Good Boy (WAGs #1)(64)

“Puck drops in five!” Katie says. “Who needs a fresh drink?”

I do. “Save my seat,” I order my brother.

My daiquiri is topped up just as Wes and Blake take the ice together on the first line. It’s a blast watching the game in this room full of hardcore cheerleaders. When Lukoczik gets the puck on a breakaway, Estrella starts screaming. He shoots, but the goalie scoops it into his glove.

“I love you anyway!” Estrella shouts, and everyone laughs.

I enjoy myself immensely. Since Katie’s TV is the size of a double-decker bus, Blake seems nearly life-size every time he skates past me. My cheering for him is silent, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t heartfelt. Every time he charges down the ice I get a thrill.

The rum in my drink has made me a little breathless and woozy. I find myself hoping Blake texts me again tonight. Or calls. His voice in my ear would sound pretty good right about now.

When the first period ends, the camera follows the Toronto players as they exit the bench, down the chute. The lens zooms in on a pair of young women banging on the plexi, screaming like Beatles fans on the Ed Sullivan show. They’re pressing signs to the glass, and I can read them all too well. FUTURE HOCKEY WIVES! and MARRY ME, BLAKE RILEY.

Under that? A phone number.

That cools me off a tad. For the first time since I heard Blake’s awful story, I feel a pang of empathy for his ex. People are crazy. That marriage proposal on the poster is probably only seventy-five percent kidding.

My brother opens a new beer for himself. “You’re good to stay, right?” he asks me. “This is more hockey than you usually sit through in a week.”

“Oh, I’m having fun.”

The second period is tense and fast. There’s a fight between Lemming and one of the Dallas forwards. The pitch of the WAGS’ shrieks is deafening until Lemming ends up on top.

“Aren’t you glad Wes is not a fighter?” I whisper to my brother.

“Guess so. His face will stay pretty this way.”

Drops of blood stain the ice when the refs separate the two players. Shit. Hockey is dangerous. I wonder how the WAGS sleep at night.

After the next face-off, Blake and Wes make a new attack. They cross the puck between them so many times I lose count. Both players get shots on goal, but it’s Wes’s that goes in. My brother leaps to his feet with a shout of victory.

Katie runs over to hug him. “Jamie has to do a shot! It’s a rule!”

“Why?” I ask.

He grins at me. “Spouse of the scoring player drinks. That’s why I’m hung over the morning after a game with the WAGS.”

Katie swiftly appears with a bottle of tequila and a shot glass.

On the screen they call the point for Wes and the assist for Blake. Blake does his usual celly. Then he looks into the camera and winks, blowing a kiss. He clearly mouths the words, Hi, baby!

“Whoa!” Estrella hoots. “Did you see that?”

“What the fuck?” someone else adds.

“What did I miss?” Katie shrieks, handing a shot and a lime wedge to Jamie.

“Blake Riley throwing kisses! Does anyone know for who?”

“Really?” Katie looks at the tequila bottle in her hand. “I haven’t poured a shot for a Blake Riley goal in years. Anyone have the dirt?”

A strawberry-blonde pipes up from the corner of a leather sectional sofa the size of Lake Ontario. “I heard Blake didn’t go to the strip club last night, and when they asked him why, he said his girlfriend wouldn’t appreciate it.”

Startled gasps reverberate through the room, and I feel heat creep up my neck. Suddenly, my fingernails become very interesting. It’s been a while since I had a manicure…

I can feel one gaze boring into me, and it’s coming from beside me on the beanbag chair. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Jamie asks, his voice low.

“Me?” I squeak, picking at a cuticle. “That tequila has gone to your head, baby bro.”

The game resumes, thank God. My brother’s focus shifts elsewhere. And since Wes has a great night on the ice, Jamie is sloppy drunk by the time we get into separate cabs to go home.

I lie in my bed and wonder if Blake’s interest in dating me has survived another night.

It’s eleven thirty when my phone chirps. How’s my girl?

The words warm me all the way through.

Drunk and sleepy, I tell him. Nice assist, hot stuff.

The phone rings, and I answer it immediately. “You watched again?” he says, his voice making me smile.

“Yeah,” I answer, shy all of a sudden. “There was some rum involved.”

He laughs. “Did Jamie drag you over to Katie Hewitt’s?”

“He did.”

“Did you do a shot for my assist?”

Uh-oh. “I didn’t,” I admit.

There’s a brief silence, and I expect him to give me a hard time about it. “That’s okay,” he says cheerfully. “You can make it up to me by coming to lunch with my family this Sunday.”

“Blake,” I warn. “Didn’t you tell your mother we broke up?”

“Nope. Because we didn’t.”

“Is this another you-need-a-buffer-with-your-ex situation?” I ask warily.