Page 31

New Horizons something. I think they help folks with disabilities live independently.

Definitely interested. Beats the night shift stocking shelves at Target.

Did you take a job at Target?

All of me hopes she didn’t, and I’m relieved when she texts back.

No, but the opportunity is looking more attractive by the minute.

The flight attendant gives me the stink-eye, and my thumbs fly over the keyboard.

This might not pay much better but should be strictly day shift.

A little more background plz. What’s Peggy’s connection?

I debate over how much to reveal about Peggy—it could expose parts of me I want to keep hidden. If I want to guard those secrets, I shouldn’t have told Jackie about the opportunity in the first place, though, right? Jackie and Peggy will talk, and as discreet as Peggy’s been about my past, some of that past might leak out. Except keeping the chance from Jackie is a no-go for me, and it’s too late now anyway since I already put it out there. It’s a risk I’ll take, though, especially if it lands Jackie a job.

Peggy sits on the board. Gotta shut off phones, but here’s Peggy’s contact info so you can get the deets directly from her.

My stomach roils as I turn off my phone and stash it. Did I just invite trouble to my doorstep? When I glance at the back of Harper’s head, I realize the trouble could mushroom if his sister gets the job and he finds out how she got her insider info. My stomach goes into a full-on revolt.

We’re in the middle of the second game of a back-to-back, and it’s Valentine’s Day. Hearts are everywhere, and the crowd goes nuts every time the kiss cam zeroes in on couples smooching on the jumbotron during TV timeouts. A guy proposed to his girl during warm-ups, and lucky for him, she accepted. Hotties are plastering signs against the glass asking the players for everything from their jerseys to babies. I’m surprised to see my name among the handmade posters, and I smile at the girl holding it because she went to the trouble to make it. But I don’t really see her.

Yep, romance is everywhere.

The place becomes electric when the puck drops, and energy lights up my veins. Halfway into the second period, we’re in the lead and there’s a scrum in the goal mouth as we battle to keep the puck out. I’m on the bench when one of the other team’s players sneaks a stick in our goalie’s skate and hauls him down. The puck goes in, and I jump up and scream, “Open your eyes, ref! That’s goaltender interference!”

I hear Harper at the end of the bench. “Shut up and sit down, Chase.”

Coach lifts his head from the iPad he and his assistants are huddled over to shoot me a warning glare, so I sit. I can feel steam pouring from my ears. If they let that goal stand, so help me …

They don’t. It gets overturned, but they don’t call the guy with the sneaky stick work for a penalty, which is plain wrong. A few shifts later, one of our D-men lays a heavy hit on the dude as they fight for the puck beside our bench, sending him over the boards and into my lap.

“Hey sweetheart, you wanna give me a lap dance?” I taunt as I wrap an arm around him and give him a nice face wash with my stinky glove. Guys love that. He flails as he tries to escape, and I have a few more seconds of fun. “No offense, but you’re not my type,” I quip as I give him a few swift jab to the ribs.

His teammates skate over, and another scrum ensues in front of our bench, which draws the attention of linesmen who skate in to join the party.

“Chase! Let him go,” Coach growls behind me.

“Sure, Coach.” I shove the guy off my lap and send him crashing into one of his teammates. When he whips his head toward me, I wink and pucker my lips in a kiss. He lunges toward me, fists swinging, and a linesman hauls him backward while a ref threatens to throw him in the box.

As the refs and the other team skate away, a grin spreads over my face. “Mission accomplished.”

They show my actions—and my smirk—on the jumbotron, and boos rain down from the crowd while my fellow Surge players erupt in laughter—except, of course, Harper. Dude must have a stick up his ass.

The third period rolls around, and we’re in the midst of a line change. Nick and I jump over the boards to replace two of our first-line players as they come off. Harper’s still out there at the end of a long shift, fighting for the puck in a corner. Two opponents battle with him, and a cross-check pounds him in the kidneys. No call from the refs. Harper digs it out and pivots away to dish it off. Guy’s got to be gassed and needs to get off the ice. The piece of work who used his lumber on Harper’s lower back—different from the douche bag I tangled with earlier—slew-foots him, and our alternate captain falls, smacking the back of his helmet on the ice.

Oh hell, no!

A veil of red descends over my vision, and I explode across the ice toward the cheapshot artist. The sound of a shrill whistle pierces the air, and behind me Nick shouts something about not taking any dumb penalties. In my peripheral vision, the ref has his arm up—the other team’s been called for the penalty. Finally! They’ve taken liberties all damn night, and the refs have swallowed their whistles.

Harper’s already upright when I reach him and the asshole who put him down. My teammate looks a little woozy, but he prepares to defend himself.

“Back off, he’s mine,” I snarl as I reach them.

Asshole glances at me and smirks. We’re about the same size, and I look him in the eye. “Can’t beat him, so you slew-foot him? What a dick move.”

Harper lays a hand on my arm. “I’m okay. I got this.”