“Do you need tickets? Probably not.”
“I can sit with Vince in his box.” I grin at the thought. “Maybe I’ll bring Cat. She actually likes the sport.”
“Smart girl.”
“Oh, come on. It’s a brutal sport.”
“It’s a game of great skill,” he says calmly. “Speed. Agility. It’s fast-paced and requires incredible endurance. Stick skills aren’t something just anyone can do, especially while skating twenty miles an hour on thin blades.”
“Twenty miles an hour.”
“Yep.”
I remain unconvinced. “All I know is you like to hit each other. A lot.”
His eyes glint with amusement although his expression stays neutral. “True. Watch the game, then see what you think.”
“I’ve been to a game.” I toss my hair back. “Once. I was seventeen. I wore the opposing team’s jersey, and the press took pictures of me and put it all over social media. Vince was furious.”
Owen observes me closely. “Is that what this is about? Pissing off Vince?”
“No.” I shake my head without hesitation. “I went through that phase years ago. Trying to get attention any way I could. I got over it when I realized my priority had to be looking after Cat. Making sure she gets attention…even if it’s just from me.”
His eyes warm.
“This is about me controlling my life,” I add quietly. “Really.”
He nods. “Okay. Well. Let’s exchange numbers and I’ll see you Saturday.”
7
Owen
I have no idea how I got myself into this.
I’m lying on my bed in my darkened bedroom, trying to have a game day nap. But every time I close my eyes, I think about Emerie.
I should have walked away from that whole bizarre proposition.
But how could I? There’s something about her that pulls at me. At first it was her music. Then meeting her in person…well, I couldn’t say no to the date, and then I couldn’t just leave her hanging with her ex trying to get back together and her stepfather pushing for it. That tossbag Moretti may be rich and good-looking but I wanted to punch his face for no real reason. Even though I’m a hockey player, I’m not one to go around punching people.
I flop over onto my stomach, eyes crammed shut.
This is going to mess things up for me. This’ll take time away from hockey. Playing. Watching. Studying.
During the season, I’m intense about hockey. I eat, breathe, and sleep hockey. I don’t have time for anything else other than a hook up once in a while, because hey, there are health benefits to sex.
That sounds clinical. Look, when I’m in bed with a woman, I make sure we both have a good time. But it’s never about intimacy. Or love. It’s just physical. It’s endorphins and hormones. Stress relief.
But I won’t be hooking up with Emerie. That’s not what this is about.
I roll onto my back again and stare at the ceiling.
So what if she’s hot? That was a shock, seeing her in her little black dress, the sheer parts revealing slender shoulders and arms. Without the wig and glasses, she’s exactly the kind of woman I’m usually attracted to. The weird thing is, I was kind of attracted to her even with the wig and glasses.
But that’s not going anywhere now I know she’s the team owner’s daughter. Jesus! I’m still not entirely sure I haven’t fucked up my career doing this. That would be the worst thing that could happen to me!
Goddammit! I need my game day nap. I have to be at my best by game time and my routine is important to me. I punch my pillow, once, twice, then smash my head back into it. I need to think of something else.
What if I run into Mr. D at the arena tonight? What am I supposed to say to him? What are my teammates going to think? They know I don’t have a girlfriend.
Sleep, goddammit. I need to sleep.
The wheel. Think about the wheel. A hockey play where a defenseman has the puck. If he has space from the forechecking opponent, he skates behind and as close to our net as possible. The other defenseman stays near the crease in front of the net and tries to pick out opposing players trying to close in on the puck. Once the net has been cleared, the D man with the puck passes it to our center or a winger (me) to attack.
I picture another one. I’m leading the rush into the zone on the left side, staying close to the boards. Our opponent will protect the center of the ice so I don’t get behind them and go to the net. Once I cross the blue line into the O zone, I stop fast, close to the boards, and pass to Burr, the right winger on my line, or Murph, our center, as one of them crosses the blue line. The goalie will be off angle because he’s concentrating on me and not them coming in the zone, setting my line mates up for a chance to score.
I’m still not asleep, but I feel calmer. I can do this. I just have to make sure that nothing interferes with hockey—not Emerie, not Mr. D and sure as shit not Roman fucking Moretti.
My alarm wakes me, and I take a moment to blink myself back to consciousness. Fuck. I dreamed about Emerie. I was listening to her sing in the subway, but the guys were trying to drag me away from her and I was getting pissed.
I’m still pissed. Maybe that’s a good frame of mind to be in for a game.
I dress in a suit. I don’t usually pay much attention to which suit I wear, but knowing I’ll see Emerie after the game, I mull over a couple of choices, settling on a gray Tom Ford suit with a windowpane check. I pull a light purple shirt off a hanger and grab a darker purple tie.
I meet up with the guys in the lobby of our building to take the subway to the arena. We walk up to Broadway then descend into the station. I guess I won’t be hearing Emerie tonight. That kind of bums me out, which is ridiculous.
At the arena, I change and do my usual stretches and massage with the foam roller, eat my oatmeal and banana, and play some soccer.
Here it’s easier to focus, to close my mind off to everything except hockey. Except when I catch a glimpse of Vince D’Agostino talking to Coach and one of our scouts.
I’m going to have to face him at some point. How the hell did we think we could pull this off?
We have our pre-game meetings with a review of the game plan, then I put my equipment on, following my pattern, blocking out the team owner. I think about our opponent and how I’m going to play against them.
I’ve watched video of this team, especially their second line, which is who I’ll be matched up against. They have some good goal-scorers, and we need to be sharp on our defense tonight.
As I stand at the bench listening to the national anthem, I lift my eyes up to the press box. I can see people up there, lit up from behind, and I search out the owner’s box. It’s up so high it’s hard to recognize individual faces unless you know the person and where they are. I see tiny faces that aren’t usually in that space. Not that I usually pay much attention to who’s up there, but I know which box is his.
She’s up there.
It doesn’t matter. I play my same game no matter what. Even knowing she’s watching, and because she’s there, Mr. D’Agostino likely has his eyes on me, too.
No pressure. Ha.
I like pressure. I’ve never been a choker. I thrive under pressure. I will tonight.