Page 6 of The One Timer

“You’ll think of something. All you have to do is show up at his dressing room after the game and let nature take its course.”

“Locker room, not dressing room.”

“Whatever. You need to get down there to meet him somehow after the game. Bribe an usher or something. I’ll give you the bribe money—consider it part of your birthday gift.”

I laugh. “You’re awfully invested in my birthday night out. This is crazy generous even for you.”

“Of course, Em. I know how hard you work and how miserable it is for you to live with your so-called aunt and cousins—the evil stepmother of this Cinderella story if there ever was one.”

My smile fades. “They’re not like that. Aunt Bea doesn’t have it easy.”

“Maybe, but it wouldn’t kill her to show some kindness or affection for you. You’re her niece, for pity’s sake, not some stranger off the street. I’ve always thought she was a stingy person. She’s not even particularly nice to her own daughters if you ask me.”

Merry can say this because she comes from a very loving home. I don’t even know why she moved out, except she’s fiercely independent like me. I have to be. It’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way. But not Merry. She’s driven by something entirely different.

I’m driven by my family, by the loss of my mother, and by the family I’ve been adopted into. I sigh.

Aunt Bea is my family, but she’s also my boss because, according to her, I have to earn my keep—or contribute to the household, as she puts it—to stay there.

She took me in at fifteen when my mom passed, and I’ve been earning my keep while I sleep on the couch ever since then, not quite part of the family, not exactly the hired help. But definitely not a charity case. For that, I’m grateful. I welcome the opportunity to pay my way because I don’t want to be a burden. My aunt has raised my cousins, Penny and Petra, as a single mom, and it’s not easy for her.

My gaze follows Chase wherever he goes around the ice from the best seats in the Garden. I try not to drool. How the heck am I going to meet up with him?

The horn blows, the two teams skate off the ice, and the Zamboni comes out. The organ starts up, and the announcer starts talking about the two teams’ records while the jumbotron shows highlights of the last game between the Brawlers and the Whalers.

“Let’s talk logistics,” I tell Merry, my best friend since grade school. “How do I meet up with him after the game, seriously—without bribery?”

“Easy,” Merry says. “You talk your way into the friends and family area in that tunnel, and then you march right up to that hot hockey boy and invite him to buy you a birthday drink after the game. Then make him take you back to his place.”

I laugh, but it’s a nervous, excited laugh. My heart speeds up, and I wonder aloud, “He doesn’t live in Boston, Merry. He plays for the Whalers up in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.”

I know this because his grandma, Mrs. W, always talks about him and tells me the most heartwarming stories about how close they are. But I can’t imagine him inviting me to his place. He lives in another world that may as well be Pluto.

She waves me off. “Portsmouth isn’t that far.”

“He’s here with his team,” I point out. “They’re probably taking a bus back to Portsmouth after the game.”

“So, you make him miss his bus to spend the night with you.” She wiggles her brows, and her relentless can-do attitude wears down my poor excuse for self-discipline and common sense.

“You’re outrageous.” I feel the excitement bubble up as the crowd continues to fill in around us. “How would I explain sitting in his Grandma’s seat without giving myself away?”

“Tell him you bought tickets from a scalper.”

“That wouldn’t work. …” My mind churns. I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation, as if. “I was supposed to give the tickets to the Fosters, so…” No. What am I even thinking?

“So? You can pretend you’re one of the Fosters. Problem solved.”

I laugh. “Not so much. Chase knows the Fosters. He lived with his grandma for years, and the Whittiers and Fosters have been family friends forever.” But I could tell him I got the tickets from them and maybe get away with it. Technically, I did get the tickets from the Fosters.

“Whatever. Say you work with one of them, and they gave you the tickets. Where does Mr. Foster work?”

“At Bank of Boston, but⁠—”

“Perfect. Tell Chase you’re a bank teller, and you got the tickets at work.”

I shake my head because she has no idea. “Merry, Mr. Foster is the bank president. I don’t think he’d give tickets to a teller.”

“Oh. That’s right. We’re talking about a fancy neighborhood, so the Fosters are rich people.”