Good Boy (WAGs #1)(85)

He puts two strong hands on my shoulders, and squeezes. “I hear you. But you make Blake happy, right? He goes to work feeling good. And sixteen thousand fans appreciate that right now. I’m pretty pumped up when my kids score a goal, and I didn’t shoot it myself.”

“You’re their coach,” I point out.

“Is it really that different?”

This idea gives me a happy rush. Or maybe it’s just the booze. “Jamester, I’m going down to the stands to say hello to Mama Riley for a minute, while I’m still sober.” I burp. “Sober-ish.”

“Good plan.” He pulls something out of his pocket. “Want these?” He hands me a pair of disposable earplugs.

I press them away. “Nice thought, but she’d be offended.”

Downstairs, I discover that my WAGS ID is like a master key to the arena. Security guards wave me through doors and nobody blinks when I make my way to the reserved seating behind the home-team bench. I spot Blake’s parents. Or rather, Blake’s mother. She’s on her feet, of course, shouting loud enough to make everyone around her wince.

“MOW ’EM DOWN, BLAKEY! CUT THAT LAWN!”

Her head swivels abruptly when she notices me. “Jessica! GET OVER HERE!”

Two seconds later, I’m enveloped in one of her mama bear hugs and sporting at least two broken ribs when she finally releases me.

“Did you see our boy’s goal?” she exclaims. “THING OF BEAUTY!”

“It was pretty awesome,” I agree. “I just came down to say hello.” I smile at Blake’s dad. “Hey, Mr. Riley.”

“Papa,” he grunts. “You call me Papa.”

“Ah, okay. Papa.”

“You want to sit with us for the second period?” Mama Riley offers.

“No, I promised the WAGS I’d sit upstairs tonight. Next time,” I promise.

Her gaze drifts back to the ice, where the final two minutes of play are unfolding. Toronto’s still up by one, but Dallas has regrouped and they’re rushing our net. Sanders, one of the d-men, is too slow to stop the attack, and the Dallas forward unleashes a slapshot that makes the crowd give a collective gasp. And then…ping. The puck bounces away.

“SAY HI TO THE POST, DALLAS! NO GOAL!”

Mama Riley’s shriek nearly shatters my eardrums. “No goal!” I echo in a normal human volume.

Blake’s mother frowns. “Jessica. What was that?”

“What was what?”

“Is that how you root for our boys? Where’s the enthusiasm? WHERE’S THE HEART?”

“Uh.” I shift awkwardly. “I’m not much of a screamer.” And in the back of my mind, I hear Blake’s cocky voice wholeheartedly disagreeing with that.

“Unacceptable,” she says firmly. “You’re a Riley now, Jessica. And you know what Rileys are?”

Insane?

“LOUD,” she finishes. “So what’ll it be, Jessie? Are you a soft-spoken, not-cheering-from-your-heart fan, or are you a Riley?”

A slow smile stretches my mouth. “I’m a Riley.”

“Good. Now let’s make these last thirty seconds count.”

And for the next thirty seconds, I stand in the aisle with Mama Riley, and the two of us scream, shriek, yell and shout until my throat is raw and my ears are ringing.

After the buzzer goes off, I take a much-needed sip from the water bottle she hands me and wonder if my larynx might be permanently damaged. But then all thoughts of my broken vocal cords disappear, because Blake suddenly appears in front of the glass at the home bench. Grinning widely, he taps the plexi with one gloved hand, waving for me to come down.

I’m slightly self-conscious as I hurry down the steps. Blake is making his way toward the entrance of the chute, still gesturing for me to follow. There are dozens of people leaning over the railings at each side of the tunnel, screaming and cheering and snapping pics of the players as they lumber past. I elbow my way through the mob until I’m in the front of pack, just as Blake reaches me.

His helmet is tucked under his arm, sweaty hair stuck to his forehead, and he’s pretty much a giant because he’s still wearing his skates. He leans in until his mouth is practically glued to my ear.

“Blew you a kiss after the goal,” he whispers. “Did ya see?”

“I saw.” I give his damp cheek a quick peck, which triggers several high-pitched shrieks from the females in our vicinity. Sounds of betrayal rather than approval. “Uh-oh,” I whisper back. “I might start a riot.”

He tips his head and grins ruefully. “Yeah, you might wanna head back to the WAGS box. The Blake Brigade is kinda possessive.”

“The Blake Brigade? Seriously?” I roll my eyes. “You named your groupies?”

“They named themselves,” he protests. “They’ve got a website and everything.”

I sigh. Of course they do.

“Anyway, gotta go. Just wanted to tell you how hot you look.” My boyfriend leans in and smacks a very loud kiss on my lips, which I’m pretty sure is captured by every news camera and cell phone in the rink.

Instinctively I look up at the jumbotron. Sure enough, the screen is frozen on a shot of Blake kissing me. THE KISSCAM STARTS NOW, FANS, it screams.

“Cheezus,” I mutter. My five siblings are probably laughing their asses off right now.