Overnight Sensation(53)

In less time than it takes to say “mine, suckers!” I snatch it off the ice and send it sailing toward the goalie’s five-hole. Right between his legs.

Boom! The lamp lights for me.

Thank you, Jesus. I pump my stick in the air and give a yell as the stadium DJ blasts “Crazy Train,” an upbeat riff meant to keep Chicago’s fans from making a mutual suicide pact.

My relief is complete. We set up for the next faceoff, and even though I’ve been skating all night and every inch of my body is drenched in sweat, I feel light.

Finally. I’ve proved it. I can still bring the magic. I only need to do it seventy-five more times this season. For the first time in a month, that seems possible.





After the game, the locker room is a happy place. We blast our win song and argue about how we’re going to celebrate.

“Ribs,” Drake demands.

“Chicago-style pizza,” Trevi argues.

“Nah, it’s overrated,” I complain as I towel off from the shower. “I’m with Drake. Let’s eat barbecue.”

“Gotta let the night’s scorers decide,” Beacon says, pulling a shirt on. “Give these boys what they need. Plus, the ribs joint is closer to the hotel, so…”

“Ladies,” says a snarky female voice. “Congratulations.”

I look over my shoulder and spot Miranda Wager—my least favorite reporter. Funny how I don’t hate the sight of her quite so much after a win. “Be right with you,” I say, because my ass is bare, and I don’t want to be that rude athlete who waves his dick in her face like it’s a dare.

“Take your time,” she says. “I was just hoping you’d comment on your comeback.”

I pull on a pair of underwear and then my trousers. Only then do I turn around and dignify the question. “My comeback?”

“It’s been weeks since you had any points.”

I consider my response carefully. A particular awesome, sexy woman made my sandwich this morning… I smile, just picturing Heidi. But I still need to answer the question. “Obviously I just needed some ice time to figure out how to play right wing. You know the ten-thousand-hour rule? Mastering new skills is a lengthy process.”

“I’m aware,” Miranda says. “But ten thousand hours? That would take four hundred and seventeen days, if you didn’t sleep.”

My irritation flares at this handy demonstration of mental math. But I remind myself of what Heidi said—how everyone is hard on Miranda. And even though I don’t trust this reporter, I dial down my attitude. “I don’t know how many hours it’s been. But just think how unstoppable I’m gonna be after my ten-thousandth hour?”

She actually rolls her eyes as she scribbles on her notebook. “Thank you for that humble quote.”

“It’s entirely my pleasure.” I give her a big, friendly smile. We stare each other down for a second.

She blinks first. “There’s a young woman in the hallway looking for you,” she says. “Have a nice night.” Then, thankfully, she turns away to sink her reporter’s talons into Beacon.

Good riddance.

I finish dressing quickly. A young woman waiting for me? I don’t know who that could be. As I tuck in my shirt, my traitorous subconscious leaps right to the place it shouldn’t. What if somehow it’s Heidi in the hallway? Yay!

Thanks, brain. Or—let’s be honest—my brain isn’t the only body part that’s kept Heidi in mind all day. I can’t stop hearing her voice in my head. Specifically, her voice moaning, yes, yes, harder.

Oh, the irony. I’d told Heidi we couldn’t sleep together because she’d only want more. And I’m the one who’s still hot and bothered, playing last night on replay. She’s gotten under my skin. The sex was spectacular.

But also? I like her. The idea of her waiting for me outside is strangely appealing. A horrible idea, but appealing nonetheless.

Either way, I owe her a phone call. In the first place, we’re friends. And friends don’t bang friends without a check-in afterwards. And I need to thank her for the sandwich. When the puck went into the net twenty minutes ago, my teammates all screamed my name. It had been a while since I’d heard them do that.

I tie my shoes, grab my bag, and then head for the door to see who’s outside. Maybe there’s nobody there, and Miranda Wager was just fucking with me.

Or maybe it’s somebody I hooked up with some other time in Chicago? That would be awkward. The reason I only have sex with randoms is that it avoids entanglement. That’s worked just fine for me for years.

Yanking the locker room door open, I look right and left. “Jason!” somebody screeches. And I smile immediately, because I’d know that screech anywhere. I’ve been hearing it for most of my life.

“Silli!” I yell, grabbing my little sister into a hug and lifting her off her feet. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“I didn’t know! Put me down, and I’ll explain.”

When I set Silvia onto her feet, she punches me in the arm. “Ow! What’s that for?”

“Making me look bad. Our nephew loves that bear you sent for his birthday. I bought him books.”

“Serves you right. Come out for dinner—we’re all getting ribs. I’ll buy.”