It’s fun teasing Blake, and we do it on the regular. But Jamie knows that the real measure of a man isn’t whether he can eat a fried grasshopper. The real measure of a man is whether he can be a good partner, a hard worker, and a role model all at the same time.
Jamie is all those things. Why can’t Bill Braddock see that?
“A hundred bucks from me, too,” Eriksson says, tossing some bills onto the table. “Who else is in?”
The betting escalates. And soon the server is back with a new platter of food. She plops it down in front of Blake. “¡Buen provecho!”
“Does that mean—nice knowing you?” Blake grumbles. “Who’s going first?”
Jamie reaches over, plucks a fried brown grasshopper from the plate and shoves it into his mouth. “Mmm. Nice chili flavor.” He grabs a second one, dips it in the sauce and pops that one in his mouth too. He chews, smiling.
“Let’s go, Blake!” I prod. “There’s seven hundred dollars on this table that says you won’t eat two of them.”
“Seven hundred dollars, and your manhood,” Eriksson taunts, picking up a grasshopper and dipping it in sauce. “But no pressure.” He eats his in one bite.
“Fine,” Blake says with a scowl. “Just a second.” He takes his phone out of his pocket and holds it up to frame his own face. “J-babe, if for some reason I don’t make it back, I just wanted you to know that I love you. I know you’ll raise Puddles to be a fine dog. Oh, and your birthday present is in the bottom drawer of the bedside table.” He taps the screen and looks up at us with a serious expression. “Make sure she gets that video, fellas.”
“Will do,” I say with as much gravitas as the moment calls for. Which is none.
Blake reaches toward the plate as if it might bite him. But he grabs a grasshopper between his big fingers. No—two of them. He’s going with the all-at-once strategy.
“Do it! Do it!” I chant. And then everyone else starts chanting, too.
Suddenly we’re that table—the loud, obnoxious one that other diners despise. And we’re not even drinking.
Blake closes his eyes and opens his mouth. The grasshoppers go in. He chews…
We all lose our minds.
He swallows. Then he grabs Jamie’s beer out of his hand and chugs it.
Our table erupts with applause.
I have the best job in the whole damned world.
We have to be at the rink pretty early. But they let Jamie into the players’ entrance with me so that he can pick up comp tickets for himself and his parents.
“What are you going to do until game time?” I ask him.
“Heading back to the hotel. Returning some calls.” His eyes dip.
“What kind of calls?” I hear myself ask.
“That scout wants to talk to me again.” He sighs. “He’s here in San Jose.”
“Really?” I freeze, my hand on the locker room door. “Is that a coincidence?”
He shrugs uncomfortably. “I’m not sure. He wanted to meet me tonight, but I told him I was spending some quality time with the family.”
“You’re blowing him off?” I laugh. “Harsh.”
“My head is not in a great place to listen to him,” Jamie admits. “I need a couple of days to sort out my shit.”
“I bet.” I put a hand onto his shoulder and squeeze. “Sure love having you here, babe. This has been fun.”
His brown eyes grow warm. “It’s the best. I got a video of Blake eating the grasshoppers. That’s getting edited later. If you have any soundtrack suggestions, I’m listening.” He rubs his belly. “I’m never eating again, either. But the pain I’m feeling now was totally worth it for that mole sauce.”
“Take it easy.” I lean forward and plant a quick kiss on his jaw. “See you after the game?”
“Knock ’em dead, babe.” He gives me a quick hug, and then heads down the hallway, looking for the GM’s assistant and her stash of tickets.
Spirits are high while we stretch and suit up. I need a goal tonight. The Cannings will be in the stands, and I like to impress my in-laws. The Canning clan is the best thing that ever happened to me. They love me whether I score or not.
Still. Let’s get some points on the board. I’m in the mood to win.
I’m taping up my stick when Coach lets out a whistle. “Gather round, kids! Starting lineups are posted. There’s two things we weren’t expecting. San Jose put Murray on the first line. And they’re playing Pitti in the net.”
“Yeah?” I perk up. I’d rather be firing on their number-two goalie. “That’s an interesting choice.”
“Go get ’em,” Coach says, slapping me on the shoulder. “Warm-ups start in two minutes.”
I snap on my helmet and do a set of slow squats to keep my quads warm. Then I follow my teammates out onto the ice. The clock has sixteen minutes on it—regulation warm-up time. It never feels like enough. I take my first quick lap. I’m watching the opposing goalie, and visualizing my shot. I mentally snap one into the upper left-hand corner. And then I think through my approach on the right.
I’m in the zone, which means I’m not paying attention to anyone outside the plexi. You learn to tune out the sounds of the stadium.
So it takes me a minute to notice that the name they’re calling over the sound system is familiar to me.
Very familiar.
“Jamie Canning, please identify yourself to a security staff member. Jamie Canning.”
What the hell is up with that?
4
Jamie
“Jamie Canning, please identify yourself to a security staff member. Jamie Canning.”
My head jerks to the side, like a dog tilting one ear when he’s trying to understand human speak. “Was that my name?” I ask my folks.
The three of us have just settled in our seats—third row, right behind the Toronto bench. One of the many perks of being married to the team’s top scorer. At home games, I sit in the Wives and Girlfriends box, but to be honest, I prefer watching live hockey right near the action.
My mom wrinkles her forehead. “I think it might have been.”
“Once again, Jamie Canning, please identify yourself to a security staff member.”
Concern tugs at my gut as I rise from the seat I just plopped into. “I hope it’s not about Wes,” I start. But no, he’s on the ice warming up and looks just fine. Shit, maybe Blake…? Nope, he’s skating too.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell my parents.
My stomach churns as I descend the steps toward one of the exits. I spot a security guard and quickly approach him. “Hey,” I say awkwardly. “I’m Jamie Canning? They just said my name on the PA?”
“ID please.”
I hand over my license.
He glances at it before passing it back. The man touches his earpiece and relays something in a voice so low I can’t hear what he’s saying. Then he drops his hand and gives a brisk nod. “Follow me.”
Where? I want to blurt out. But the dude is already marching off without waiting to see if I’m following.