Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
CHANCE
I think I might be losing my mind. Or maybe I’m more stressed about tomorrow’s game than I thought.
Because I mean it when I tell April that I like seeing my name on her.
I like it a lot.
She laughs loudly, as if I told the funniest joke, and I let her laugh because it covers the fact that I’m not laughing.
I’m not even smiling.
I like seeing my name on her.
What does that mean?
That I want to own her?
No, not that.
It’s just…
I have no idea. Nothing is making sense.
She kissed me on the cheek and my brain froze.
Every time I touch her, my heart palpitates.
I’m either in need of a cardiologist or something about this woman is messing with me.
I find a parking spot amongst all the news vans and April hops out of the car. “I’ll check if the cost is clear and then hike back to my car. Thanks for the save.”
“April!” I stride after her. “I have something to give you too.”
She reels away like I’m a creep with a van offering candy to children. “That’s not code for ‘you’re going to kiss me’, is it? I just said that earlier because Evan was watching.”
As usual, a grin tugs at my mouth. This woman is so charming that it’s painful.
“Whoa.” April’s attention slips away from me and lands on a bright blue convertible sitting low on the concrete.
“I guess you found it first,” I mutter.
“This is…”
“A ’57 Bel Air. My dad handed me the keys the night I got drafted to the league.” Dipping into my pocket, I let those very keys dangle in front of her nose.
April’s green eyes widen until they take up half of her face. “No.”
“It took a while to arrange someone to drive it out here.”
“No.”
“Dad gave the car to me in name, but it’s still pretty much his baby and he didn’t trust just anyone to drive it down.”
“Noooo.”
I chuckle. “Are you okay?”
“No. I mean yes. I mean… is this really a ’57?” She walks around the vehicle in a slow circle.
The Bel Air sits proudly, blue paint shining and chrome sparkling. Dad kept it in pristine condition.
April’s excited green eyes latch onto me and my chest puffs out like a peacock showing off all its feathers. Seeing her flip over the car makes me ten times happier than scoring a trick shot off the grid.
“Check out the engine.” I point. “And it’s in the hood this time. I double-checked.”
“Don’t tell me it’s the original 283 engine. Just don’t .”
“Okay.” I shrug. “I won’t… because I honestly have no idea what a 283 engine is.”
April pops the hood, leans over and lets loose a high pitched squeal that has every dog in the nearby neighborhood barking.
“This is insane. I never… this is insane!”
“Is it?” I peer at the engine.
It’s nice… I guess. But it’s not ‘lose my mind’ nice.
“Look at that.” She points to the hub of tubes, batteries and metal. “You can tell someone invested a ton here. They took care to restore the original with a custom rebuild. I mean, look at that. All the wiring is brand new. Do you know how long that must have taken?”
“I…” I run my fingers through my hair. “I mean, yeah. If you put it that way… probably a long time.”
She scrunches her nose. “You have no idea why this is so cool, do you?”
“It costs a lot of money, so by that metric alone, it’s really, really cool,” I offer.
April laughs and it’s the most musical, joy filled, addictive sound I’ve ever heard. I want to say something else that’ll make her laugh but, I’m interrupted when a journalist walks into the parking lot and spots us.
Instantly, I’m on guard. “April, get in the car.”
“What? Why?”
The journalist pulls out his phone and fast-walks in our direction. At the same time, two news vans barge into the parking lot.
There’s no time to argue. I slip both hands around April’s waist and hoist her up until her feet are off the ground.
She wiggles. “Chance, what are you doing? Put me down!”
“Unlock the car,” I say urgently.
“What?”
“Now!”
The Bel Air beeps and I yank open the door with my free hand, shoving April not-so-gently inside. She lands with a thump and an ‘ow’!
“Are you okay?”
“Have you lost your mind?” April crawls into the driver’s seat and threatens me with a fist. “I should—gah!”
The rest of her threat is drowned out by the stampede of journalists rushing around the car. Cameras flash. Questions fly at me from both ends. Reporters trap me against the Bel Air.
“Chance, does it feel like a step down to join the Lucky Strikers after playing in the majors?”
“Have you given up on getting back to the league?”
“ Are you aware that Tom Sethberg is making a comeback?”
I try to shield April with my body, but it’s hard to do since the Bel Air’s driver side door is wide open. Once the reporters notice that April is nearby, their attention fastens on her. I’ve seen vultures pick at carcasses with more mercy.
“Is that your girlfriend?”
“How long have you been dating?”
“Is this really a publicity stunt?”
“April, close the door,” I order.
“What about you?” She frowns.
I bend over. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not running away, Chance. Besides, isn’t this a part of our agreement?”
She’s right. Being my girlfriend does come with being in the spotlight, but I’m not shoving her at these vultures to sell the story. Not. Gonna. Happen.
More questions get hurled at us as the reporters press in closer.
Thankfully, I hear Max’s voice. He’s brought security guards and they’re beating a path straight for me.
“Now’s your chance.” I jut my chin at the exits and shut April’s door.
She starts the car. Good girl.
I step back and give her room. So do the journalists. At the end of the day, this is just a job for them and they don’t want to get run over for a story.
Max pulls me behind him and two security guards flank me on either side.
“You good, Chance?” Max asks, eyes ablaze with the fierce protectiveness that made our college buddies call him the ‘Good Samaritan’.
If anyone ever needed a sober driver, a wingman or a place to crash for the night, Max was the one to turn to.
I wait until April’s driven off and then I nod. “Yeah, I’m good now.”
With the help of the security guys, Max escorts me inside the arena. The whisk of blades against the ice and the thuck of hockey sticks fighting for the puck fills the air.
The team is on the ice, gearing up for our friendly scrimmage which will be filmed by the local news team after the press conference.
Gunner catches my eye and gives me a death glare before turning his attention back to the game and chasing down the puck.
“I already talked to Gunner and the rest of them,” Max says, noticing my stare. “But I need to make this clear to you too. No matter what brought us here, we’re here for a reason. We’re a team. Once you hit that ice, you leave it all behind.”
“If you truly believed we could leave it all behind, you wouldn’t have told us to train separately,” I grumble.
Max sighs heavily. “I didn’t like it either, but the coach insisted it would cause less friction.”
I frown at the man yelling plays at the wingers. “Coach Danvers, right? Where’d he come from?”
“Oh, you know.” Max scratches the top of his head. “A city.”
“What city?”
Max looks into the exposed beams in the ceiling.
“He’s from Sethberg’s city, isn’t he?”
Max coughs. “I’m sure he’ll be fair.”
Neither of us actually believes that.
“I’m working on finding a new coach but, for right now, Danvers fits the budget and the timeline.”
“He’s spineless. And old school. I memorized his plays in three nights. The guy won’t take risks on the ice, has poor substitutions and?—”
Max tightens his lips. “We can’t go into a season without a coach. Not if we want any chance of reaching the play-offs. More than just your future is on the line here, Chance.”
I grit my teeth. In all honesty, Max didn’t just scoop me out of the dung I dropped in because he wanted to be a good friend. He’s hoping I can earn my keep.
“I get it, Max. I do. But for my reputation not to get any worse and for you to turn this team into a worthwhile investment, we need to actually win some games.”
He shakes off the worried look and pastes on a giant smile. “It’ll all work out. Besides,” he hits my back. “I have The Clairvoyant on my side. He’s worth ten Coach Danvers. Now, go change. You need to hurry if we’re going to start that press conference on time.”
I stalk away from Max, my head whirring.
He’s a loyal guy. It’s been that way since college, but if Max is letting his players and a biased coach call the plays for the Lucky Strikers…
We’re going to need more than just my skills on the ice.
We’re going to need a miracle.