22. Sara #2
When we reach one hundred, Tyler stops in front of me and offers me a hand.
I take it and let him haul me to my feet.
Once I’m steady on the ice, he skates backward, dipping his hand as if he’s my knight in a shining hockey uniform, and then Brooks hops up with ease, like he isn’t covered in a thick layer of pads and wearing knives on his feet.
“Thanks, Pumpkin.” Brooks hauls me into his arms and I lace my fingers around his neck, wrapping my legs around his hips.
It’s a challenge because of his bulky goalie uniform, but I make it work and hold on for dear life as he skates in a circle, then beelines for the boards.
Once he’s deposited me beside Lennox, he pulls back and winks. “Enjoy the game.”
“Get me that shutout,” I taunt, blowing him a kiss.
Then he’s gone, skating back to where he left his stick and helmet. He scoops them up and continues on in the direction of the goalie coach, who’s waiting for him at the net.
“Holy shit. That was hot,” Lennox says beside me.
“Agreed,” I murmur, still focused on my fake boyfriend. After that interaction, I don’t ever want to look away.
Aiden skates by then, and beside me, Lennox straightens.
A wide smile takes over her face, and she waves.
The happy-go-lucky brother of my fake boyfriend, a man I’ve never seen so much as frown, is like a deer in headlights.
Eyes wide and jaw slack, he barrels into the glass with his arms and legs spread like a starfish.
The arena erupts in sharp gasps and shouts. Gavin is up and over the boards in seconds, followed by the team’s medical staff.
Holding my breath, I look from Lennox, who’s covering her mouth with one hand, to the ice, where Aiden is sprawled out flat on his back and being tended to.
When he’s finally on his feet with his hands out in front of him, as if assuring the small group surrounding him that he’s fine and they should back off, I finally breathe.
“Holy shit. You literally took that man’s breath away.”
Lennox is silent. No quippy comeback or sassy of course I did .
I’ve never seen her so out of it. Nervous, I cling to her hand and squeeze. “He’s okay, babe. The guys get slammed into the glass all the time.”
She nods woodenly. “Yeah, it’s just…” She licks her lips and follows his every move. “It’s been a while.”
She isn’t talking about how long it’s been since she’s seen a hockey game. No, those simple words have a different meaning entirely. Eventually, she’ll tell me. And I have a feeling this is only the beginning.
“Holy shit, I think they’re gonna get a?—”
I slap a hand over Lennox’s mouth, and every one of the women in the box with us hisses.
If there’s one rule in hockey, it’s that you don’t mention the shutout before it’s happened. Hockey players aren’t the only people who are superstitious about the game.
There are two minutes left in the final period, and as Lennox almost pointed out, Brooks hasn’t let a single goal in.
I broke out in a cold sweat on our way to the WAG box tonight.
Before now, I’ve only ever dealt with these women when there were PR issues or in passing at family events.
Our interactions have never been anything but cordial, but they’ve been few and far between and surface level.
Tonight, I’ve spent hours surrounded by them, and the idea that they might not accept me as one of them makes nausea roll in my stomach.
Not that I truly am one of them, but still, I want them to like me.
It’s a silly personality flaw of mine. I want to be liked.
“And that’s what we call a hat trick.” McGreevey’s daughter Emma Cate sits up straight a few seats down as the crowd goes wild.
Moments ago, War was skating down the ice at lightning speed, keeping tight control of the puck.
Florida’s defensemen charged after him, and like the moves were choreographed, War scooped up the puck and launched it to Aiden.
Without missing a beat, he slammed into the defensemen, laying him out, then immediately blocked the other defensemen, all without slowing, so that Aiden had a clear shot.
The move was so fluid the goalie had no hope of stopping the goal.
Leaning forward, I plant my elbows on my knees and look past Emma Cate’s mom to where she’s sitting. “The toss is the hat trick?”
Her little sister Riley shakes her head. “No. Three goals by the Leprechaun.”
Lennox’s laugh is bubbly. “I can’t believe they still call him that.”
McGreevey’s wife, Becca, smiles over her shoulder at us. “He’s certainly Boston’s lucky charm.”
With a soft hum, Lennox keeps her attention locked on Aiden. He’s currently taking his victory lap.
“There’s still another minute,” Emma Cate reminds me.
I bite my thumb and will my nerves to settle.
Am I that obvious? The women surrounding me figured out real quick that I didn’t know all that much about the game.
When my secret was out, they were nothing but kind, rather than judgmental like I’d expected.
From that moment, the girls jumped in to describe the intricacies of each play using terms an average person like me can actually understand.
Coulda used them when I started this job.
Florida is flying down the ice in front of us. The urge to close my eyes before their player takes the shot is almost overpowering.
I have no idea how Brooks stays so calm under the pressure when he’s tasked with keeping that tiny puck from making its way into that huge net, all while men with sticks and sharp objects strapped to their feet fly at him from all directions.
Parker and McGreevey are both defending the net, but Florida’s center dodges them left and right until he’s charging toward Brooks.
McGreevey goes for the puck but misses. Then it’s Parker’s turn to try.
But the center pushes Parker into Brooks, and they both go down, leaving space for the puck to soar past them and into the back of the net.
The smaller Florida crowd loses it, cheering and clapping and stomping like mad, and the goal is added to the score.
“That’s bullshit!” I scream along with the crowd, my blood pressure skyrocketing. “Hey, ref. Where’s the call?”
Brooks gets up on his skates, and like he can hear me, his head snaps in my direction. Then he points at me, heaves his shoulders up and lets them fall in an exaggerated shrug.
“Sar, look.” Lennox slaps my arm, and when I turn, she’s pointing to the Jumbotron hanging over the rink.
The screen is split in two, and on one side, the camera is focused in on Brooks, who’s still turned toward me.
My image is plastered on the other side.
My face goes so hot, my flush is visible on the screen.
I bite my lip and tip my chin, but quickly look back up and own it. Sliding to the edge of my seat, I blow Brooks a kiss and give him a broad smile. “You did great, thirteen!” I holler. “The refs are blind!”
“Oh my God. You guys are so adorable,” Becca says. She leans closer and grasps my wrist. Then she peers over her shoulder at her daughters. When she turns back to me, she tips in even farther. “Have you surprised him in nothing but the jersey yet?”
My heart stutters in my chest. “Um, no. Is that a thing?”
She nods and swats the leg of the woman sitting directly behind her. “Sara is asking if the jersey with nothing else is a thing.”
Lennox smirks. “I remember those days.”
I nudge her, my interest totally piqued. “If the way Aiden slammed into the glass when he saw you is anything to go by, then he remembers them too.”
She throws her head back and laughs. Down near the team, she went rigid beside me, but in the last couple of hours, she’s loosened up. This Lennox is the woman I know inside and out.
“You coming out tonight?”
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
The Bolts win the game four to one. Despite narrowly missing the shutout, I’m excited to see Brooks. Maybe a little too excited.
Last night was probably a fluke, a one-time insane situation that he has no plans to repeat.
Yet butterflies flutter violently in my belly as Lennox and I make our way toward the team room.
This sensation isn’t lust, even if I wish it were.
No, what’s happening inside me, low in my core and behind my ribs, is something I’ve never felt.
While a stream of nerves runs through my veins, it’s overpowered by the lightness and excitement powering through me at just the thought of seeing Brooks.
Of imagining the sheepish smile he’ll give me.
Our reunion will have to wait, because now that the game is over, I have work to do. I leave Lennox with McGreevey’s wife in the team room, then head toward the door so I can ensure the guys make it over to where the press is waiting.
I’m halfway across the space when Jill barrels into the room, a whirlwind of drama, her blond hair swinging, all caked-on makeup and too-tight clothing. “Oh my God. Where’s Aiden?”
As Aiden’s longtime girlfriend, I would expect her to know that after a game, he heads straight to the locker room to shower, then over to talk to the press. It will be a while before he’s here.
Resigned to dealing with her since I seem to be the only staff member nearby, I approach. “Need something, Jill?”
Her shoulders relax when she notices me. “Thank God it’s you. I need to see Aiden.”
“You know the drill,” I say, keeping my tone friendly, even if I want to roll my eyes. “He has to shower and talk to the press.”
“He has a concussion! They never should have let him play. Did you see how badly he hit the glass during warm-ups? He was probably distracted because I kicked him out. I rushed over here as soon as I saw it.”
Tipping to one side so I can peer around her, I check the clock on the wall. “It’s after nine. Warm-ups were at six.”
She huffs. “It took me a while to get here.”
“You live five minutes from the arena.”
She huffs, and I swear she lifts her foot like she’s going to stomp it, but then she straightens and fists her hands at her sides. “Are you going to go get him for me or not?”
This time I can’t fight the eye roll. With a subtle nod, I stalk out the door and stride toward the locker room.
I do my best to stay out of this space, especially after a game when there’s a good chance of seeing someone’s ass.
The guys pay little attention to who walks around.
They just go about their business because there are women wandering through at all times.
Trainers and support staff and such. Despite how hard I try to avoid it, I end up here pretty frequently.
When I step inside, I cover my eyes, hoping not to get an eyeful of anybody’s junk. “Aiden, your girlfriend is here.”
Rather than Aiden, Tyler is the one who replies. “Saint, your girlfriend is here.”
I’ve still got a hand covering my face, so my heart leaps into my throat when I’m suddenly airborne.
There’s a strong arm banded around me, then I’m tossed over a meaty bare shoulder.
I have to pull my hand away to brace myself on the muscular back as the man carrying me runs around the locker room like a loon.
I squeeze my eyes shut and squeal. “Get me out of here!”
“War!” Brooks’s tone is pure anger.
Tyler must be the one carting me around in a fireman’s carry. The warning does no good. In fact, it only makes the right winger move faster.
On instinct and out of pure self-preservation, I open my eyes. I need to prepare myself in case Tyler falls. Not that it would do me a whole lot of good. If he goes down, I don’t see any way to save myself from going down with him.
With my cheek pressed against him, I try to make sense of the spinning room.
Every person I lay eyes on is wearing nothing but a towel.
It’s disconcerting, but not nearly as bothersome as the towel scratching against my skin.
Because if I’m not mistaken, it’s the only barrier between my face and War’s ass.
“Tyler Warren, I am going to tell on you!”
I ball my hands into fists and bang against his ass, but he only laughs louder.
Bracing my palms against his lower back.
I turn to get a look at the other side of the room.
The first thing I see is Brooks, brows pulled low and mouth set in a snarl, darting for us.
He grips his towel with one hand and reaches for me with the other.
My stomach flips, and not just because I’m upside down. No, it flips because I’m envisioning that towel falling to the floor. The view from here would be spectacular .
“I got him, Sar!” Aiden lunges forward.
As he does, Tyler darts left, and instead of grabbing Tyler’s arm, Aiden fists his towel.
Lungs seizing, I watch as he holds the towel up in front of him. A bolt of terror zaps me in that moment, because as War moves, my head bounces off his hairy ass. “My head is on his ass. My head is on his ass!”
The room goes silent, all but a single ridiculously loud snort, and not a single person comes to my aid.
Not even Brooks. In fact, when I push up, making sure my hands are planted on War’s back and not his ass, one man has the back of his hand thrown over his mouth, stifling laughter. Brooks is losing it.
My damn fake boyfriend is trying—and failing—to stop from laughing. The rest of the guys are still silent, eyes wide as they look from him to me and back again.
“Put. Me. Down,” I grind out with a pinch to War’s ass.
And as if my face bouncing off War’s stinky rear end wasn’t bad enough, when I’m upright again, the first thing I see is Seb. He’s in a dark suit, hair slicked back, with his arms folded across his chest, glowering at me.
Fuck my life.