“Of course! All men do. Yours is sort of cross-eyed, and your tongue hangs out of the corner of your mouth.” Her phone pings.
“No it doesn’t! Jesus.” I chase her toward the kitchen, hoping for a kiss.
She puts her coffee cup in the sink. “The car is downstairs. Saddle up!”
“Oh fuck.” I sigh. “I need two more minutes. I forgot to make my peanut butter and…”
Heidi grabs a paper lunch bag off the counter and thrusts it into my hands. And from the weight and shape, I know it can only be another peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich, cut diagonally just how I like it.
“Ohh.” I let out a moan of happiness. And, fuck. My tongue is hanging out—but just a little. And only for a second. “You’re the best girl in the whole fucking world.” And can I take off your sweater now?
“Had to do it,” she says. “Can’t break the streak. San Jose looks tough this season.”
“But I’m tougher, right?” I actually puff out my chest.
“Of course, baby. That’s just a given.” Her heeled boots click importantly on the wood floor as she hefts her suitcase off a chair.
“Hey now,” I say, stopping her. “I said I’d carry that.”
“I can lift my own bag,” she says at close range, those big eyes going slightly soft now that we’re nose to nose.
“Sure you can,” I whisper. “But you’re not going to carry it when I’m standing here with two functioning arms. Thanks again for the sandwich. I know you’re doing it for the whole Brooklyn franchise. But I sure do appreciate it.”
Her gaze softens again. “I know you do. And I’m not superstitious at all. Peanut butter and jam can’t beat San Jose. I only make that sandwich because it makes you happy.”
Well, now I have to kiss her. I duck my head and quickly skim my lips across hers. She stands up on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around me while I slowly claim her mouth.
“Mmm.” Heidi sighs against my tongue as we kiss.
Didn’t I say it’s been a great month? I pull her body against mine and her warmth does nice things to my heart.
“Keep the make-out sesh brief,” Silas says from the front hall. “Isn’t it time to go?”
My girl pulls back with a smile on her face. “I’ll let you carry my bag if only to save your tender male ego.”
“Good call.” I steal one more kiss. “It will be nice having you in my hotel room tonight.”
Slowly, she shakes her head. “The support staff are staying at a Holiday Inn near the airport.”
“What? No! I need you close to me.”
“We’ll see,” she says. “I don’t want to look like a prima donna.”
“You’re not,” I insist. “And please don’t rent a shithole apartment just to prove your independence. It doesn’t need proving.”
She lifts her blue eyes to mine. “Maybe it does. To me.”
“Oh.” I really don’t see why that would be. But I’m a smart enough man not to say so. “Let’s go to California. What job did you say you were working on this trip?”
“I didn’t say.” She strides into the hallway in front of me. And I swear there’s an extra little butt wiggle there that’s meant to torture me.
My girl is right. San Jose does look tough this season. The game is a gongshow. It’s dirty. So many of our opponent’s hands are grabbing various parts of my body, that it’s more like a rave than a hockey game.
Midway through the second period we have a hard-fought 1-1 draw. I’m gulping Gatorade when Coach says, “Let’s mix it up a little. I’m putting your line up for the faceoff next time.”
“Sure thing.”
But after the next whistle there’s a media timeout, so we all get a chance to breathe. I ruminate on our opponent’s defense squad and try to formulate a plan. Meanwhile, the team mascots take the ice. There’s a furry blue fish and our own Brooklyn brown bear. They’re having a faux-fight—the kind of thing I always ignore.
But for some weird reason, I feel a tingle at the back of my skull. And I glance up to see the bear do a graceful spin in front of the penalty box.
“Holy shit.” Trevi whistles. “Our bear can skate.”
My eyes widen as the Brooklyn bear executes a double axel, landing with its furry brown arms outstretched. There are hoots of laughter from the crowd. But not from the other mascot. The fish swerves, cutting off the bear’s path, moving in and punching the bear right in the neck.
“That doesn’t look very sportsmanlike,” a teammate says.
But the San Jose fans like it. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” they cry.
Our bear squares himself to the fish, and raises a pair of furry fists. But anyone can see that it isn’t a good matchup. The fish towers over the bear. And even though flippers aren’t known as weapons in the wild, this fish winds up and clocks our bear right in the chin.
“Fuck ’im up!” yells some cretin in the stands.
Our bear seems to realize he can’t win with brawn, so he goes for flare instead, executing a roundhouse kick that neatly avoids actually touching the fish, and then follows that up with a stylish spin maneuver.
“Holy shit!” Silas laughs from the other end of the bench. “Now we know what job they gave Heidi this week. Mystery solved.”
Holy shit indeed. That tingle moves down my backbone as I realize he’s right. Only Heidi could bring such flare to the bear suit. And she said she used to compete at skating when she was little.
The fish is unimpressed, though. He keeps trying to jab at her, while Heidi is literally skating circles around him. He flaps those long flippers, spoiling for a fight.
Then Heidi skates toward him, as if she means to engage. But—psych! She’s too quick. The fish punches and misses. The crowd howls.
You’d think that a guy in a whole-body fish suit couldn’t look angry. But you’d be wrong.
“The bear won’t fight!” yells some asshole in the crowd.
“The bear is a pussy!” screams another.
“Take it like a man, bear!” As if that makes any sense at all.
I grow increasingly uneasy, because Heidi doesn’t seem to sense the anger in the room. Or maybe she does, and she’s just running down the clock. Then again, no sensible person would do what she does next—skating up fast and then pulling a hockey stop so sudden that she sprays the fish with ice shavings. It’s the ultimate burn in hockey.
And then? Heidi opens her furry arms as if to say, I’m right here. What’s the problem?
The shark lunges. The crowd roars. As my heart climbs my throat, both mascots go down in a heap of blue and brown fur.
“Fight fight fight!”
“Oh, shit,” Trevi whispers as the mascots begin to grapple. Heidi has the fish by its snout. She gives him a shove and then tries to roll away. A wave of nausea rolls through me as the fish whips his skates around in an arc.
A sharpened skate can kill you. I’m on my feet now.
“Hey,” Trevi says, pulling me back down. “Heidi’s smart. She won’t get herself in trouble.”
For a few beats of my heart, I actually believe him. Heidi pops to her feet and skates away from the shark. But then she looks over her shoulder at him. She puts her big fuzzy hands on her big fuzzy hips and shakes her giant padded ass. You can’t catch me.
He tries, though. A mad fish is a fast fish. He’s practically on her little bob of a tail already. Heidi weaves and dodges down the ice. Her footwork is amazing, but the fish has a longer stride. When he closes in on her, the asshole uses one of his skates to sweep her legs out from under her.
All my blood stops circulating as he reaches down and picks her up in his flipper arms. I’m on my feet again.
Heidi flails while the crowd roars.
“Sit down!” Trevi hisses to me. “You set foot on that ice and they’ll penalize the team and also fine you.”
I can’t even breathe as the fish staggers forward and hurls Heidi into the hockey net. I’m already over the wall and skating toward them even as her head bounces off the surface of the ice.
“Goal!” yells some asshole fan.
The next three seconds are a blur. I reach the goal crease as the fish is celebrating and Heidi is trying to scramble to her feet. But she’s caught in the net.