Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(4)

“L.A. can’t capitalize,” Leo grumbles.

But they do! Dallas gives up a goal twenty-seven seconds into the penalty period. And then Dallas has a meltdown, tripping an L.A. player right in front of the ref and drawing a second penalty.

The room goes silent. All eyes are finally on the screen. Forty seconds later, L.A.’s Gaborova scores again, tying up the game.

The Slovak player pumps his fist, and my living room erupts with excitement.

“Told you they could do it!” Leo says, earning a punch from me. “Ow. Kidding!”

“Boys!” Georgia says. “Look.”

The camera pans wide, and there’s my girl again. Now she’s wearing a black jersey and laughing. She takes her phone from the woman sitting beside her, and taps something on the screen.

“This is her tweet!” Heidi says a moment later. “‘Apparently I’m magic,’ it says. ‘Who knew?’ Now her feed is going to be full of Dallas fans begging her to change back into the other jersey.”

“She can’t!” O’Doul yells at the screen. “This is finally getting interesting.”

Heidi nudges me with her elbow. “Look, Silas. She thanked you.”

I grab that phone so fast that I hear laughter.

@SilasKellyGoalie Thank you for the jersey. It seems to be working.

I type back quickly. @DelilahSpark Had to be done. If you could leave it on until the end of the game, it would be much appreciated.

“Oh, my heart!” Heidi coos. “Silas is flirting with a rock star on Twitter.”

“L.A. still probably can’t win,” O’Doul says, just to infuriate me. “They’ve switched up the lines to rest Myerson. That tendon of his isn’t gonna magically heal before the buzzer.”

Unfortunately, he has a point.

The next forty minutes are brutal. When there’s just five minutes left—and still a tie score—I’m as tense and exhausted as if I’d played the game myself.

I don’t know much about hockey, tweets Delilah Spark during the Dallas time out. But five minutes isn’t long, right? What happens if they tie?

“The poor girl doesn’t know the rules,” Heidi says. “She needs private hockey instruction from you, Silas.”

“Yeah,” Jason says with an evil grin. “That’s what Silas wants to give her. Private instruction in hockey.” He takes the phone out of his girlfriend’s hands.

And here’s where I make a big mistake. I look away, watching the faceoff instead of watching Jason. It isn’t until after the play travels down the ice and into a corner that I notice he’s typing something on my phone.

“Hey!” I lunge for it, but he holds it out of my way. “What are you doing?”

“I’m helping you,” Jason says, cocking an eyebrow. “This is what you should say next—‘Let’s make a bet, Delilah. If L.A. scores in the next five minutes, you’ll go out on a date with me.’”

“No,” I say calmly, measuring the short distance between me and my phone. The only problem is that Heidi’s in the way. I need to get it back without clocking her in the struggle.

“This is a great idea,” Jason says, his grin devilish. “You’ll thank me later.”

“Dude, yes!” Leo agrees. “Let’s vote. Who wants Silas to ask Delilah out?”

Everyone in the whole goddamn room raises his hand.

“Not funny,” I say through clenched teeth. I glance away, but it’s just a fake-out. Quickly, I turn back toward Jason as I shoot to my feet.

It should have worked, but when you tussle with professional athletes, anything can happen. Jason and I are well-matched for both strength and sharp reflexes. My hand darts toward the phone, but he anticipates me, his fingers closing around the screen.

Where the SEND button is.

“Did you just hit Send?” I demand.

“I… Um… Let’s see.” Jason looks at the phone in his hand and lets out a nervous laugh. “I’m afraid to look.”

“Oh dear,” Heidi whispers.

I lunge for the phone.





Three Years Earlier





Silas





It’s four o’clock, and there’s nobody sitting at the bar. The outdoor tables will be filled to the gills all day and night, and the dining room will start its dinner rush in another ninety minutes.

But since it’s summertime, the dimly lit bar area will be dead until later. I use the quiet time wisely—cutting up lemon and lime wedges before the happy-hour rush. Restocking the beer and wine.

Oh, and kicking myself for recent disastrous events in Ontario.

When I was still in college, Toronto chose me as their second-round draft pick. Early-round draft picks always find a spot—even if it’s on the team’s minor league affiliate. This past May I graduated. Which means that four weeks ago I was living the dream—skating with the pros at a Toronto training camp.

My agent told me their contract offer was forthcoming. This was my moment. I was ready to conquer the league.

Or not, as it turns out. The pressure got to me, and I choked in Ontario.

The contract never arrived. Toronto’s new goalie lineup did not include me—either at the NHL level or on the affiliate team. And they released me, unsigned.