Charli receives a pass from her winger but then ships it to Fiona. She’s still exercising caution. But this moment is for brilliance. For risky behavior.
Fiona makes a move, and several thousand new Brooklyn fans lean forward in their seats. A pass and a shot. I hear the clink of the puck hitting the post.
“Shit,” Anton mutters as an Albany player scrambles for it.
“Get it back!” My voice is hoarse from yelling.
Charli is already there, lunging for the puck, neatly poking it away from her opponent and turning toward the net.
“SHOOT!” I scream as Charli does exactly that. With a flick of her forearm, she lifts the puck off the ice and jams it into the upper corner of the net.
The lamp lights, and the arena erupts into loud cheering. We’re all on our feet yelling. Or at least, I am.
Charli’s teammates pile onto her in a giant group hug and then hoist her off the ice.
I exhale for the first time in hours.
Thirty minutes later, the thrill of watching Charli get her goal still hasn’t faded. I’m standing in a crowded corridor outside the women’s locker rooms. I don’t make it to a lot of Bombshells games, but it seems like there are a lot more people milling around here than usual.
My view of the dressing room door keeps getting blocked. Finally, I spot a flash of ginger-colored hair when the door opens again. She glances around, her eyes widening at the sight of so many people.
I wave, but she doesn’t notice. “Wifey!”
Her chin snaps in my direction. My first thought is that she’ll probably kill me for using that nickname in a room full of people. But a smile blooms on her face. Scoring the winning goal might just do that for a girl.
We’ve definitely attracted attention, and the crowd parts for her to reach me. Charli doesn’t notice the stares. She just comes running.
I do the natural thing—I scoop her up into my arms. She fits perfectly against my chest, and I hug her fiercely. “That was…” I don’t even have the words to explain how exciting that game was.
Also, the scent of her freshly washed skin so close to mine is a little distracting.
“So fucking cool,” I babble. “Seriously—you took ’em down.”
Charli’s clear eyes are smiling at me from close range. We’re nose to nose. I want to kiss her so bad. Her gaze drops to my lips, and…
Click click click. The sound of a camera’s shutter interrupts my train of thought.
She hears it, too, and wiggles out of my arms. “Crap. If I see a picture of myself on a news site tomorrow, it had better be of my goal. Not—” She waves a hand between our bodies. “—this. I’ll have to break someone in half.”
“Now, hang on,” I argue. “If the photo is on Sports Illustrated, I totally take your point. But if it’s a post on TMZ about how hot we look in our matching jackets, that would fly, right?”
She rolls her pretty eyes at me. “Somebody’d better write about that goal.”
“Then you’d better get to your press conference.” I step back, letting her pass. Because tonight is not about me.
“Right,” she says quickly. “You don’t have to stay.”
“Actually, he does,” Georgia says, appearing out of nowhere.
“Why?” I argue. “It’s the Bombshells’ big night.”
“I know,” she says, taking my elbow. “Nonetheless, you’re going to attend the press conference like the doting husband that you are. I’ll put you against the back wall.”
“Fine,” I say, allowing myself to be led into what is a very cramped and crowded press room. “This space is too small,” I point out.
“That’s strategic,” Georgia whispers. “We don’t like to throw pressers in a big, empty room.”
Charli and two of her teammates make their way toward the dais, while Georgia tests the microphone. “Good evening! We’re just waiting one more minute for Coach Sasha Marshall, and then we’ll get started.”
A guy swivels around in his seat and points his phone at me. “Neil Drake! Was it love at first sight for you and Charli Higgins?”
Uh-oh. I’d better tread carefully. Then again, the truth never hurts. “Nah,” I say loudly. “She hated me.”
The room erupts in laughter. When I glance at the dais, Charli has a wry look on her face, but Georgia is smiling.
“How come?” the reporter asks.
I plow ahead. “Well, I was having a low-blood-sugar episode, and feeling a little loopy, so I came upstairs looking for some juice. I mistook Charli for a member of the staff and—this is the worst part—I called her doll. Yup. It was a dumbass thing to say, and I apologized many times afterward.”
Laughter echoes off the walls of the room. I guess the press likes my story of being a dumbass.
Coach Marshall has appeared now, and she’s making her way toward the front of the room. I turn my body toward her and start to clap.
The applause catches on, saving me from more ramblings. The reporter who’d questioned me also turns his attention toward the front of the room.
Does he realize I only gave him Charli’s side of the story?
Of course, mine is more complicated. I shouldn’t have called her doll, because there’s nothing doll-like about Charli. She’s feisty and sharp. Prickly, not warm.
But when you break through all those defenses, there’s nothing better than her smile or the sound of her quick laughter when a joke lands.
It’s been a year and a half since we met, and I live for those moments.
Maybe if I hadn’t screwed everything up in Vegas, I would have had a real chance with her someday.
Now I might never know.
NINETEEN
TEN OUT OF TEN
Charli
Neil and I are brushing our teeth in his grand bathroom under soft lighting. There’s a fluffy wool rug underfoot that warms my toes. Fresh towels wait beside us, because Neil’s housekeeper was here this morning. When I had come back to the apartment smelling like fried eggs and waffles, Neil’s gleaming home had smelled of lemons and lavender.
It still does.
Neil spits toothpaste into the sink and rinses his mouth. And I do the same. The casual domesticity of this moment ought to relax me. Instead, I’m all stirred up inside.
“What?” Neil asks, wiping his mouth.
“What what?” I grab my hand towel, which is so thick it almost doesn’t fold properly.
“You’re sneaking looks at me in the mirror.”
Oh God. It’s probably true. Neil is wearing a pair of blue-and-white checked boxer shorts and nothing else. That’s half the problem. His colorful sleeve of tattoos glows brightly in the expensive lighting. I’m intrigued.
But something else is what’s really distracting me. “You never told me what happened that first day.”
His eyes meet mine in the mirror. “What first day? You mean the infamous moment when I called you doll?”
“Yeah, that. You never told me you were having some kind of attack.” All I’d seen that day was an entitled prima donna. The story is different if he’d literally been about to pass out.