Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(76)

“You’re…wow.” For a long moment I can’t even speak. I’m just so overwhelmed with excitement and gratitude. “Can I help?” I squeak. “I mean—you can totally say no. But there will be so much work to do. And I have so many ideas. So many!” I’m starting to sound a little manic, but I can’t hold it back. “This could be big for women’s hockey.”

Rebecca reaches over and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Yes, you can help. Breathe, Bess. This is going to be a slow build.”

“Okay.” I take a breath. “Where will they play? The stadium is too big a venue.”

“True, and we don’t own it,” Becca says. “The women will play their games at the practice facility. All I have to do is add more seating behind the nets on each end, and we’ll have a capacity of twelve hundred people.”

“Oh,” I say slowly. “So the cost of hosting those games will ultimately be pretty low.”

“Right!” Becca agrees. “All the big costs are for personnel. Creating jobs in Brooklyn is a good idea, anyway. You can help me figure out who to hire.”

“You need a female GM,” I say immediately. “Someone who understands both hockey and business. And a coach, but those are easier to find. There’s a lot of under-appreciated coaching talent in women’s college hockey.”

“This is going to be so much fun,” Georgia gushes.

“It is! The world needs women’s hockey. And now I think I need a cookie.”

“Go.” Georgia shoos me toward the counter.

When I come back, Georgia and Becca have moved on. They’re discussing the finer points of appetizers. “Mini quiche can be great or terrible.” Georgia’s voice is full of gravity. “Pigs in blankets are more reliable.”

“Good point.” Becca makes a note.

“Planning a party?” I ask, sitting down with my cup of coffee and my cookie.

“Yes we are,” Becca says. “We’re hosting a little shindig at the hotel after the Game that Shall Not Be Named.”

“Don’t call it a victory party,” Georgia warns me. “We’re superstitious.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I promise them.

“Are you flying to Texas to see it all go down?” Becca sketches a pig in a blanket into her planner.

“Maybe,” I hedge. “I’m supposed to head out to a juniors tournament the following day. But I haven’t bought any tickets yet.”

“I think you should come with us,” Georgia decides. “And Tank would agree with me. This game is going to be harder on him than anyone.”

“It is,” I agree. “I’m considering it.”

I’ve been considering it all week. But there’s a wrinkle I can’t talk about. The Dallas game happens to fall in the midpoint of my cycle. And I’m honestly not sure whether that’s a point in favor of making the trip, or not.

Am I really crazy enough to be that woman? The one who secretly tracks my fertility to try to give my boyfriend the baby he thought he could never have? Is that true love? Or just plain cuckoo?

Tank told me he can’t go there again. And I told him he didn’t have to. When I said that I’d love him no matter what, I meant it.

But a little voice in my head keeps asking: What if it just happened? What if you could have it all?

What if. What if. What if…

“Why don’t you fly out with Nate and me on the Gulfstream?” Becca says suddenly. “We could brainstorm ideas for the women’s team all the way to Texas. And you could leave for your tournament the day after the game.”

“Okay,” I say quickly. Too quickly. Becca just handed me the excuse I needed. A free trip on her private jet. And an opportunity to help women’s hockey.

This girl is going to Dallas.

This girl feels a little funny about it.





Thirty-One





Queso is Magic





Tank





“You nervous?” Silas Kelly asks me as we get off the jet in Dallas.

“Nah.” After almost a decade in the Show, a game is only a game, right? It’s just Tuesday.

But maybe I spoke too soon. The minute the bus pulls up at the stadium, my confidence starts to veer a little sideways. Suiting up in the visitors’ locker room feels wrong. And sitting on the other bench will just seem freaky.

Not that I’m letting it show. During the pregame rituals, I ignore all the strangeness and try to concentrate. I tape up my stick, and then tape it up again. Nothing to see here.

There’s tension in the room. Castro sits across from me, chewing his lucky peanut butter sandwich like it’s life or death. Silas is—as usual—stretching his body on the floor, getting limber to mind the goal. But he’s also eyeing us, one by one, wondering if we’re ready.

Coach walks by, grabbing my shoulder pad and giving it a hard squeeze. “Don’t let him rile you up.”

“I won’t,” I grunt. There’s no need to ask who he means. All week Palacio has been talking smack on Twitter—making predictions, and making sure the whole world knows that my production is down this year. He’s all about the bullshit mind games.