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“I’m even gracious enough to let you take my Mercedes.”
“I don’t need your pity Mercedes, rich boy.”
“Cool. We’ll ask the tow truck dude to grab your Jeep from the garage and have him tow you there while you sit in the driver’s seat and pretend to steer.”
“Fuck off.”
This Jeep situation is a problem, though. The mechanic texted this morning and said the transmission needs to be replaced. I have no idea where I’ll scrape together the cash to pay for it. I don’t have wealthy parents to pay my bills like Shane, and I hate dipping into my meager savings. I also hate borrowing money from friends.
But I guess I’m not above borrowing their cars.
Watching me pocket his keys, Shane starts to laugh. “Make sure you grovel hard. Maybe get on your knees,” he advises. “Chicks like it when you’re on your knees.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not going there to eat her out.”
“Maybe you should. She’s hot.”
He’s not wrong. But if I’m going to drive all the way there to see Gigi, it’s not sex I want.
Still chuckling, he claps my shoulder when I reach the doorway.
“Go get her, champ.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
GIGI
Use your words
WITHIN THREE SECONDS OF THE PUCK DROPPING, I DISCOVER Providence College came here to murder us.
It’s supposed to be a friendly exhibition. Yes, it’s played under regular conditions. We’re dressed in full gear, utilizing the lineups we’ll use during the real season. But it’s an unspoken rule that you don’t push yourself one hundred percent in these exhibitions. Why risk getting injured for a game that doesn’t even count? Just give the crowd a good show. All ticket proceeds go to a children’s cancer charity, and during intermissions, the kids whose parents purchased the more-expensive-tier tickets are pulled along in little sleds on the ice. It’s supposed to be cute and fun.
Instead, I’m literally in a primal struggle for my life.
The Providence girls apply pressure from go. They swarm past the blue line like hyenas. Our goalie, Shannon, is the carcass. Or rather, she’s still alive, but she’s injured and they smell her blood. They fire bullets at her while our defensemen race to try to bail her out.
Finally, my teammate liberates the puck from our zone only to get called for icing. Fuck. Now the face-off is to the left of our net.
We’re five minutes into the first period, and I’m sweating like I exited a steam bath at the gym.
The rival center grins at me. “Having fun yet?” she taunts.
“It’s a fucking charity game, Bethany,” I growl, crouching in preparation. “Calm your tits.”
She tsks under her breath, while the ref gets in position.
“Come on, Graham. You should always bring your A game, no matter the circumstances.”
Bullshit. They’re trying to prove something. What, I don’t know. We’re not even bitter rivals, the way Eastwood and Briar used to be. It’s supposed to be a goddamn fun evening. They’re ruining it.
The crowd screams when Bethany wins the face-off. She snaps a pass off to her right winger, who shoots and scores.
First blood goes to Providence.
It isn’t until I get back to the bench that the puzzle pieces fall together.
Cami looks at me and hisses, “The coaches from Team USA are here.”
I freeze. “What? Seriously?”
“Yeah, Neela just heard it from one of the refs.”
I turn to our teammate Neela for confirmation before realizing she’s on the ice fighting for her own life. Providence is not going easy on us.
Instead, I search the stands for Alan Murphy, Team USA’s head coach. It’s a futile exercise. One of my pet peeves is in movie scenes where there’s a huge audience, thousands of people in the stands, and somehow the hero or heroine manages to lock eyes with one specific person, the whole crowd disappearing as they maintain this very deliberate eye contact.
Lies. You can’t see anything out here. Only a sea of indistinguishable faces.
“Why are they here?” I demand.
“I don’t know. Maybe they’re involved with the charity?”
Or maybe they’re here to do some scouting.
Shit, and we’re playing like garbage out there.
The knowledge lights a fire under my ass. Adley shouts for a changeup, and I wait until my teammates reach the boards before I jump out the door.
My skates touch the ice just as Whitney passes me the puck. Providence is on their own shift change. It’s the worst possible timing for them, giving me the perfect opportunity to make a play. Badly timed shift changes can make or break a hockey game, and this is the first mistake the other team has made since the game started.
I waste no time capitalizing on their error and the breakaway it provides me. The air hisses past my ears as I fly toward the opposing net. One defenseman attempts to catch me and can’t. I outskate her, then outmaneuver her counterpart as I wind my arm back and take a shot.
