Except, there’s no one behind me.
“Sean O’Shannan,” she says with a big smile. It’s the type of smile that’s probably earned her a lot of compliments in her life, and yet all it does is remind me of someone else’s. I haven’t let myself think of that smile in months but it just about stopped my heart the first time I saw it. Made me forget my ex ever had power over me at all?—
Head in the game, O’Shannan.
“What a huge win,” she says loudly. I’ve always seen rinkside reporters and players talk post-game, but I never imagined I’d be the one they were talking to. “You didn’t let a single puck past you tonight, in spite of coming in under tough circumstances against an aggressive Renegades team. Can you take us through that final save?”
I’m still catching my breath, but just thinking about that moment calms my mind. “I just had to do my job. Stick to what Otto’s been teaching me.”
“But what was going through your head when Kovalov hit that one-timer? You made that final save with your stick instead of dropping into the butterfly, an unexpected move in such a high pressure situation. Walk us through that decision.”
“I knew if I dropped early or if I didn’t have total control, it could give them a sloppy rebound. I couldn’t risk it. So I just kept my eyes on Kovalov’s stick so I could angle the puck away cleanly.”
She smiles, and I know it’s been a while since I dated, but it’s a little warmer than it should be. “It’s quite the underdog story. How does it feel to be the oldest rookie in the NHL?”
“I’m not worried about my age,” I chuckle, like I ain’t lying through my teeth. “I just want to do right by the team. Bouchard is a great goalie. It’s a lot to be asked to fill in for him, but that’s what they needed me to do, so I did my best.”
Her eyes dance, and I find myself wishing they were a different pair of eyes.
“Sean, before I let you go, I have to ask on behalf of our female fanbase: do you have someone waiting for you at home?”
I barely manage to hold back a deep snort, but I can’t stop the dark chuckle. At least no one can hear it over the thunderous cheering in the stadium.
“No. I’m not the guy a girl waits at home for. I’m the guy who waits at home for the girl.”
She fans herself, looking from me to the camera. “If that isn’t the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Whew!” Then she puts her hand on my arm and leans toward me, speaking loudly over the crowd. “After women hear that, I bet you won’t be single for long. And after this game, I bet you won’t have any problem finding a home in the NHL, either.”
I laugh, as much for my sake as for hers. The idea of someone choosing me—the team, the girl—is a dream I let die a long time ago.
CHAPTER TWO
KAYLA
I’ve sat in a lot of beautiful offices in my life.
My office in the Mudflaps stadium isn’t one of them.
Since day one, I’ve been itching to update the rust brown carpet and faded eggshell blue walls, but I’m trying to prove to the people of Mullet Ridge, South Carolina, that I am accessible. A woman of the people.
Not a billionaire whose daddy bought her a minor league baseball team because he could sense how unhappy her ex made her and thought it would be a “fun hobby.”
I love my father dearly, but we have very different definitions of what makes a hobby “fun.”
In the four months since he sprang this little surprise on me, though, I’ve had a life-changing conversation with a random bartender who could moonlight as a therapist; subsequently broken up with my fiancé; taken a leave as the Chief Sustainability Officer of one of the largest commercialagriculture companies in the world; moved from my high-rise condo in Atlanta to my cousin’s house in nearby Sugar Maple, South Carolina; and thrown myself into learning baseball.
Don’t ask me which of these has been the hardest adjustment.
I have an MBA from Wharton. How is it that The Economist is light reading, yet the in-field fly ball rule eludes me entirely?
To say nothing of trying to remember all these blasted names.
There’s one name I have no problem remembering, though.
Sean O’Shannan.
The random bartender with kind, warm brown eyes and a voice as calm and certain as a wave. He was working a wedding for a friend of mine, and somehow, his bartender therapy got me to admit that I felt trapped in my engagement. Not just trapped, suffocated.
And then Sean O’Shannan asked me the strangest question:
