Page 17 of He Has Pluck

“I have special dispensation to take off early to see my baby. Who knows how long the coach will be tied up with the press.”

As he’s leaving, Coach Green steps inside, pats him on the back and strides to the middle of the room, blowing his whistle.

“Great win, guys. I hope you enjoyed your celebration for the past twenty minutes because it’s over now. Report for a morning skate at seven PM.” He slaps a few guys in the vicinity on the back and leaves as quickly as he arrived.

After a few minutes of grousing about their celebration plans going down the shitter, the guys slip out to go home. Jason and Finn are the last two left, and I finally shut down my camera.

“Good night, guys,” I say and head for the equipment room, where I stow my camera bag and other things. I pack up, but I’m exhausted.

At the same time, I’m too keyed up to go back to my place by myself, and I contemplate stopping at a bar first. Checking with the equipment manager, he says it’s fine to leave my camera overnight, and it’s not like I was going to stay up and edit film tonight.

I step into the nearly empty corridor. A few staff members are still around, and I head to the lobby exit when I feel someone closing in on my back. The unmistakable scent of him sends a flurry of excitement along my nerve endings before I calm myself the fuck down.

I stop and turn. “You stalking me, new guy?”

“Have a beer with me,” he says. When he reaches me, he stands close and looks down, and I have a hard time reading his face, which is odd because he hasn’t puzzled me before. I have no idea what kind of invitation this is, so I assume the worst. He wants to get into my pants.

Well, it’s too damn bad that my pants are so fucking excited about that prospect because the rest of me recoils in self-righteous indignation. Then I realize I’m a professional and dial it back. Since when do I let anyone get to me like this?

“On or off camera?” I ask.

“Off.” Still no hint on his face of his motives.

Is this shades of Columbia all over again? The exact scenario Ruminski warned me to avoid? Hardly. I scoff inwardly at the idea of being tempted by Mr. Hot Hockey Guy. He has abs and a face—that chiseled chin—but he isn’t my type. At all.

Plus, I hate the idea of going home with nothing but yesterday’s hockey film to look at, barely enough interest to keep me awake.

“I’ll agree if you agree it’s strictly professional, camera or not.”

“You’re no fun.” And there it is. The seductive grin, the same one he tossed at me during his stripper act.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I start walking, and he sticks to my side, hands in his pockets.

“Yes, I would. Very much, in fact. I won’t hide it. I find you very attractive.”

“Aah. You’ve finally confessed. I had you as soon as you grabbed my boob, didn’t I?”

He laughs, one of those genuine laughs that haven’t come around much, and maybe that’s on me. Maybe I’ve forgotten the simple joy of flirting. Maybe life’s been too dark and edgy for me for too long. Since early high school, when life wasn’t so tragic, and mom and dad were still together. And for the millionth time, I wonder why they split, why mom left and I can’t imagine it.

“You got me, Ice Chip. I tried not to fall under your spell because you have all kinds of attitude about hockey, but the memory of that boob in my hand… Well, let’s just say my boner thanks you every time I think of it.”

I laugh. But I also get a little hot and feel a little twinge of excitement. Why not? He’s a sexy guy, and he wants me. The little thrill I feel is only my ego flexing and taking a bow.

He’s still calling me Ice Chip, and I should be flattered, but I’m not. In fact, I’m mildly annoyed. Though not annoyed enough to make an issue out of it.

He has an irresistible teasing light in his eyes and honest vulnerability in his words, not holding back, and I’ve forgotten how to not hold back and let loose. Except in bed, of course. Cue the inappropriate Columbian cartel guy.

With his baseball cap down and huddled into his jacket, Jason pushes the exit open to a deserted walkway at the back of the Garden. I follow him out into the cold, my leather jacket open and the wind blowing my hair around. The chill feels good. Maybe Ice Chip suits me as a nickname. The night is so much cooler than the warm spring day. I’d forgotten about the fickle New England weather.

Following the lights and the noise, we head to a local bar on Canal street.

“Aren’t you worried about getting mobbed by fans?”

“No. I won’t get recognized. I’m the new guy. I have no fans.”

“Whatever you say, but I hear Boston is full of them. Rabid fans, I’m told.”

He scoffs. “I’ve barely arrived. I haven’t done anything yet. I’m a nobody.”