“Noted. And I kind of feel like Bradley Cooper won’t get old for a really long time, either.”
“No shit. Those eyes of his are dreamy. Almost as nice as your boyfriend’s.”
“Jonah does have nice eyes,” I say, cringing as I remember our back and forth the night of our first date.
“Nice? He’s hot as hell, Rey. Reminds me of Chris Hemsworth. Jonah West makes me wish I had a vagina so I could sit on his face.”
I cackle with laughter as Kai finishes blending my makeup. Once again, he’s making me look like a sophisticated model instead of a frumpy cop.
“Hey,” I say, looking at him in the mirror. “I had an idea. And it may be awful, but I thought I’d at least run it by you.”
“What?”
“Well, when you were showing me that scrub the other day and it smelled citrusy, I looked online to see if you can make homemade scrubs and I found some…I don’t know, recipes? Not like we’re going to eat them, but you know what I’m saying. What if we did a thing for your page where I film you making scrubs?”
Kai grins. “I love it! We can have tons of fun with that.”
“You’re helping me out so much,” I say, turning serious. “I want to help you, too, however I can.”
“You are helping me,” he says softly. “Just having you here…I like it.”
“Me too.”
Kai puts the brush he’s using in a canister and says, “Okay. Now we’re going to try to have you do your eyeshadow and liner and not end up looking like a sad ’80s hooker.”
“It looked good last time!” I argue.
“It was tragic.”
I sigh heavily and pick up an eyeshadow palette. For my work, I’ve learned how to speak Portuguese, how to use every firearm ever made and how to survive a tear gas attack. And frustrating as it’s been so far, I’m going to learn how to apply makeup like a pro.
“Not that one!” Kai shrieks as I hold a brush over a dark color. “Do you want to look like fucking Michael Jackson in the “Thriller” video?”
If only makeup was as cut and dry as all the rest.
Chapter Eight
Jonah
The thunk of a rubber ball Knox is throwing up against a wall is the only sound in the locker room when I walk in before our home game. I left after our pregame skate because the energy level was flat and I needed to pump myself up with a short run.
“Hey,” Easy says to me as I walk in.
“Hey.”
We lost our most vocal teammate to the Las Vegas expansion draft a few months ago. Alexei Petrov wasn’t on our protected list and Vegas swiped him. He was always cracking jokes and having fun before games. Victor’s like that, too, but he’s worried about his roster spot these days so he’s not so lighthearted.
“How’s your shoulder?” Anton asks me.
I shrug. “It’s fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He nods, satisfied. I know our team captain misses having his twin brother, Alexei, as a teammate. Alexei had finally found his footing, getting sober and settling down with his girlfriend Graysen. They spent a lot of time together with their families, and Alexei was a good uncle to his nieces.
And from private conversations with Anton, I know Anton liked having his eyes on his brother. Making sure he stayed on the straight and narrow. Nothing tempts a man to go wild with booze and women like being a pro athlete on the road. Temptation is everywhere.
But from what I’ve heard, Alexei’s doing well in Vegas. Graysen is there to ground him, and he’s the captain of the team. I told Anton I thought Alexei was ready to rise to the challenge and prove himself, and so far, he has.
“You fuckers holding a funeral no one told me about?” Luca asks as he walks into the locker room.
No one responds, and he looks around the room. “Seriously, did someone die or something?”
“We’re just tired,” Anton says, glaring.
“Perk up, pussies, we’ve got a game tonight,” Luca says as he shakes his head. “The only one here who has a right to be tired is Jonah.”
Most of the room turns to look at me. I stop inspecting my skates and look up. “Me?”
“Yeah. You’ve been holding out on us, man. What’s going on with you and this mystery woman?”
Everyone who wasn’t looking at me already certainly is now. I just shrug.
“Don’t worry about it, you fucking gossip queen.”
Luca laughs and stands across from me, leaning against a locker and crossing his arms. “Don’t be so sour, prick. I’m just happy for you.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“What’s her name?” Luca asks me.
I wait a few seconds before saying, “Renee.”
“How long have you been seeing her?”
I shrug again. “It’s still really new.”
“Is she coming to the game tonight?” Easy asks.
“No.”
“You’re really into her, though?” Luca asks.
“Back off him,” Anton says. “He’ll tell us about her when he’s ready.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Luca says sheepishly.
The puck drop is still a few hours away, but it’s time for me to start my pregame routine, and I have to get away from these jokers to get in the right zone. I grab my foam rollers and head for the training room.
Once I’m alone in the big room lined with exercise machines, I push earplugs into my ears and lie down on a yoga mat, eyes closed and arms at my sides. I start the visualization techniques I’ve been doing since college, where I picture the net I guard as a zone no one but me can touch.
That net is mine. It’s the area of the ice I control. I picture myself protecting the inside of the net from anything and anyone that threatens to get inside.
I learned a long time ago that visualizing success makes it more likely it’ll happen. I never go into a game planning to try my hardest and hope for a win. I go in knowing I’m a champion and I’m in control. I rarely lose my cool on the ice, because negativity always affects my play in a bad way.
At thirty-four, I’m the oldest starting goalie in pro hockey. Reporters mention it regularly in their stories. For me, though, it’s not a negative. I’m the most experienced. I’m still at my peak. And I loathe the thought of slipping so much that I work hard to stay there.
Hockey is physical, for sure, but a lot of it is mental. Before I lost Lily, hockey was what I did. I loved it, but it didn’t define me. In the past three years, though, hockey has become who I am. It’s my whole life.
I start stretching, still visualizing what success looks like. What it smells like. What it feels like.
Success is being covered in sticky, sweet champagne as my teammates and I celebrate winning the cup. It’s kids asking me to autograph sticks because they look up to me. Success is Anton on his hands and knees in the locker room, crying openly because we came back from behind to make it to the championship.
That success is made up of a million moments. Every stretch I do is a tiny step closer to victory. It means I can go just a little farther during a game, drop to the ice just a millisecond faster.