Overnight Sensation(52)

“Wow, fancy.”

“It’s going to help me with the volume.” She hands me a plate with a slice of melon on it. And yet she manages not to make eye contact.

“What’s your team job this week?” Silas asks.

“Ice crew at the practice facility. There’s a tournament for the Adaptive Hockey League.”

“Oh, cool,” I say, just to make conversation. The adaptive league is pretty neat, though. The Bruisers lend out our ice when we’re out of town so that disabled athletes can train.

“It’ll keep me off the streets,” Heidi says to the bottom of her coffee mug.

An awkward silence follows. I fill it with memories of last night. Heidi clutching me and kissing me like the world is ending. She’s standing at the counter with her back to me. But it’s like I’ve developed x-ray vision. I can picture her naked way too easily now.

Hopefully that will fade? I doubt it.

“I just have one thing to say, and then I’ll never mention this again,” Silas says.

Both Heidi and I turn to him with matching wary expressions.

“Castro, when it’s my birthday night next month, you really don’t have to go all out like that.”

Heidi groans, and I throw a balled-up napkin at him.

“No really.” He laughs. “Just get me a nice bottle of scotch.”

“I think I hear your jet leaving,” Heidi grumbles.

Still laughing, Silas gets out of his chair. He puts his plate and mug into the dishwasher, then stops in front of Heidi. “Be well. And thank you in advance for the errands.”

“My pleasure.”

He leans forward and pulls her into a quick hug, which she returns.

I have a sudden and very unreasonable urge to yank him off her.

“Cheerio!” Silas says. “Coming, Castro? I’ll hold the elevator.”

“Yeah, totally.” I wait for him to leave the room, then I take a step closer to Heidi. “You good?”

“Absolutely,” she says, turning the faucet on.

I shut it off again.

“What did you do that for?” She turns her chin and gives me a grumpy look.

“Hey.” I catch her chin in my hand. “I just want to say—” What do I want to say? “—you’re amazing.”

Her blue eyes dip. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself. Now go on. There might be traffic.”

“Right.” I lean forward and give her a peck on the lips. She tastes minty, and I’d rather have another kiss than walk away.

But her blue eyes bore into mine, and she’s wondering what the hell I’m doing.

That makes two of us. So I give her cheekbone a single stroke with my thumb, and then leave the kitchen. I grab my phone and my suitcase and head for the door.

“Wait!” Heidi comes trotting out of the kitchen with a little paper bag. “I almost forgot to give this to you.”

“What’s that?”

“Your sandwich. Now go! Beat Chicago.” She presses the bag into my hand and makes a shooing motion.

“Dude, you coming?” Silas calls from the elevator bank.

I’m not, because I’m staring at the bag in my hand. “Peanut butter and…”

“Strawberry jam,” she says. “I didn’t mess it up, jeez. Go on.”

“Thanks.” I snap out of it and head for the elevators.





19





Jason


Fourteen hours later I’m sitting on the visitors’ bench gulping water as the third period winds down. We’re up two to one. The Chicago crowd is starting to thin in the cheap seats.

Our opponents’ fans are giving up. It’s a beautiful sight.

Even more beautiful was the assist I got during the second period. A quick pass to Drake, who shot a flying saucer into the upstairs corner of the net.

No lie—I celebrated even harder than him. “Baby, I’m back!” I’d said to Silas who’d held the bench door open for me when I’d returned. “Don’t know why it’s working tonight, but it is.” Finally. I feel lighter and faster than I have since switching to right wing.

Silas had given me a smirk. “Maybe it was the unexpected night of—”

“Shut it,” I’d growled.

But it’s clear that my teammates are relieved. They need me back in the saddle, because we’re down a veteran player. We had to leave Bayer behind in New York so he could have another knee surgery. I’m on a line tonight with the rookie Drake and with Bryce Campeau, a recent trade from Montreal.

Trevi and his boys look good out there, though. They’re running Chicago up and down the ice, looking for another scoring opportunity against our opponent’s defense.

In ten minutes we’re notching this game into the winner’s column. Or I’ll die trying.

When coach puts his thumb on my shoulder blade to let me know I’m up next, I vault over the wall without hesitation. I don’t even hesitate in finding my new position on the right wall. Somehow it’s stopped feeling wrong. Not only that, but passing from a dominant arm that’s closer to center ice is finally starting to make sense.

Campeau sends me the puck, and I flick it to Drake without having to cross my body first. And then—as the Chicago defenseman moves to get into Drake’s way—a beautiful opening presents itself. Drake sees it, too, and in the next microsecond he returns the puck to me.