I’m skeptical of his hockey knowledge, but he’s right. It is fast, and I don’t know enough about it to understand everything.
Okay, the score is tied now, so it’s important that we score another goal. I’m going to watch carefully.
When one of our players shoots the puck down the ice, the ref blows the whistle and stops the game. “Why did he do that?” I ask with frustration.
“Icing,” Vince answers.
“What does that mean?”
“Icing is when a player tries to delay the game,” Roman says. “They can give a penalty for it.”
“Oh.” I frown. “So we’re getting a penalty?”
“Yes.”
“No, we’re not,” Vince says.
I sigh.
“It’s a delay of game penalty,” Roman maintains. His complete confidence convinces me. But there’s no penalty. Both teams keep playing with five players after another faceoff.
I’m so confused. “Stupid sport,” I mutter.
“And yet you’re dating a hockey player.” Roman’s lip curls. “What does that say about him?”
My jaw tightens and my eyes narrow as I keep my eyes on the game. “Owen is not stupid.”
“Sure, sure.”
My stomach tightens. Ugh.
During the first intermission I make a trip down to the three hundred level concourse to get a drink. I need a good stiff one.
That sounds dirty.
Of course that makes me think of Owen. Ever since the party the other night, I’ve been thinking about his muscles and flat abs and the way his pants fit over his thick thighs and butt. It was magnificent. He probably has a good stiff one.
I gulp back the vodka and cranberry and order another one to take back up. Cat wants popcorn, so I indulge her in that.
This time, I sit next to Vince and make Cat sit on the other side of me so Roman can’t. But Vince disappears for most of the second period. Probably down in the suites, “networking.” Of course Roman slides over into Vince’s seat. And shifts the chair even closer so our arms are touching. Ugh. He literally makes my skin crawl. I make short work of my second drink and feel a little more relaxed.
Trying to understand the game helps divert my mind from Roman, who keeps explaining things to me even though I stop asking him questions. It’s not that I really care about hockey, I just don’t want to have to pay any attention to him.
Owen’s on the ice now, so I’m watching especially closely. They’re near their own goal, and one of the Bears breaks his stick trying to stop the other team from scoring. Owen hands his stick to the guy! What?
“What is he doing?” I cry, shifting to the edge of my seat. “He needs a stick!”
The guy with Owen’s stick now shoots the puck to another player as they skate up toward the other team’s goal. I watch as Owen races to the bench, grabs another stick from someone who holds it out, chases after the player with the puck, who then passes it to him and…he scores!
I jump out of my seat with a scream. “Yes!” I clap and cheer loudly, joined by Cat. Roman claps politely. I love the way the entire building full of people is cheering for Owen.
They show him on the big screen as he skates by the bench to bump gloves with the other guys. This seems to be a tradition, as it happens every time there’s a goal. The other players are all laughing, and so is Owen. I guess it’s funny that he grabbed someone’s stick and immediately scored.
The camera’s on his face as he sits on the bench, grinning. A guy behind him hands him a towel, and he wipes off the inside of the glass visor on his helmet. Someone must say something to him, because he laughs.
I’m mesmerized by that smile—the utter joy of it. He is absolutely in his element.
This is his passion. He loves this sport.
That’s kind of hot.
8
Owen
Emerie wanted me to come up to the press box level after the game so her stepdad would see us together, but I nixed that idea. I don’t want to go up where the media is. I have to talk to them enough. So she comes down to our level, where the dressing rooms are, and waits in the family lounge until I’m done.
When I’ve talked to the media, cooled down, stretched, showered, and changed back into my suit, I walk in and see her and Cat standing by themselves in a corner. I guess she doesn’t know any of the wives and girlfriends, AKA WAGs. I say hi to Lilly, Kate, Sara, Nadia, Layla. They’re all happy and laughing after the win.
“Congratulations, Owen!” Lilly calls to me.
“Thanks.”
The girls give me a curious look, no doubt wondering why I’m down here. I stride over to Emerie. “Hi.”
“Hey.” She beams at me. “Good game.”
My chest puffs up a bit. I did play great. “Thanks.”
“You scored two goals!” Cat says.
“I did. And got an assist.”
“How do they decide who gets an assist?” Emerie asks. “I asked Roman. He said the last players to touch the puck before a goal get an assist. And what does it mean?”
I open my mouth, then snap it shut and frown. “Wait. Roman was watching the game with you?”
“Oh yeah.” She rolls her eyes.
My jaw tightens. I pull in a breath through my nose. “An assist is given to the players who take part in the play immediately preceding the goal,” I say stiffly.
“Is it always two?”
“At the most. Sometimes only one. Sometimes none. An assist counts as one point, but a goal counts as two.”
“I see.”
“Do you have a lot of points, Owen?” Cat asks.
I catch the amused glances of the WAGs who overhear. “I have forty-two points,” I mutter.
Emerie and Cat nod but look blank. Emerie leans closer. “Is that good?” she whispers.
“Yeah, it’s pretty good.” My best season yet.
Millsy walks in, looking for Lilly. He shoots me a surprised glance, his gaze tracking over Emerie and Cat. Here we go.
“Hey, Owen,” Lilly says, walking toward us with Millsy. “We’re going to the Amber Horse. You coming?” She smiles at Emerie.
I make the introductions. Luckily, I now know Emerie’s last name is Ross. “And this is her sister, Cat,” I say.
“Nice to meet you.” Lilly shakes Emerie’s hand. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“I need to get this lady home,” Emerie says with a smile and a hand on Cat’s shoulder. “But thanks.”
“Next time.” Lilly rejoins the others just as some other guys walk in.
“Okay, let’s head out,” I say.
Out in the corridor, a few people are still milling about—communications staff, media, trainers, a couple of players. I wave and lead Emerie and Cat down the hall to an exit.
“How did you get here?” I ask. “With your, uh, Mr. D’Agostino?”
Emerie shakes her head. “No. Taxi.”
“Okay, let’s go find you one to get you home.”
We step out into the cold night air to the sound of cars honking, and walk around the corner to Eighth Avenue, dodging pedestrians on the sidewalk. Most of the fans have cleared out by now, but it’s Saturday night in Manhattan and busy.