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“But you had his contact pulled up, and I saw your thumb twitching over the screen. What were you going to say?Good game… I watched it four times last night and dreamt about it this morning… PS Thanks for the good time.”
“I only watched it once.” All the way through anyway. I might have spent a little more time on highlights, but as to dreaming about him? Well, that’s been happening for eight months, so I’m not even going to address it. “And all I was going to text was a simple congrats on the win.”
“And?” She knows me too well.
“And maybe a compliment on that play at the end of the second, because I’ve never seen anything like it and I know you haven’t either.”
“Mmhmm, it was nice.” Helene nods, looking around the small clinic breakroom. “But I’m not going to fangirl him about it.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Really, then whatareyou doing? Because I’m pretty sure you’re the same girl who missed game after game just to make sure number forty-eight didn’t see you in the stands or smile in your direction… and then get killed by your brother. Are you guys going to be friends now? Is that even what Vaughn wants?”
“No, I don’t think he can afford the fallout any more than I can.” And then there’s the way he looked at me back in my apartment. Being friends isn’t an option. And Helene’s right that using his game as an excuse to text him would be a mistake too.
“Thanks for the intervention. It would have been stupid to text him. The only reason he gave me his number was in case Greg somehow found out. And he hasn’t.”
Helene drops into a chair by the window and opens her water. Jiggling her clog from the end of her foot, she blows out a long breath. “You know I love you. You’re my girl. But Nat, let’s say Greg could get past the whole archrival thing and suddenly he was all team Vassar.”
That would never happen, but I wave her on.
“What do you want with this guy? You want to be Vassar’s plus one? The WAG behind the player, packing up the house alone while he’s on a flight to whatever city he’s been traded to? Giving your one-week notice to whatever job you’ve settled into so you can follow him to his?”
For a lot of women, a tradeoff like that is one they’d be more than willing to make if they got to be the wife or girlfriend of an NHL player, but not me. And Helene knows it.
Growing up with Greg I’ve already lived that life.
I changed schools twice, once so we were close enough for him to play on a Tier 1 team in high school, and then when he got drafted, we moved again to be close enough to watch him play in Dallas. It didn’t matter that I’d been selected to be captain ofmyteam that next year or that I had friends or that I was happy. Greg was in the NHL. And that came first. Always.
But I promised myself it wouldn’t always be that way. And once I hit college, I was free. For the first time, I didn’t feel like the supporting cast member in my own life. I went to the school I wanted, got my degree, and then moved back to Chicago…beforeGreg was playing for the Slayers. Because it’s where I wanted to be. Where I wanted to stay.
So yeah, not interested in a life dictated by the National Hockey League.
“I’m not talking about scoring WAG status.” I’ve never even dated a hockey player before, but still. “There’s just something about Vaughn that makes me want…”
She raises a neat brow and takes a drink. “What, Nat? What is it you want from this guy that’s worth the fallout with your brother and probably something even worse for him?”
When she puts it that way, the answer is easy. “Nothing.”
I might not want to marry Vaughn, but the guy means something to me. The last thing I want to do is be the cause of more trouble for him with this team… or worse yet the next.
Helene recaps her water and sets it beside her. “You know though, it would be okay if the answer wassomething. Or eveneverything. You know that, right?”
I don’t. Because it wouldn’t. Not really. I made myself a promise about the life I was going to have, and I’m not going to break it. “I just need to get through this season. I need to stay busy, and I need to put what happened behind me.”
Chapter 6
Vaughn
Travis gets shit done. And true to his word, he’s got my every spare moment booked around the city. I’ve been to two pediatric hospital wards dropping off signed jerseys, hats and toys, a food drive, blanket drive, and an animal shelter where a photographer must have taken ten thousand pictures. Though if they got even one of me worth using, I’ll be amazed.
I hate getting my picture taken and it shows. Fortunately, O’Brian was with me for the shelter and hammed it up for the camera, making baby faces at a dog that fit in the palm of his hand. And Popov did great at the hospital once the cameras started clicking.
But this, what I’m doing tonight, isn’t something Travis set up. This isn’t about turning my image around. This is about kids being kids and making a sport that I’ve loved since I laced up my first pair of skates accessible to everyone. And best of all, there isn’t any press.
It’s already dark by the time I pull into the lot. There are more than a few spots up front, but I look for one toward the back just in case. I’ve got a gym bag with me instead of the usual beast that holds my gear, and when I walk into the rink lobby, my plain black Under Armour vest and beat-up Notre Dame ball cap ensure I don’t attract much attention.
No one fumbles their phone trying to get a picture or post a sighting.
