Overnight Sensation(27)

“Nice color for ya,” Bayer pipes up.

I bend over and pat Bayer’s ankles with zero finesse. I do not, however, kneel at his feet with my face near his crotch. That’s a lesson they won’t have to teach me twice.

“That was twenty-seven seconds,” Dunston complains as Bayer departs with a grumpy Jason Castro.

“I’ll do better, sir.” I hold back my sigh as the next player steps up.

“Security first.”

“Yessir.”





9





Jason


There are just three minutes left in tonight’s preseason scrimmage. That’s a relief, because I’m dog-tired.

“Cross-body vision,” the assistant coach yammers at me as he leans over me on the bench. “Just as soon as you adjust your line of sight, you’ll be all set.”

“Cross-body vision,” I mumble so he thinks I’m paying attention.

“Get ready,” he says. “Your line is up.”

“Born ready,” I say. But it’s a total lie. My muscles are screaming, although that happens at the end of every game. My problem tonight is that my brain is fried, too. Last season I was able to relax into the rhythm of the game. But there’s been no relaxing since Coach Worthington stunned me by asking me to change positions.

Correction—he didn’t ask. The morning after the Hamptons golf tournament he just clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Think you can play right wing?”

I believe my clever response was, “Who, me?” Because I’m a lefty shooter who plays left wing, and always has.

“You’re playing right wing now,” Coach had said. “Starting today. Let’s get out there.”

After two weeks of bumbling practices, I’m still unsettled.

But now is no time to panic. I stand up on command and vault over the wall as Leo Trevi returns to the bench. We used to be on a line together, but now we can’t be anymore, because we play the same position.

Coach has me with Bayer and the new kid, Drake. To say that I’m disoriented is putting it mildly. I still launch myself into the game, accepting a pass from our D-man, Beringer, but the pass is coming into the wrong side of my body, of course.

Everything is just wrong wrong wrong.

I find an opening and get the pass off to Bayer before the opposing D-man can squish me. But the transfer feels less smooth than I’m used to.

It’s a long three minutes of trying to attack from the wrong side of the room. Driving a car in England on the wrong side of the road would probably be easier than this.

When the buzzer goes off, I’m full of relief. And—damn it—that’s not now I want to feel at the end of a game.

I skate past our rivals from across the river with a scowl on my face, shaking hands and good-game-good-game-good-gaming it as fast as I can.

When that’s done, I follow Silas off the ice. He yanks off the goalie’s helmet and gives me a giant, sweaty smile. “They don’t stand a chance in regular-season play.”

“Nice job tonight,” I grunt. Silas only let in one goal, and we won it 2-1.

No thanks to me.

“You look about as happy as a mushroom cloud.”

“I’ll come around,” I bark. Silas is my buddy, but it’s not my habit to let people know when I’m suffering. Ten months ago when I started on my scoring streak, the sports news described me as an “overnight sensation.”

Somehow I don’t think I’m going to be seeing those words in print for a while.

The locker room is the usual mayhem. Someone is blasting the Beastie Boys’ “No Sleep Till Brooklyn”—our win song. The head coach is congratulating Silas on his game. Everybody is pumped up that our up-and-coming goalie is finding his feet. They’ll use him more this year.

Ten bucks says Coach won’t seek me out for any back pats today, though.

I chuck my helmet onto its shelf and strip off my sweater. I’m shucking off my pads when I hear a voice behind me.

It’s Miranda Wager, a journalist I despise. And behind her hovers my favorite publicist, Georgia.

“Evening, Mr. Castro,” Miranda chirps. “Can I have a word?”

“Certainly,” I say, trying to keep my cool. But she’s just about the last person I want to talk to right now.

“Congratulations on your win,” she says. It’s just a ploy to soften me up.

“Thanks.” I brace myself for worse.

“What’s with the new suitcase?” She smirks at me. “I like your style.”

I glance down and remember Heidi’s suitcase. I’m sure as hell not mentioning her name to a reporter. “That’s my favorite color. Got a problem with that?”

“Nope,” the reporter says, her slick smile still in place.

Behind her, Georgia mouths the word relax.

As if.

“How’s the preseason feel for you so far?” the reporter asks.

“I love the preseason,” I say, because that used to be true. “It’s a great way to get some early action without having to travel. And the fans love the cheaper tickets and the relaxed atmosphere.”

I’m apparently the only one who’s not relaxed.

“But what about you,” she presses, and I want to kick something. “How do you feel about Coach Worthington asking you to switch to right wing?”