players to think you and I are involved.â
âI have dinner with male sports reporters all the time. Chris Evans, in fact.â
It wasnât the same. She had to be completely beyond gossip. More professional than men. Even though women had been allowed in the locker room for almost three decades now, speculation over women sleeping with their sources was still an issue. She didnât think her credibility or acceptance with the players could sink lower, but she really didnât want to find out.
âI just thought you might be tired of eating alone,â Darby added.
She was tired of eating alone. She was tired of staring at the walls of a hotel room or the inside of the teamâs jet. Maybe someplace very public would be okay. âJust business?â
âAbsolutely.â
âWhy donât we meet in the hotel restaurant?â she proposed.
âSeven sound okay?â
âSeven is perfect.â She dug around in the front pocket of her briefcase and pulled out the itinerary. âWhere are we staying tonight?â
âLAX Doubletree,â Darby answered. âThe hotel shakes every time one of those airbuses takes off.â
âMarvelous.â
âWelcome to the glamorous life of an athlete,â he said and leaned his head back.
Jane had pretty much already figured out that a four-game grind was just that: a grind. Although sheâd already studied it dozens of times, her gaze scanned the itinerary. LA, then San Jose. Just a little over halfway into the road trip and she was looking forward to going home. She wanted to sleep in her own bed, drive her own car instead of ride a bus, and even open her own refrigerator instead of a hotel minibar. The Chinooks had four more days on the road before they returned to Seattle for a four-game, eight-day stretch. Then it was off again for Denver and Minnesota. More hotels and meals by herself.
Maybe having dinner with Darby Hogue was not such a bad idea. It could be enlightening and break the monotony.
At seven oâclock, Jane stepped off the elevators and made her way to the Seasons Restaurant. Sheâd left her hair down and it fell in soft curls to her shoulders. She wore her black wool pants and gray sweater. The sweater opened on the side of her neck and had flared sleeves, and until Luc had made that comment about her looking like the archangel of doom, sheâd really liked it.
Now she wondered if there was some hidden reason beyond her fear of clashing colors that made her gravitate to dark colors. Was she depressed and didnât know it, as Caroline had suggested? Have some undiagnosed mental disorder? Was she really an archangel of doom, or was Caroline delusional and Luc an arrogant A-hole? She liked to think the latter.
Darby waited for her at the entrance of the restaurant, looking very young in a pair of khakis, red and orange Hawaiian print shirt, and a new dose of gel in his hair. They were shown to a table near the windows and Jane ordered a lemon-drop martini to chase away her fatigue, if only for a few hours. Darby ordered a Beckâs and was asked for his ID.
âWhat? Iâm twenty-eight,â he complained.
Jane laughed and opened the dinner menu. âPeople are going to mistake you for my son,â she kidded him.
The corners of his mouth turned downward and he pulled out his wallet. âYou look younger than I do,â he grumbled as he showed the waiter his identification.
When their drinks arrived, Jane ordered salmon and wild rice while Darby chose beef and a baked potato.
âHowâs your room?â he asked.
It was like every other room. âItâs fine.â
âGood.â He took a drink of his beer. âAny problems with the players?â
âNo, they all pretty much avoid me.â
âThey donât want you here.â
âYes, I know.â She took a sip of her martini. The sugar around the top of the glass, the floating lemon