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Max nods as he opens one of my granola bars and takes a huge bite. “Yeah, you don’t want them to think you’re there to babysit them.” When five sets of female eyes narrow in his direction, he adds, “You don’t want to becomepersona non grata. You’ll never get them to work with you again.”
“I’m sorry,” his twin rolls her eyes, “did I miss the day you joined the NHL? I wasn’t aware they drafted baseball boys.”
Max is talented enough to go pro—I think—and I purse my lips, wondering if I need to intervene. But as his twin it’s Madison’s job to keep him humble and grounded. Also, I think she might be defending me.
“Superstition is superstition,” Max says around another mouthful. “Better hope they don’t lose.”
Palmer smacks him with one of my sequined throw pillows, something I know like a vengeful bitch.
“I’ve been working with these guys for a while now. I doubt they’ll even notice I’m there,” I say, full of confidence and zero fucks to give.
But four hours later, when I get to the private airstrip, it turns out I was actually full of delusion. My bravado leaks out of me like I was punched full of little holes because my baby brother was right. It turns out that hockey players are superstitious and joining them on this trip is just different enough from the status quo that it has most of the guys on edge.
It doesn’t matter that it’s already dark, and that the team won’t be landing in Las Vegas until almost midnight, players are expected to represent the team whenever they travel. That means I am too. I appreciate the armor of my suit and heels as I face down two dozen men watching me with wide eyes. I don’t mind when they fear me. It gets results, but I’m overwhelmed with the realization that this five-hour plane ride is just the start of what might be a very uncomfortable trip. It’s one thing to be the hardened bitch, unwilling to let them toe the line for a few hours at a time. It’s another to expect them to maintain their good behavior for a full two days.
Heads pitch toward each other and the soft murmur of hushed conversation reaches my ears as I calculate how many hours it will be until I can lock myself into my hotel room. We aren’t staying on the strip, but the team has rooms for the players, coaching staff, and trainers. I glance to my right to see if Sadie is on the plane. I’d welcome another female and a familiar face, but it’s just our two primary trainers, both already tucked into tablets wearing noise-cancelling headphones.
“Listen up.” Head Coach Noris’ voice cuts into the conversation. “We have a guest joining us on this vacation.” There’s a rumble of laughter. “She’s here to do a job just like we are. I expect no funny business. We focus on Vegas. We don’t let them bait us. We don’t give them the power play. We protect Rags and we put the biscuit in the damn basket. Understood?”
There’s a chorus of “yes sirs” as Noris takes his seat at the front of the plane.
“Sit anywhere sweetheart and pay no attention to my boys,” he tells me and then he and his assistant coach pull out a team laptop and turn their attention to it. I’ve been dismissed.
There’s an empty row between the coaches and support staff and all the players. I push my suitcase in front of me, trying not to notice that most of the players are watching my every move like I’m a rabid chihuahua with an injured paw.
I make it to the empty seats and turn my attention to my luggage so I can store it in the overhead compartment, but a pair of large, tanned hands cover mine on the handle.
“Welcome aboard, kitty cat,” the low voice says near my ear. “Glad to have you with us.”
I can’t stop the snort that leaves my nose and my eyes snap to Vic’s. Not a single one of these guys seems happy to have me, and I can’t imagine Victor Varg is any different.
“Don’t mind the team.” His breath fans over my neck as he leans down to lift the case. I turn to face him as he slams the overhead door and I’m nose to nose with the silk tie and crisp white shirt he has paired with his charcoal gray suit. Literally. If I move even a millimeter, I’ll be touching him.
I chance a glance at the rest of the players, all watching us
“I think they’d throw me out at thirty-thousand feet if given half the chance.”
“Nah,” his grin is blinding up close. Perfect shiny teeth all in a row. He must be religious about wearing a mouth guard. Or he has a fantastic dentist who does some mean work with implants. ”They just don’t know you like I do.”
He steps out into the aisle and winks before moving toward the back of the plane and his seat next to Oakes.
“N-nice to see you again Ms. T-t-t… Ms. Grant.” Ragnar Ólaffson says from the row behind me, and I give him a small smile and a wave of my fingers before I take my seat.
As the cabin lights dim and the plane taxis to the runway, it occurs to me I might be glad Victor Varg is here too.
It’s a packed crowd, not that we expected any different. Vegas has sold out every home game since their inaugural season and just because casinos and local businesses buy up many of those seats, that doesn’t change the press of bodies lining the glass and the electric feel in the arena. Vegas isn’t the loudest place we play, not by a long shot—that honor goes to Carolina—but between the light show and crush of fans, there is something intense about being here. A pounding rhythm inside the cavity of my chest as the clock counts down until the end of warmups.
Robbie keeps trying to catch my eye as we skate loops in our zone, sending shots at Rags so he can get a feel for the puck. I’m ready to take shots, to practice my approach and my follow through, trying to slip past the wall that is Ólaffson’s chest. I’m just feeling off tonight and my head isn’t in the right spot. Maybe a goal, even just for practice, will set it right.
There’s a reason most guys are superstitious heading into a game. A reason they went still and quiet when the blond head stepped onto the plane, not even having to duck the way a good number of us do. There’s a worry that any change will upset the flow. A pretty woman among two-dozen testosterone-flooded males is a distraction. I know Robbie thinks Tristan is the reason my head’s in the rafters. He’s been trying to pin me down to talk about it since she stared up at me with big blue eyes as I almost dropped her suitcase.
Ironic that the man who barely strings two sentences together can’t seem to stop trying to talk to me about our social media manager. Or, more accurately, about the influence she has on my thoughts and feelings. I’m not even trying to deny the fascination—or the feelings—but they don’t matter here. Robbie can try to pep-talk me all he wants. There’s no move to make on Tristan Grant. No move that doesn’t leave her worse off than where we started. No move that doesn’t harm her.
It doesn’t matter that I can’t stop looking for her in the sea of dark jerseys, despite knowing I won’t find her. It doesn’t matter that I crowded her in the aisle of a chartered plane despite telling myself I was going to give her space. She pursed those red-painted lips, tiny strain lines furrowing at the corners as every guy on the plane went silent staring at her, and I knew beyond any doubt that she felt alone and unwelcome. I also knew she was enough of a professional to find her seat, do her job, and then go home, all while feeling uncomfortable and out-of-place.
Acknowledging her meant the other guys relaxed. Meant she could get her game footage done with a minimum of hair-pulling and threats. And it wasn’t just for her, either. Acknowledging and welcoming the pretty kitty cat onto our plane helped put the guys at ease, too. My job as team captain isn’t to be the best player on the ice. It isn’t to score the most goals or to put up the most assists. It isn’t to make the headlines or rake in the highest sponsorships. My job is to keep the team together as a cohesive unit. To lead by example. To set the tone of each game and practice and appearance.
It’s something I’m practiced at. Pushing down any stray worry or discomfort in order to make things easier for the people around me. It’s a skill that always came naturally, but one I also honed to a razor-sharp edge during Erik’s diagnosis and treatment.
