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“They’re too small, which makes me nervous because I might step on one of them,” Logan continues. “They ask ridiculous questions. Over and over. So there’s something wrong with their brains. And if something is wrong with their brains, that means they might attack at any moment. And bite.”
“That’s zombies, not children,” I interject.
“You know what you do if you’re caught in a zombie apocalypse? Move somewhere cold so you can wear thick clothing,” Beck adds. “I don’t know why they don’t do that more often in zombie movies. For the love of God, the human jaw is not that strong. We’re not Rottweilers. Wear a frikkin’ jacket, you’ll be fine.”
“And maybe a helmet,” Paxton muses. “You know what I’d do in a zombie apocalypse? After I raided the mall, I’d—”
The “what would I do in a zombie apocalypse” talk is always a fun one, but we’ve got other priorities today. “Moving on,” I bark. “Focus, guys. I swear you’ve got the attention span of a bunch of ADHD squirrels who are off their meds. Children will be there, some of them will come on the ice with us, and we will make a good show of it but let them win.”
“Now I have to not just hang out with the Children of the Corn, but I have to let them beat me?” Logan protests. “Wait till word gets out that Logan Long got his ass handed to him by a six-year-old.”
“Yes, Logan,” I snort. “Because the press and your fans will think that you absolutely gave it your all against little junior, but despite that, you were whupped. Or maybe they’ll think it’s adorable and you’re awesome for doing it. Suck it up, buttercup—this is happening. I challenge each one of you to get four of your most famous friends to RSVP to this event, and get ten thousand dollars in donations, too. Capiche? And I want it done by the end of this evening.”
“So we’ve moved from zombie movies to mafia movies?” Paxton asks.
“If I agree to a host a zombie movie marathon with you all, willyoumove on?” I snark.
That got me a chorus of yeses.
“You owe me,” Noah grouses. “I was going to hook up with the librarian I met last week.I was finally going to satisfy my hot librarian fantasy. I mean, dude, she even wears her hair in a bun.”
“Rovers get clovers, our luck is unmatched, our teammates mean more than some random snatch,” Pax announces, and everybody groans. Pax fancies himself a poet.
“Make him stop,” Beck begs.
“He’s a lousy poet, and we all know it,” Noah adds.
“Stop wasting time and track down some donations,” I say loudly. “And thank you. I am hanging up now.” And I do so, quickly, because our group can spend hours razzing each other, and tonight, we don’t have time for this.
I shove my chair back and head into the kitchen to join Rowan.
She’s sitting at my kitchen table, running her finger down a typed-out list of names. She’s changed into yoga pants and a T-shirt that do strange things to me if I look too hard, so I concentrate very intently on looking only at her face.
She looks up and smiles at me when I come in.
“Thanks for doing this.”
“How’s it going on your end?”
Rowan shrugs, flipping her strawberry-blond hair back over her shoulder. “I’ve gotten some confirmations, and a few regrets since this was kind of last minute. As for donations ...” she rolls her eyes. “Earlier today I talked to one of our most generous donors, and he was amazing, and I guess that set my expectations pretty high. Tonight, I got a total commitment of five grand. Multimillionaires can be unbelievably cheap. I guess that’s how they get, and stay, that way.” She sighs.
“I guess,” I agree. I don’t go along with the penny-pinching logic. I don’t believe in wasting money, but if you are lucky enough to have more money than you need, why would you not use some of it to help make the world a better place for people who do need it? It’s not like I can take it with me if I die, and even if I could, assuming there is an afterlife, what would I need all that money for? Platinum wings instead of gold? A bigger cloud?
“So how did you do tonight?” She leans back in her chair, making her T-shirt stretch across her chest, and I can see a perfect outline of her breasts. If anyone else was doing this, I’d assume that they were doing the old “Oh, I just had to stretch and arch my back and stick my boobs in your face—I didn’t mean anything by it” routine, but with her, I know that it’s not purposeful. She doesn’t expect to be checked out.
“I made some calls, waiting to hear back results,” I shrug. I don’t tell her that I only contacted my teammates, and I’m using them to do my legwork.
Inviting her here tonight was more about getting to spend some time alone with her. She’s been avoiding me lately. Oh, she’ll take my calls, but I’ve suggested a few get-togethers, and she always finds a reason to decline.
And I know why. She’s afraid of what will happen if the two of us are alone together. So am I, kind of, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. And I don’t just want a one-off. I don’t know what I want, but if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that one night with Rowan James would never be enough.
Rowan nods, pushing her list away from her. “I’ve called literally everyone that I can think of. Could you call your father? Does he like to help out a good cause?”
Tension twists inside me at the thought of talking to my father. “I don’t like to talk to him about anything hockey-related.”
“This isn’t hockey, it’s charity,” she protests.
I grimace. She doesn’t understand what it cost me emotionally to go into hockey as a career and defy my father’s edicts, to turn against the person who raised me—sort of. I mean, a bunch of nannies raised me, but my father is the only family I have, and he was occasionally there for me.
