“Is that right?” Jamie thrusts a knee between my two legs and grabs my ass suggestively. “We have all kinds of fun, though. Half the time you can’t even remember your own name afterwards.”
“True.” His skin smells like locker room soap, and I want more. Burrowing closer, I kiss his neck. “Fine. I won’t try to plan your life. But does that mean I have to call off the goon squad I hired to teach Bill Braddock a lesson?”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “Save the violence for the rink. This is a problem I have to solve by myself.”
“You know I’d do anything for you. Even drive to Bellewood to do you.”
Jamie snorts. “Belleville.”
“Yeah. There, too.”
He laughs and then kisses me.
7
Jamie
When I step out onto the ice on Saturday morning, my head is full of plans for the Niagara game. We’ve got an hour for morning skate, followed by another hour for watching film. Then I’ll have to let my guys take some time off for lunch, because the faceoff is at four.
But just as I skate my first few strides forward, every kid on the team lets out a shout and then rushes me. Four seconds later I’m swarmed by a pack of rowdy, laughing sixteen to twenty-one year olds. They actually hoist me into the air, all talking at once.
“Oh my God, that save on Wesley!”
“Fucking awesome!”
“Fire!”
“We were dying.”
“Just here to entertain you,” I chuckle, trying to get back onto my feet.
“Are you going to go pro?” my goalie wants to know. “That scout from Ottawa wants you more than me.”
This again? “I’m not going anywhere.” Not even to Barrie, apparently. It still stings that I didn’t get that job. And out of the corner of my eye I can see Bill Braddock watching me from the top of the stands, where he’s sitting with the assistant coach and a couple of other guys.
The pressure is on, then. We have to win this one.
I clap my hands together. “Okay, guys. Party’s over. We’re going to beat Niagara in a few hours, but only if we can shut down their offense. Let’s do some D-drills before we watch film. Taylor—set up the cones for an odd man rush.”
“Okay, Coach.” He skates off.
Part of my job is to know which guys I can always count on to set the tone. Taylor is always open for business. “Trapatski! Stop wagging your jaw and set up for the rush. Let’s move.”
Bill and his crew stay in their seats, watching. It would be nice if the head coach or his assistant would get his butt down here and address his team, but I guess you can’t have everything.
I’m feeling feisty today. I really am.
“Line up, guys! Move!”
Everyone is sweaty by the time I’m done an hour later. Including me. “Hit the locker room!” I call after my whistle. “Video in thirty.”
I’m the last one off the ice. And now Braddock is waiting at the bench? “Got a second?” he says.
Not really, I almost snap at him. I’m not a stupid man, so I hold it back. But I still feel frosty toward him. It’s not a great way to feel toward your boss, but I guess I need a few more days to get over my disappointment.
“Sure,” I mutter. “But we’re watching video soon.”
“I know. But I got a few things to discuss with you beforehand. First of all, I never had so much fun in my life as I did watching that San Jose game.”
In spite of my grumpiness, a smile breaks out on my face. “It was fun.”
“I know the Ottawa team is trying to lure you away from here to back up their back-up goalie. We’re lucky you aren’t that interested.”
“You are lucky.” It just pops out as I sit down on the bench to unlace my skates.
Bill only grins. “I know, kid. I know. And I can see on your face that you’re not over the Barrie job. But that’s not the right fit for you. You’re overqualified to be that coach’s assistant. And like Ron and I told you, we thought you deserved a different position.”
My hands freeze on the laces. “Overqualified?” That makes no sense. Assistant Coach is the next job on the ladder. I lift my head quickly. “What the heck does that mean?”
“Jamie, I’m going to cover your video session, okay? There are some guys I want you to meet. They came up from Mississauga to get to know you better.” He jerks his thumb toward the stands.
I squint at the coaches sitting in the distant seats. “Mississauga?”
He thumps me on the back. “Go talk to them.”
I get home around six-thirty. When I push open our door, a shirtless Wes calls to me from the kitchen, where he’s staring into the refrigerator. “How’d the game go, babe? And what do you want to do about dinner?”
“Dinner,” I repeat slowly. My head is elsewhere.
“Yeah, dinner? That meal that you sometimes cook but we sometimes eat out?” He rubs his perfect abs. “I’m starved.”
“I completely forgot what I wanted to do about dinner.” I completely forgot everything I’d been thinking about until the guys from Mississauga blew my mind.
“You won your game, though?” Wes says, cocking his head to study me. “I saw the final score was four to three. Figured we could go out to celebrate.”
“Celebrate.” That word snaps me out of my haze. “Yes. Let’s go out. No! Let’s order in.”
Wes tips his head back and laughs. “Which is it, babe?”
“Order something for both of us. Anything. I’m going to open a bottle of wine. There’s something I want to discuss.”
He shrugs. “Anything? Even Canadian Mexican?”
“Anything but that,” I insist as I run by him toward our bedroom. “I’m going to change and open the wine. Meet me on the couch in five.”
“Yes, Coach Canning. Hey—bring me a shirt?”
I’m so spacey that I forget the shirt. It’s possible that my subconscious just wants to skip to the part of this evening where I’m removing his shirt again, anyway. We’re going to have all kinds of celebrations, including the naked kind.
After I set two glasses of wine down on the coffee table, I fling myself onto the sofa beside Wes.
“Now spill,” he says. “Did you talk to Bill?”
I open my mouth to answer, but Wes isn’t done.
“—Did you tell him that you deserved that job? Did he read the story on the Sports Illustrated blog?”
“Wait, there’s a story on Sports Illustrated?”
“‘Family Feud’ is the title they went with.” Wes laughs. “There’s a perfect shot of you stopping my shot. We gotta frame that sucker and hang it on the wall.”
“Yeah. Awesome. Can I tell you my news now? I got transferred. And promoted.”
“Really?” My husband’s eyes widen. “To Barrie? Please don’t say Ottawa.”
“No! To Mississauga.”
“Oh,” he says carefully. “That’s not too far from here, right?”