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Her eyes are wide as the guy behind her catches it and—with my pointed look spurring him on—reaches around her right shoulder to drop it into her lap. I can’t read the expression in her gaze. There’s a chance she’s plotting my death with a creative use of the Zamboni and a pair of extra skate laces because I know what this looks like. I know it looks like a check in the “fraternization” column, but that’s not why I just put her front and center, all eyes glued to the two of us.
I did it because when we win this game—not if, when—I will have made her the team’s good luck charm. No more staring on the plane, no more worried whispers as she approaches the guys to film her segments. I will have made her belong, and the guys will follow her off the edge of the earth every time she travels with us.
She clutches the rubber disc in her hands, looking from it to me and back again. The timer hits zero, the buzzer goes, and warm-ups are over. I give her a wink and skate backward toward the bench, my feet curving apart and back together like I learned to do when Erik and I first started skating. She holds my gaze until she’s far enough away that I can’t make out the hint of a smile that curves her lips or the faint blush painting her cheeks.
I don’t hear much of Coach’s pre-game speech. I go through the motions as I fix a corner of tape that’s pulling up on the handle of my stick. I give the guys the standard give-em-hell battle call that I do before all our games, but the words come on autopilot as Robbie grunts his agreement. We slap the shoulder pads of each of the guys as they file out into the tunnels again. And still it feels like my body is driving itself, like my mind is a million miles away, wrapped up in pink skin and glittering eyes. Robbie and I bump fists before his name is announced. I don’t hear mine, but I count out fifteen seconds before I skate out.
I take my spot next to Robbie at center ice, slapping my right hand across the front of my chest and turning toward the cameras along with Vegas starting line. He bumps his shoulder into mine. I bump back and when the opening lines of the national anthem echo in the arena; he leans into me, turning his head to whisper.
“I guess I was wrong.”
I play his words over and over in my head, wondering where the change of heart came from. He’s been so sure of my interest, of my attraction, and despite my many protests—I had little choice after Tristan asked me to put the rumors to bed—Robbie has pushed forward with his goal of making me face what he thinks I’m ignoring. Skating over to Tristan, flipping the puck over the glass, it doesn’t matter how I justify my actions. That should have done anything but convince my best friend he’s wrong.
The song ends and Robbie takes his fist and thumps it twice over his heart before pointing at the camera, something he does before every game he’s ever played, starting when we were kids. The ref moves into position. The announcer says something unintelligible over the loudspeaker. I need to get my head back into the game, and fast.
It’s going to take a miracle to manage it at all when Robbie meets my eyes and says, “You don’t want that woman, Vic. It’s more than that. You need her.”
And now I also need to win for her.
I skate to the edge of the circle and look past Robbie and Ahlstrom to the blonde head sitting along the glass. She’s focused on the ice now, and my nerves buzz with excitement.Look at me, I think.Pay attention to me. Watch what I can do. For you.
At the ref’s command, Robbie puts his stick blade down on the ice. Vegas’ center follows. I watch as the puck drops and Robbie lifts the other man’s stick as he goes for it, sweeping it back. And then I don’t have time to think about Tristan at all as we push towards Vegas’ goalie, but I still swear I feel her eyes on me the entirety of my fifty-second shift.
It isn’t just a win, it’s a blowout. I don’t realize how hard my heart is pounding, how my adrenaline is flooding my veins, until I’m back at the hotel. I love hockey—I work for the team, after all—but there’s something about watching the boys live that gets every nerve ending in my body vibrating like a nine on the Richter scale.
The seat was an impulse buy thanks to plane Wi-Fi. I’d been interested in how many tickets were still available, which led me down the second-hand rabbit hole. A single seat on the glass was too good to pass up. Especially at the listed price; still more than I want to think about, but less than I expected. It was probably available because most people don’t go to games solo. I clicked buy before I could talk myself out of it and figured I’d eat the cost if I joined the press box or stayed at the hotel. Since travel isn’t part of my contract, I got a nice bonus check from the team for making this trip. I put together all the video footage I’d need on the plane and during morning practice.
I also owe Hayley a chocolate croissant for sneaking comfortable clothes into my suitcase. I wasn’t sure which would be worse: a business suit at the game, or my fuzzy cow pajamas. It might not have been Arctic gear, but the sweater and leggings were better—“just in case you want to do something NOT work related”—the note said when I pulled them out and put them on. I can’t even be frustrated that she went into my suitcase.
Now I’m standing in the hotel lobby, debating whether I want to order a late-night snack in my room or head to the bar for a quick drink, when I spot a familiar face. It shouldn’t surprise me to see the players here when we share the same hotel. I’d assumed they’d either go out and celebrate or hit their mattresses since we have an early flight home. I had pegged Jack for the former category, sure he’d go find a pretty girl to snow with his puppy dog grin and blue eyes, yet here he is in the hotel lobby, waving at me. Nary a model in sight.
He’s showered, hair still damp in the overhead lights, and he’s underdressed by Vegas standards in a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, a baseball hat turned backward on his head. For a moment, I wonder if I can pretend not to see him standing there, but his wave gets bigger. He’s calling something across the room, and he reminds me so much of my baby brother I don’t have the heart to turn away.
Also, I’mnothere to babysit these guys, but I know the team wants good, wholesome press. I could go nudge him toward a quiet night in. I’m not above wrangling him into a late-night bite with me to keep him out of trouble. We donot need a Roxanne repeat. Thank you. It took a monumental effort to rehab the kid’s image after the model sent his unsolicited dick pics to numerous gossip sites.
“Hey lucky charm!” He gives up on the wave to cup his hands around his mouth. “Over here!”
He bounces toward me like a toddler who got into a bag of sugar. I try to put on my stern face, but it’s been a long day and even I’m riding the high of the win.
“Lucky charm?” I ask when he’s close enough for normal conversation.
“Are you coming out to celebrate with us?”
It hadn’t occurred to me to spend time with the guys. I’m working. We have an early flight, and the tension was palpable when I boarded the charter plane to get here. I’ll go to my grave before I’ll admit it to him, but Max was right. There was a distrustful hush to the team when the change in plans became apparent. No matter how much I tell myself I’m not here to be their friend, I’m not here to gamble and play, there’s still a dull ache that comes with feeling unwanted. Unwelcome.
It’s the same way I felt at twelve when the other kids got wind of the fact that my dad had left. I don’t mean the few vicious remarks about how I wasn’t good enough for him to stay, or about how I drove my father away—pre-teen girls can be terrible humans. It was how friends pulled back, especially after I took over running the house. Invitations dwindled. Conversations hushed when I walked into a room. There was a wall that went up between me and my classmates. It hurt less when I stopped hoping for things to be different. It hurt less to focus my energy and time on Hayley, Palmer, Madison, Max, and Joey.
The same is true with the guys. Putting on my game face during work differs from feeling out of place and unwelcome during play.
“You have to,” Jack says before I can give him any kind of answer. “Did you see the numbers Cap put up today? His best game of the season. He’s never been so hot!”
Were the Arctic the dominant presence on the ice today? Yes. Was number twenty-five a huge contributing factor? Yes. Two goals and two assists are phenomenal, but that’s not because of me. Vic leads the team in goalsandassists. He’s in the top five for both in the league, too. I have yet to see him miss a shootout goal. He dominates on the power play and routinely walks away a star player of the game—more often than not, first star. None of that is on me.
“Didn’t you have a goal tonight, too?” I ask the nineteen-year-old and he grins, shaking gold hair out of his eyes.
“I did. Thank you for noticing.” He pulls up the leg of his pants to show me a pair of turquoise socks covered in tiny citrus fruits. “But that’s because of my lucky socks, not my girl sitting on the glass.”
I’ve been in the locker room. My brother plays collegiate level baseball. I don’t want to be anywhere near any item of clothing that played an entire game, soaking up sweat. It’s automatic for me to step back to avoid the smell. I take an extra moment to realize I’m supposed to correct him about being Vic’s girl. By the time I do, the chance is gone and Jack’s grin is even wider. It’s the same look Max gives me when he bests our sisters at anything.
