Overnight Sensation(68)

I want to choke him. But I paste on my charm-school grin instead. “Welcome to the Brooklyn Arena! Drinks are half price until warmups are over.”

“Thanks, honey,” says a beefy guy with a Yankees cap pulled down low on his forehead. “You could join me for a cocktail. And maybe a sausage.” He winks, and his friends crack up.

“Have a great game!” I say through a clenched jaw.

Randy Cavanaugh is watching me, so I resist the urge to tug at my so-called clothing. It’s forty-two degrees outside, and I’m basically dressed in a bikini. My boobs are practically spilling out of the V-neck bra top.

Who designs a bra top with a plunging V-neck? A man, that’s who. Rebecca is going to get a long email about this. With shouty caps and photo illustrations. And if I could somehow hide a recording device in my tiny clothes, I’d give her an earful of this man’s tone every time he speaks to me…

“Smile, damn it,” he snarls behind me.

I hate men who tell women to smile. Would Coach ever order his players to smile? No he would not.

And I hate my father. He thinks he’s teaching me a lesson. I think he’s giving me pneumonia instead. Ice Girls don’t have health insurance, either.

The doors open again, and I grit my teeth.





25





Jason


Tonight I need to bring the magic again. If I score, that makes three games in a row. It’s the poor man’s hat trick.

Also, if I score, I score with the hottest, feistiest woman to cross my path in a long time. I won’t lie. As the first period heats up, it’s helping my motivation.

We miss Bayer, the poor bastard. Drake and Campeau and I are trying to find our rhythm. But I’m skating with two new guys and we don’t have enough history together to make this easy.

My first several shifts are hard fought, but we don’t manage to create any scoring chances. The defenseman who’s guarding me tonight does an excellent job of getting in my way. I’m going to have to punish him for it before the night is through.

Then Tampa scores at the goddamn seven-minute mark. I’m not on the ice when it happens, but it still burns me.

There I am sitting on the bench, chugging water and thinking about my strategy when I spot some familiar blond curls whiz by me at top speed.

Holy shit. Heidi is skating with the Ice Girls tonight.

I don’t usually spare a glance at the Ice Girls. I’m too busy thinking about the game. Not this time, though. My gaze is locked on Heidi as she accelerates toward the far corner.

Can she handle this? The Ice Girls skate fast and in formation. They need to clean the whole rink in two minutes flat. What if Heidi stumbles and goes flying? They’re not even wearing helmets!

As I watch and worry, Heidi steers her shovel in a stylish arc around the boards, her bare legs executing a series of perfect crossovers.

Huh. I guess she can skate. Maybe you’d have to if you grew up in the Pepper household. She never mentioned skating before. But she moves like a natural.

I’m not the only one who’s paying attention, either. Some asshole lets out a deafening cat whistle. He’s a few rows up, behind the plexi, but his voice is so loud I can hear every word. “Nice rack on the new girl. Praying for a wardrobe malfunction, here. Show us your tits!”

I’m on my feet immediately, turning to scan the crowd.

“Take it easy,” Trevi says under his breath.

But I am not easy. And then I spot the guy as he calls out, “Hey, honey! Resurface this!” He grabs his crotch while his buddies laugh.

My fist makes an equally deafening crash against the plexi. “Hey, asshole! Is that how you speak to women?”

Every fan in earshot turns to stare, including the asswipe I’m yelling at. And then he opens his ugly mouth again. “Just do your job, brutha,” he chirps. “How much do they pay you to lose to Tampa?”

I ought to climb over the plexi and flatten him.

“Sit the fuck down,” Coach snarls. “Christ. You know better.”

He’s right, but I still want to slug the guy. Nevertheless, I turn my back and sit.

“He’s not worth it,” Beringer mutters to me.

As if I don’t know that. At the ref’s whistle, our starters skate out for the faceoff. The game wears on. I dig deep on every shift, but I’m struggling.

And that asswipe fan’s voice has some kind of direct line into my ears. Every time he chirps a rude comment, I can hear it. “Get the lead out, fucktard!” he yells when Leo Trevi doesn’t quite get to a puck in time.

It’s the typical bullshit we learn to tune out. But tonight I’m gritting my teeth.

And then the Ice Girls come on again.

This time I’m paying rapt attention as Heidi glides out like a goddess, her chin high, her movements sharp. Her attitude is all business.

“Smile, new girl!” yells some dipshit wearing a goatee and a Bruisers Ice Crew jacket.

Heidi bares her teeth.

“Why so grumpy?” yells the asshole behind me. “I’ll give you something to smile about, baby.”

My growl sounds like a rabid beast’s. That’s when Coach puts his thumb on my shoulder blade.

I leap over the wall as the Ice Girls retreat and head out for the faceoff, my blood pounding in my ears. Campeau wins the puck and flicks it to me.