Overnight Sensation(67)

My lack of self-confidence is a new problem for me, and I know I’m not supposed to let it get me down. If this beautiful (though slightly bossy) man thinks we should be together, then I’m going to give it a spin. On my terms, of course.

But first, I have a night of work to get through. I slip out of bed, letting my man get his rest, and head for the shower.





An hour later Jason stumbles into the kitchen, his hair crazy and his eyes half-mast. “Hey,” he grunts. “Naps always—” He yawns.

“—turn you into a zombie?” I finish. “Sit.” When he plunks himself into a chair, I set a mug of coffee in front of him.

He cups the mug as if it were a treasure, then raises his sleepy brown eyes to me. “I knew I picked the right girl.”

“Is that all it takes?” Moving to stand behind him, I run a hand through his messy hair. Then I put my hands on his shoulders and squeeze.

Jason lets out a happy moan.

I work his shoulder muscles for a few seconds. “Now drink that coffee. We need you sharp for Tampa.”

He lifts a hand to catch mine. “Heidi, can I ask you a weird favor?”

“Sure. Shoot.”

“Would you make my sandwich again?”

“Oh.” I take two steps toward the counter and pick up the paper bag I’ve set there. “It’s already done.”

His eyes widen when I set it on the table. “You’re amazing.”

“Thank you. Beat Tampa, and then I’ll allow you to show your complete appreciation.” I don’t point out that it took me three minutes to make that sandwich. If he thinks a little PBJ makes me Supergirl, so be it.

“I have a good feeling about this game,” he says, gulping the coffee. “You’re going to be there, right?”

“Unfortunately, I am.” My job tonight is a pain in the backside. But the smile he gives me might even be worth it.





Jason reports to the arena at four, while I have to show up at five. I’m working on the ice-maintenance crew again, but the job looks a whole lot different on game night. And not in a good way.

“This won’t fit me,” I tell Mr. Randy Cavanaugh, the head of the ice crew. My friend the walrus isn’t in charge on game night, and I already miss him.

Randy is a surlier boss. He wears a goatee and a permanent scowl. And he just handed me a ridiculous uniform.

“This is extra-small,” I explain. “I’m a small or a medium, depending on the fit.”

“Shoulda got here at the beginning of the season,” he says. “Put it on. You got seven minutes until doors.”

“But…”

“No buts.” He sneers. “This is bullshit anyway. Tryouts were three months ago. You’re not even trained. Can’t believe I gotta have you on my crew just ’cause some boss thinks you’re a hot piece.”

My mouth flies open, but no words come out. His crudeness has stunned me into silence. But even if it hadn’t, I don’t ever tell my short-term bosses who I am, or why I’m suddenly assigned to them for the week. Nothing good will come of letting this asshole know that my daddy is in charge of hockey, or that I’m taking notes on everything I see.

So I force my mouth closed, turn around, and retreat into the tiny dressing room, where five other women are all trying to touch up their makeup in an undersized mirror. “Is he always such a charmer?” I ask the room full of strangers.

“Sometimes he’s worse,” says one of them. “You’re the new girl? Did he fire Amber?”

“I sure hope not,” I say, tugging my jeans off. “I’m just a temp. I might not last the night if this bra top won’t fit me.”

“They stretch,” another woman promises. “I’m Lydia, hon. Yell if you need help.”

“Thanks,” I gasp, pulling up the tiny skirt they gave me. It has a built-in panty brief. So as long as the seams don’t split apart, I won’t be flashing Brooklyn. But Lord, I can’t even breathe when I pull it up.

“Wow, you poor thing,” Lydia says, eyeing me in the mirror. “You can probably order the next size up online. There’s an option for rush shipping, but it costs forty dollars.”

“Great,” I grumble, stretching the bra top to try to pull it down over my head. “Did y’all have to buy your own uniforms, too? He said he was taking it out of my pay.”

“Of course,” another girl chirps. “This is practically a charity gig when you count up the unpaid time and the uniform. Nobody tells you this shit when you try out. They’re all—think of the exposure you’ll get!”

They’re right about the exposure. Ten minutes later my whole body is repeatedly exposed to the chilly nighttime air as the arena doors open and shut in front of me. I’ve just learned that being a Bruisers Ice Girl is a literal description. My cleavage is quickly turning to ice.

The Ice Girls’ main job is to skate across the rink during the game, removing accumulated snow. But we won’t get to lace up our skates for another ninety minutes. First we have to stand here mostly naked and greet the guests as they arrive.

I brace myself as the doors open again, admitting a group of red-faced men and another blast of arctic air.

“Smile,” grunts Cavanaugh from somewhere behind me.