His face is unreadable.
Hastily, I unzip the other pocket. When I plunge my hand inside, I only find a square object. I pull it halfway out to identify it.
It’s a silver picture frame the size of my palm. And the photo is of a laughing teenaged girl. A senior portrait, maybe. She has strawberry-blond hair and daring eyes.
Once more I glance involuntarily at Jason, who’s scowling up a storm now. “All good!” I say with forced cheer.
“Twenty-seven seconds,” Dunston announces.
“Seems like plenty,” Jason mumbles.
“Body check,” the boss says.
“Oh, fuck me,” Jason says on a sigh.
If only.
“Sir, please unbutton your jacket.”
But he’s raised his arms already. So I unbutton them, just to hurry things along. The tip of my thumb grazes his abs as I work. “Wowzers,” I whisper. “Someone keeps up with the core exercises.”
His jaw tightens, and he looks away as I spend about one second patting his pockets the way they taught me during my thirty minutes of training.
The last step is to check for an ankle holster. Because whoever directs these procedures watches a lot of TV. So I sink down onto my knees and quickly pat down the muscular lower legs inside Jason’s suit pants.
“All set,” I say, which I’m sure is a relief to both of us. I raise my eyes from my kneeling position, ready to offer my favorite hockey player an apologetic smile.
But that’s not what happens. First, my gaze snags on the bulge in his trouser pants that wasn’t there a minute ago. And it is a bulge. At close range.
I feel my jaw flop open. And then when I manage to raise my chin, my gaze finds a set of lust-darkened eyes staring down at me over a jaw that’s locked tightly.
We regard each other for one more fractional second as I realize the position we’re in. And then we both come to our senses at the same moment. I leap to my feet while he takes a quick step backward, buttoning his suit jacket with hasty fingers.
“Good game!” I say in a shrill voice. “Knock ’em dead! Make ’em cry!”
“Will do.” He takes one eager step away from me.
But he only gets a few feet toward the hallway when Bayer calls after him from the line. “Wait up, Castro!”
Jason stops, but he’s gritting his teeth. As usual, he’s eager to get away from me. But I don’t mind half as much as usual, because it’s dawning on me that Jason Castro is still attracted to me. No matter that I puked when we were supposed to be hooking up, and no matter that my daddy wants to kill him.
That bulge, though. And the lust in his eyes when I looked up at him? It’s the only good news I’ve had today.
Bayer puts his gym bag down on the table and unzips it. I poke inside, mindful of the forty-five seconds I’m supposed to use up. There’s a pair of sneakers.
“I wouldn’t get too close to those if I were you.” He says.
“They could be a security risk, sir,” I say. “Stench weaponry?”
Bayer chuckles.
Dunston moves closer to hover like the grumpy barnacle that he is. “Oof,” he says as his foot finds something I’ve hidden underneath the table. “What’s this?” He bends over, where he’ll be treated to an eyeful of my giant rolling suitcase. “Hold on! Unidentified luggage? That’s a security risk.”
“It’s mine,” I say quickly, zipping Bayer’s gym bag. “Don’t worry about that.”
But Dunston has already rolled the bag out of its hiding place. “This can’t stay here. It’s against security regs.”
“Sir, there’s no place secure for me to put it. Can I lock it in your office?”
“You may not bring personal effects to work. It has to go.”
I swear the whole flipping team is lined up to get in now. And they’re all listening to this little humiliation. “I’m on the clock, though. What would you have me do?”
“There’s always the incinerator,” he says darkly. “That’ll learn you the rules.”
“What?” I squeak. “My Manolos are in there.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jason snarls. “I’ll take the bag. Can we just get a move on here?” He leans forward, grabs the handle, and jerks it toward his body. “This will go with me.”
“Nice color for ya,” Bayer pipes up.
I bend over and pat Bayer’s ankles with zero finesse. I do not, however, kneel at his feet with my face near his crotch. That’s a lesson they won’t have to teach me twice.
“That was twenty-seven seconds,” Dunston complains as Bayer departs with a grumpy Jason Castro.
“I’ll do better, sir.” I hold back my sigh as the next player steps up.
“Security first.”
“Yessir.”
9
Jason
There are just three minutes left in tonight’s preseason scrimmage. That’s a relief, because I’m dog-tired.
“Cross-body vision,” the assistant coach yammers at me as he leans over me on the bench. “Just as soon as you adjust your line of sight, you’ll be all set.”
“Cross-body vision,” I mumble so he thinks I’m paying attention.
“Get ready,” he says. “Your line is up.”
“Born ready,” I say. But it’s a total lie. My muscles are screaming, although that happens at the end of every game. My problem tonight is that my brain is fried, too. Last season I was able to relax into the rhythm of the game. But there’s been no relaxing since Coach Worthington stunned me by asking me to change positions.
Correction—he didn’t ask. The morning after the Hamptons golf tournament he just clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Think you can play right wing?”
I believe my clever response was, “Who, me?” Because I’m a lefty shooter who plays left wing, and always has.
“You’re playing right wing now,” Coach had said. “Starting today. Let’s get out there.”
After two weeks of bumbling practices, I’m still unsettled.
But now is no time to panic. I stand up on command and vault over the wall as Leo Trevi returns to the bench. We used to be on a line together, but now we can’t be anymore, because we play the same position.
Coach has me with Bayer and the new kid, Drake. To say that I’m disoriented is putting it mildly. I still launch myself into the game, accepting a pass from our D-man, Beringer, but the pass is coming into the wrong side of my body, of course.
Everything is just wrong wrong wrong.
I find an opening and get the pass off to Bayer before the opposing D-man can squish me. But the transfer feels less smooth than I’m used to.
It’s a long three minutes of trying to attack from the wrong side of the room. Driving a car in England on the wrong side of the road would probably be easier than this.
When the buzzer goes off, I’m full of relief. And—damn it—that’s not now I want to feel at the end of a game.
I skate past our rivals from across the river with a scowl on my face, shaking hands and good-game-good-game-good-gaming it as fast as I can.
When that’s done, I follow Silas off the ice. He yanks off the goalie’s helmet and gives me a giant, sweaty smile. “They don’t stand a chance in regular-season play.”
“Nice job tonight,” I grunt. Silas only let in one goal, and we won it 2-1.
No thanks to me.
“You look about as happy as a mushroom cloud.”
“I’ll come around,” I bark. Silas is my buddy, but it’s not my habit to let people know when I’m suffering. Ten months ago when I started on my scoring streak, the sports news described me as an “overnight sensation.”
Somehow I don’t think I’m going to be seeing those words in print for a while.
The locker room is the usual mayhem. Someone is blasting the Beastie Boys’ “No Sleep Till Brooklyn”—our win song. The head coach is congratulating Silas on his game. Everybody is pumped up that our up-and-coming goalie is finding his feet. They’ll use him more this year.
Ten bucks says Coach won’t seek me out for any back pats today, though.
I chuck my helmet onto its shelf and strip off my sweater. I’m shucking off my pads when I hear a voice behind me.
It’s Miranda Wager, a journalist I despise. And behind her hovers my favorite publicist, Georgia.