Page 74 of Mistletoe Face Off
I told her and, with her approval, the very next day I hopped on a plane and flew across the country to Portland, Oregon, where I had lined up interviews with a whole host of people, people who shed much needed light on the whole story. I spoke to former figure skating competitors and officials from the regional contest where all the drama had unfolded.
What I found out not only corroborated Harry’s story, but revealed that Garth Gluckman had in fact pressured more than one of his prodigies into taking performance enhancing drugs, several of whom had done so and regretted it, and others who had refused. Although initially reluctant, a number of them came forward and spoke with me, sharing their stories of guilt and regret, all of them empathizing with the story that had broken about Harry.
When I called Harry to tell him what I'd found out, in typical Harry style, he reached out to all of them, assuring them of confidentiality, and created a support group of Garth Gluckman survivors.
Garth Gluckman refused to talk to me. No surprises there. But of course under the Controlled Substances Act, which I spent some time reviewing, it's illegal to distribute steroids in the United States, so it's probably not me that Mr. Gluckman will end up talking to about all this when the story breaks.
More like the men in blue.
I then returned to Chicago where I got to meet Harry’s mom. She told me she had pleaded with Garth Gluckman not to force Harry to take performance enhancers, but knew that it was falling on deaf ears.
My phone chimes on my desk and I dash across the floor to see who’s calling me. My pulse quickens when I read the name, and I answer straight away.
“Good morning, Ms. Albrecht,” I say brightly.
“Holly. Have you got everything you need?” she asks.
I glance at my laptop once more. “Oh, yeah. I've got everything.”
“Good. Send it over. It will be our lead story.”
I grin. I’ve written a lead story. Slippery Stephen’s smile will slide right off his face when he sees it. And I cannot say I feel sad about that. Not one little bit.
I do a final check before I press send, the sound my laptop makes when an email is sent sounding around my living room.
I check the time. Harry will be here in a few hours, and I cannot wait to tell him that everything is done, and that he will once again be headline news—only this time with the truth.
I close my laptop and run a bath, which helps me wash away all the stress of the last few days, and shift my mindset from journalist with a point to prove to the night before Christmas Eve date night with Harrison Clarke, my high school crush and the man of my dreams.
After a soothing soak in the tub, an alert sounds on my phone, telling me that a new article has dropped, and I climb out and towel off to see what it is.
Ice Cold Truth: NHL Star Harrison Clarke Cleared in Teen Skating Scandal
My heart leaps into my mouth. It's out.
Quickly, I scan the article, even though I know exactly what it says. After all, I'm the journalist who wrote it.
With trembling fingers, I copy the article URL and send it to Harry with a bunch of emojis: a heart, heart eyes, and the closest emojis I can find for “vindication,” a raised fist and a party popper.
I’m pretty sure he’ll get what I mean.
I dry my hair, put on some makeup, and slip into my evening dress, a Christmas-themed red dress with white fur trim. It’s much like the one I wore when I was Mrs. Claus at the Community Center that time, only a little longer so that less of my legs are on show. Looking at my reflection in the mirror in my bedroom, I apply some red lipstick, because tonight deserves red lipstick.
Who knew writing an exposé on a cheating figure skating coach could be so very satisfying?
Right on time, the intercom buzzes, and I open the door for Harry. He looks breathtakingly gorgeous in his black tux, his green eyes sparkling with that infectious smile of his.
“Hi,” I say, feeling inexplicably shy.
“You look incredible,” he tells me, his eyes sweeping over me, and I swear wherever they land I begin to tingle.
I hold out my skirt and do a little curtsy. “Where's your Santa suit?”
“It's at the cleaners,” he says as he brushes a soft kiss against my cheek and I breathe in his delicious scent, a potent combination of his aftershave and him, my Harry.
“Is that Harry?” Macy asks as she bounds over to us. She's wearing a figure skating dress in Christmas colors—red with a white trim around the skirt, a lot like my own dress tonight. But unlike me she's also wearing her tiara and princess shoes.
“You look beautiful,” Mom says as I drop my lipstick into my evening purse.