Overnight Sensation(69)

Feeling angry and unruly, I snatch the puck and drag it behind my body, attempting to deke the D-man. And it works. For a split second his gaze lags on the wrong side. And then I fire the puck like a missile through the smallest gap between players that I’ve ever hit in my life.

And, fuck me, but it works! The lamp lights, and for a half second I’m just stunned. But there it is—a one on the scoreboard where there had been a donut before. I scored.

A slow smile breaks across my face, and I turn to try to find Heidi or the sidelines. She’s nowhere to be seen, but Drake and Campeau charge me for a celly while the DJ blasts the Beastie Boys.

First goal of the night, ladies! It belongs to me.

When I finally go back to the bench, the asswipe yells to me, “Not bad for a skinny shit!”

“Kiss my skinny ass!” I holler in the general vicinity of his seat.

Then I turn around and tune him out for the rest of the game.





We win 3-2 during a sloppy overtime period. But it still counts. I’m dog-tired when it’s done, but I’m still smiling.

The glow lasts until I come out of the showers to find my least favorite reporter waiting for me.

“How does it feel to be back?” Miranda Wager asks.

“It feels like I never left,” I fire back. Then I turn my back and drop my towel.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” she asks my naked ass.

“Pretty much.”

“Fine. You want to give me a better quote?”

“Not really. That flying saucer of a goal speaks for itself, don’t you think?”

“Okay, modest one. Do you have any comment about the racist fan who heckled you tonight?”

“Racist? Did I miss something?”

“He called you ‘brutha.’”

Rolling my eyes, I pull up my boxers. Then I turn around and shrug. “Is that a thing? I’m sorry, but I didn’t have any opinion about him at all, other than he was irritatingly loud and I was in a grumpy mood. It faded the second I got the sweetest goal of my life. Then I forgot all about him.”

She eyes me sullenly. I’m sure her job is more fun when the athletes take her bait. But she can peddle it elsewhere tonight. “Good game,” she says eventually. “Have fun with your parents.”

“My parents?” What bullshit is she spinning now?

“They’re in the hallway. You look exactly like your dad.” She walks away to bust someone else’s balls.

Good Lord, but that woman is nosy. Before I make it out of the locker room, two more journalists corral me. But all these dudes want to talk about is team readiness, my awesome goal, and our next game against Philadelphia. They don’t try to psychoanalyze me.

When I finally sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and walk out, the first people I see are my mom and dad. “Hey!” I shout. “Look who it is!”

“Sweetheart!” Mom shrieks. I get a bracing hug. “Great goal! Like threading a needle!”

“Thank you for noticing.” My parents might not love hockey, but they do pay attention.

“Good work, kid,” my dad says. “Sorry we didn’t call.”

“Eh, Silvia warned me that you were planning a surprise attack.”

“We got cheap airfare. Two hundred bucks!” Mom gushes. She loves a bargain. And since I always send my comp seats for home games to my parents, they don’t really have to plan ahead.

“No hotel, though,” my dad says with an apologetic smile. “Hope that’s okay.”

“No problem,” I say immediately. That’s why I bought the pull-out couch in the first place. “Where’s your luggage?”

“Right here,” he says, showing me a backpack. “We travel light.”

“Great. Okay.” I’m wrapping my head around this change of plans. Heidi is going to have to wrap hers around it, too. And that’s going to cause a stir. “Let’s get out of here. But first I have to find someone.”

I pull out my phone and text Heidi. Still here? Where can I find you?

She doesn’t respond right away. “Hungry?” I ask my parents.

Mom shakes her head. “We ate dinner before the game.” Of course they did. Mom would rather lose a limb than pay twelve bucks for an overpriced stadium cheeseburger.

“Wouldn’t turn down a beer, though,” my father says, proving that in spite of our differences, I’m probably not adopted.

“Okay. We could go to the tavern or have a beer at home. Let me see what Heidi wants to do.”

My mother’s eyes grow as wide as saucers. “Who is Heidi? Jason Lucas Castro—do you have a girlfriend?” Her voice gets a little higher with every word.

And that’s when I notice that Miranda Wager has left the locker room and is leaning against the wall, watching us.

“No,” I say immediately. “A friend.” I’ll be damned if I give a reporter any fodder to write about my personal life.

Mom frowns and Dad chuckles.

“Let’s go,” I say, heading toward the players’ exit.

My phone chimes with a text as soon as we get outside. I’m by the front doors, she says. I have five more minutes on the clock and have to grab my things.

“Mind if we walk around the stadium?” I ask.