Destiny on Ice (Boys of Winter #1)(19)

But I can’t, seeing as I still have no idea who the new client is. And though the driver wouldn’t have that info, he can definitely let me know where exactly we’re going. If I have that info, then maybe I can guess what type of celebrity I’ll be working with—actor, musician, or professional athlete.

Reaching for a bottle of water from a cooler in the back, I casually ask, “So where is this meeting taking place?”

“At Desert Sports Complex,” the driver replies.

Hmm, sports. An athlete, it would appear. Oh joy, like I haven’t had enough of them after this morning.

“There’s no baseball team out here, is there?” I cautiously inquire, holding my breath.

Not that the jackass from this morning would play for a team in Vegas. He’s clearly a Minneapolis player since he lives there. Still, I’d hate to run into him at a game or at a professional baseball function.

I breathe a sigh of relief when the driver replies, “No, there’s no professional baseball team in Las Vegas.”

“Thank God,” I murmur. And then I ask, “What professional teams do play at the sports complex?”

“Why, the Las Vegas Wolves play there.” The driver beams like a proud fan.

Wait, I’ve think I’ve heard of that team.

“Ah,” I murmur as it dawns on me. “They’re a hockey team, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sooo, I must be assigned to a player. Too bad I don’t follow the sport more closely. If I did I might have a clue as to who their troubled players are.

The driver continues to make small talk as we drive to our destination. I don’t catch everything he says, but I do perk up when he excitedly announces, “The Wolves’ new season is starting up real soon. Every September I try to take my son to at least one of their preseason scrimmages.”

I don’t have children of my own, not yet, but I hope to some day. Still, I’m always awed by the love that’s so clear when parents speak of their kids. My driver seems to be no exception.

I pick up on the longing in his voice when he sighs and adds, “I’m hoping someday I can take my boy to a regular season game. For now, though, those tickets are way out of my price range.”

“How old is your son?” I ask softly as I make a note to give him a really great tip.

“Twelve,” he replies.

“That’s a pretty fun age.”

He nods and agrees. “Yeah, it is. He’s old enough to understand the game and how it’s played.”

I laugh and tell the driver, “I could probably use a few lessons from your son.”

“Not much of a hockey fan, huh?”

“Not really,” I admit. “I know team names and stuff, but not much beyond that.”

We fall into a comfortable silence, but then I realize this man, a fan, might have some valuable insight into who I’ll be working with.

“So,” I begin, “living out in the east, I don’t hear much about the Wolves. Are they any good?”

He shrugs. “They’re okay. Been to the playoffs a couple times, but they never seem to do much once they get there. It’s crazy too. As a fan, you expect more. With that OPS line of theirs, you’d think they’d go deep in the playoffs every year.” He sighs. “Oh well, what can you do? Just hope they turn it around this season, I guess.”

OPS line, what the hell is that? I have no clue. And I don’t care to ask. But I would like to know, “Have you ever heard any rumors of troubled players on their team?”

The driver throws a disapproving glance back at me, probably wondering why I’d ask such a thing. “No, ma’am,” he finally replies.

“Oh, okay.”

After a minute, he clears his throat and asks, “Where you from back east?”

“Oh. I’m from a small town named Butler. It’s a little north of Pittsburgh. But I live in Chicago currently.”

“Ah, so does that make you a Hawks fan? Or do you still root for the Penguins?”

“Well, like I said, I’m not a huge hockey fan. But I’ll always be a hometown girl at heart. If I were to root for a team, it’d definitely be the Pens.”

We reach our destination and our hockey talk comes to an end. But my brush with hockey is about to go much further.





Shit, Not You Again





After the crazy—though very much intriguing—girl leaves, I head to the bathroom for that aspirin.

When I stop to take a piss, aspirin dissolving on my tongue, I discover a pair of lacy red panties on the floor in front of the toilet.

“What the…?”

These must be the panties Psycho Girl was going on and on about. Figures she left them on the bathroom floor all on her own.

“What a crazy girl?” I say, chuckling as I drain the monster.

Later, after a refreshing shower and a few more aspirin, I pack for my impending trip to Vegas. When I remember that I need to throw a toothbrush in my bag, I head back to the bathroom. The panties are still balled up on the floor. That red scrap of silk and lace is the only reminder I have that this morning really happened. It’s already starting to feel like a faraway dream.

I don’t know why I do what I do next, except maybe just to hang onto something tangible so I don’t forget Psycho Girl. In any case, I grab the undies and throw them in my bag.