Turning around is merely instinctual. A pretty blonde waves Riley off, and I glance at the man sitting beside her.
Then, ever so casually, I turn back around, my heart thumping. “Jenny!” I squeak as soon as we’re standing for the national anthem. I risk a whisper into her ear because another occupant of the row right behind us is singing “O Canada” at a volume unmatched by most humans’ lung capacity. “We’re sitting in front of the players’ families. Including one half of Wesmie.”
Jenny’s eyes widen, and I see her sneak a glance back at Jamie Canning, who’s famous for marrying star player Ryan Wesley. “These are incredible seats,” she hisses. “You’d better keep walking that dog, missy. I want to come back next week.”
That’s when I spot Matt Eriksson, and my pulse jumps several notches. He skates out with Wesley and Blake, and the three of them get into position for the face-off. His attention is focused entirely on the puck, a serious expression on his rugged face.
I’m tense as the puck drops, and I don’t even know why. Then they’re off like a shot as Wesley wins the puck and passes to Eriksson. A little shriek of excitement escapes me as I lean forward in my seat.
I am a Toronto girl in her element tonight. Hear me roar. “KILL THEM, MATTY!” I holler.
“Ow!” Jenny complains, covering an ear. “Pace yourself. U2 wasn’t this loud.”
“Sorry.”
“BUT HOCKEY FANS DON’T HOLD BACK!” the woman behind us roars. “GET ’EM BLAKEY! CARVE HIS TURKEY!”
“YEAH!” I belt out. “DROP ’IM LIKE A DRESS ON PROM NIGHT!”
“Wow,” Jenny says, eyes wide. “I knew you were a fan, but I didn’t know—”
The sentence goes unfinished because Toronto charges the net. Wesley passes to Eriksson, who shoots and it’s… My blood stops circulating.
Denied. The Dallas goalie makes a highlight-reel save off the tip of his glove, and a defenseman flicks it away.
“GOOD TRY!” Jenny screams, getting into the fray.
For the next twenty action-packed minutes, we forget everything except the game. The first period is fast and furious. Our boys don’t manage to score, but they’re giving Buffalo a very hard time.
“We have seventeen shots on goal,” Jenny grumbles, draining her beer after the buzzer. “Their goalie must have been to church this morning or something.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I growl, my voice hoarse. “We’re winning tonight. I can just feel it.”
We hit the ladies’ room and then buy two more beers. The kiss cam does its thing, and I don’t watch the jumbotron. Tonight I’m not the girl who got divorced at twenty-seven. Tonight I’m a party girl with coveted seats to the best game on earth.
And for once the universe is with me. We score three times in the second period and twice in the third. Matt Eriksson gets a goal and an assist. I scream my head off for him both times. Buffalo can’t keep up, and the score is 5-2 when there are only three minutes left on the clock.
I’m tired and sweaty as my heroes line up for one more face-off. They know they’re going to bring this victory home, and the whole stadium is excited. “Wow.” I sigh, fanning my flushed face. “This is very invigorating. It’s been over a year since I…”
“Had sex?” Jenny finishes.
“...saw a hockey game in person,” I correct, even though that other thing is also true.
“Whoa!” Jenny says, drawing my attention back to the ice. Naturally my gaze gravitates to my favorite player. “Eriksson’s going to get a penalty for tripping.”
Sure enough, the announcer calls for a two-minute bench minor. And suddenly my celebrity crush is skating right toward me, his handsome face creased with displeasure. I’ve never been so close to him before. The way his broad shoulders move with each stride makes me strangely hungry.
Is it weird to have a shoulder fetish? Get a grip, I tell myself as he sits down. You’re only ogling his padding, anyway. But that just makes me more curious to see what’s under it.
That’s when he turns his head and looks right at me.
“Omigod,” Jenny squeaks.
My thoughts exactly. I’m sort of frozen now. Like one of Mr. Freeze’s victims in those comic books Jackson collects. I can feel myself staring, and it’s possible my jaw is hanging open a little. But those gray eyes! So sexy. This man’s press photos don’t lie.
There’s a scramble at my left as Jenny does something. I don’t look. Still frozen.
But then—I swear to God—a flicker of a smile crosses his sensual mouth before he turns back to watch the action on the ice. And the spell breaks. I turn to Jenny, opening my mouth to say something. She’s holding her sign. No—she’s holding a different sign. “Omigod. What did you do?”
“It’s just a funny little joke,” she says, trying to tuck it back down below her chair.
“Jenny!” I gasp, grabbing her wrist and taking a second look.
HOTTIE IS SINGLE! the sign shouts.
“What... Oh. God. You didn’t!” My whole body flashes with the heat of embarrassment.
She grabs both my wrists with a ninja move. “Breathe, okay? He said you were cute. He calls you Hottie, for heaven’s sake. I just gave him a little push.”
“He’s a client!”
“I don’t care! This is your life, Hailey. The only one you get. The old Hailey was the most confident woman I knew. She was always hustling to get what she wanted. Bring her back, okay? Stop moping around like a kicked puppy and have a fling with the man. I’m begging, here. Even if he gives you a raging case of the flutterstutters, it’s still worth it.”
“The...what?” Jenny likes to invent words, but I’m too shaken up to understand them tonight.
“The nerves. The butterflies. You practically had an aneurysm when he looked at you.”
“I didn’t,” I lie. “Not until I saw your stupid sign.”
Jenny only grins. And then the buzzer sounds, and fifteen thousand fans stand up to cheer.
Well. Even if I die of embarrassment the next time Sniper87’s name appears on my computer screen, at least we beat Buffalo.
Four
Breakfast Emergency
Matt
Hottie is single.
I’m still chuckling to myself the morning after the game. The sign had been funny, but the bright red cheeks of the woman sitting next to the sign-holder? Priceless.
And even while tomato-faced, Hottie had looked gorgeous, even prettier in the flesh than on that security footage. Her eyes are dark blue, the color of the ocean after a storm. They were really nice to look at—well, for the three or so seconds I looked into them. I still can’t believe she even showed up to the game, but with seats like those, she’d have been a fool not to.
Maybe I should ask her to dinner.
I ponder this new idea as I brush my teeth in the master bath. I rinse, spit, and then study my reflection in the mirror. I haven’t shaved in a few days, so I’m rocking dirty-blond scruff. My eyes look a bit bloodshot. And my hair, which I usually keep buzzed, has grown out and is now sticking up in all directions. Everything about my appearance tells me I’m not ready to ask Hottie, let alone any woman, on a damn date.