5. Chapter Five #2
The puck glided back and forth, tick-tick-ticking against my mallet.
College had introduced me to the joys of competitive gaming, and the community room had become my second home.
Analytics major by day, air hockey champion by night.
My opponents always did that subtle double-take—this sunny girl in her polka-dot swing dress and kitten heels, twirling her way to victory.
A smile painted on my lips, murder in my heart.
The thrill of proving them wrong, of watching their dismissive grins fade with each point I scored?
Better than acing Advanced Statistical Theory.
But Shep matched me shot for shot. His style defied my calculations—raw power one moment, liquid grace the next.
Unpredictable angles. Adaptive strategy.
My fingertips tightened on the mallet—the least hammer-looking mallet I'd ever seen, but the little round stryker fit in my hand just right.
My heart raced as we battled for the seventh—the winning—point.
The score hung dead even when a swarm of bros descended on our table, their beer-soaked enthusiasm shattering my concentration. The winning shot slipped past my guard. My shoulders sank.
“Shep Landon!”
A man thrust his hand toward Shep, a pilsner sloshing precariously in his opposite. Judging from his sway, it wasn’t his first. His buddies crowded in, faces glowing with star-struck awe.
“Crushed that slump, bro! Bad ass game last night.”
“We were at the arena, man. Best player on the ice!”
Shep handled the attention with easy grace, all handshakes and selfie smiles.
My presence faded into friendly wallpaper—a role I’d perfected over years of being one of the few women in hockey spaces.
But watching him with his fans stirred something unexpected.
No rehearsed lines or polished deflections.
Just genuine warmth. If I could have gotten back that point, though, that would have made me feel even more magnanimous.
My fingers fiddled with my necklace as I waited them out. Tomorrow marked my official start with the Renegades. My domain would extend from the video room to the bench, to the games themselves. To Shep.
I’d prepared to the best of my ability. I knew Shep’s stats—and all his teammates’—backwards and forwards.
I’d seen last night’s game, too. Seen every goal, every assist, every bone-crunching hit.
The hat trick, the celebratory skate as he picked his trophy from the hundreds of hats thrown onto the ice by fans.
Shep was a fan favorite even on a bad day, but a hat trick after a twelve game drought?
In front of the hometown crowd? Twice as many hats rained down on the ice last night.
I braced my elbows on the high-top, listening in as they congratulated him.
When the conversation drifted toward stats, I perked up.
Stats played a huge role in my work as a video coach.
Recognizing patterns, optimizing lines, and even influencing game strategy.
The head coach called the shots, of course, but today’s coaches listened to the “numbers people”.
Back at Arvon, I’d provided footage to back up the data, demonstrating the story behind the numbers.
One of the fans circling Shep spouted nonsense about plus-minus ratings, mangling the metrics so badly my teeth ached. The analyst in me itched to correct him, to defend my player’s true value with hard data.
My smile brightened to mask the urge. Men with beer-fueled opinions rarely welcomed a lesson in advanced analytics, especially from someone they’d already dismissed as wallpaper. Besides, I had nothing to prove. Not tonight.
But it was too late. One of the guys had noticed my head shake and turned to include me in the conversation. “Sorry, honey. We didn’t mean to interrupt your date.”
I smiled. The smile I reserved for strangers and forced pleasantries, the one that hid the snarky retort lurking right beneath the surface. “No worries, honey. We’re not on a date.”
Shep’s dark brows shot up. Because I’d repeated “honey” back at the stranger or at the denial of our date? Before I could decipher his reaction, he diverted their attention.
“Actually, that stat is misleading. The guys picked up my slack the last few games, so while I may have been on the ice, Zacha and Novak and Hammer and the others deserve all the credit.”
I cocked my head, studying him. Taking in his relaxed expression, the earnestness in his eyes.
He wasn’t spouting a rehearsed PR line. He meant what he said.
The ease with which he deflected praise onto his teammates surprised me.
Shep Landon: the showman, the attention-seeker.
He liked attention, thrived on it. Yet, here he was, sharing the glory.
“Couple more games like last night and you’ll be back in the running for the Hart trophy.”
“You think?” Shep pushed away from the table, extending his hand to the fans. “Guys, it’s been great, but we have a game to play.”
Shep’s fans ambled over to a nearby table. They didn’t even try to hide the fact that they watched us. I guess we’d become their entertainment for the night.
I shrugged off their attention and focused on the task at hand—crushing their hero at air hockey. The last game passed in a lightning round and I couldn’t hold back my victorious whoop when I scored the winning goal.
“Two out of three.” I sashayed around the table to extend my hand toward Shep’s. “Pony up, my friend.”
He patted his pockets, feigning confusion. “Somehow, I don’t seem to have the little guy on me.” A slow, wicked grin spread across his lips. “Maybe we should discuss alternative payment options…”