relates to your pieces, Clara. Am I right, Charlie?” She didn’t have to look over to see the chins jiggle in acquiescence. “You cross socio-economic lines, age, gender. I know, young lady, because Charlie’s been forwarding your fan mail. And why? Because you bring a human dimension to your pieces. You write about the emotional aspect of eating, whether you’re in a French bistro or a Greek taverna. Food is universal, the pleasure of something delicious on your tongue, the satisfaction that a great culinary experience evokes. It speaks to everybody.
    “Luc,” he said, turning his attention to her new partner, who had slumped back into his chair, looking as defeated as she felt. “You write hard facts and play by plays and are widely read because of who you are . People watch your television spots, listen to your radio interviews because they trust you. Why? Because you’ve been on the ice, experienced the sport personally, the highs of winning, the lows of losing, so when you pass judgement on a play, they nod their collective heads and quote you.
    “I envision a symbiotic relationship,” Bartel said, opening his arms to them both. “You, Luc, could learn something about Clara’s punchy, personal style, and teaming her with you would be a good way to introduce her to American audiences. This dinner and a game approach makes hockey, or sports in general, I’m hoping, more accessible. A perfect date that will attract both male and female audiences. It will differ in content from your usual fare, so those that read your blog and love your words will seek you out in print. Bottom line? We. All. Win. And now, if you’ll excuse me a moment,” Bartel said, rising. “My secretary has been trying to get my attention for the last few minutes.”
    “Are you nuts?” Luc said the minute Bartel had stepped from the room. “You don’t argue with Kingsley Bartel.”
    “Perhaps you don’t mind your journalistic integrity undermined,” she said through clenched teeth. “ I do