Chapter 1 #2
And I’m no different, though my score is respectable. The winner is Joel Russo, who’s a fucking machine, easily accomplishing that challenge and winning the entire competition, including the million dollars.
I do a brief TV interview before leaving the ice, then participate in the post-skills competition presser. “This was a lot of fun,” I say. “I hope the fans enjoyed it.”
Finally, I’m done. And Nikki Sullivan is long gone, I’m sure.
Damn.
Changing out of our jerseys in the locker room, the other guys and I make plans to meet in another one of the many bars in the hotel. I definitely need a beer or three after that.
I walk into the sports bar with Wyatt Bell, Baz Chadha, who Bell knows from junior hockey, and Jimmy Jones.
We check out the place and head to the bar first. As with everywhere in Vegas, slot machines are lined up at the front but we pass by them.
Several big screens are playing sporting events, including what appears to be a replay of the skills competition we just finished. I shake my head.
With drinks in hand, we move to the low wall separating the bar from the seating area. And I see her. Nikki.
She’s standing at the end of the bar, the center of attention in a group of guys. Hockey players. The guys who weren’t in the skills competition. Assholes.
I lift my chin and jerk my head toward them, and Bell and Chadha follow me over to join the group. I’m not missing this chance.
Tonight she’s wearing jeans again, with thick-soled black boots, and a graphic T-shirt with what appears to be a picture of Debbie Harry on it.
Her long dark brown hair shines in the lights of the bar and her smile glows.
The guys are all gathered around her like she’s a fire in the middle of the Alaskan tundra.
“When I went to Australia for the first time, I was so jet-lagged I was hallucinating,” she tells everyone.
“I woke up from a nap and asked my manager why the hotel room was full of hamsters. He was, what the fuck? I kept insisting there were hamsters playing little musical instruments until finally I realized how bonkers I sounded, and I said, what am I talking about? And he said, I have no idea… but then, I usually don’t. ”
Everyone cracks up laughing and I grin. Her face is animated when she talks, and I can’t stop watching the way her full lips form words. Gorgeous and funny. Wow.
“Hey!” She sees me and Bell. “There’s my team! Part of my team, anyway. Hi, Bellsy! Hi, Smitty!”
“Hey,” Bell says, then introduces her to Chadha.
“That happened to me too after they gave me corticosteroids when I was injured,” I tell her. “I didn’t react well to them. I saw dinosaurs. Little pink and blue dinosaurs. Everywhere. They kept telling me I was gonna be okay.”
Nikki laughs delightedly. “Little dinosaurs! I love it.”
My chest inflates as I grin back at her. Fuck yeah. I made her laugh. I’m probably immortal now.
“How could they give you steroids?” she asks. “Isn’t that illegal for athletes?”
“Those are anabolic steroids. They enhance performance. This was corticosteroids. They’re used to treat inflammation. They’re okay. I mean, they’re legal. Obviously they weren’t okay for me since I was tripping balls.”
She laughs again. “What kind of injury did you have?”
I sense that the others aren’t impressed with the fact that she’s keeping the conversation with me going. I sidle closer to her and Luke Burrows from the Bears reluctantly shifts out of my way. Good man. “I had a torn meniscus. Knee.”
She nods and inches closer to me. “Bummer. Is it okay now?”
“Yeah. All good.” I think I’m tripping balls right now. Her attention is making me as high as the Stratosphere Tower here in Vegas.
“Hockey players are tough.”
“We are. The toughest.”
“Have you ever played hurt?”
“All the time.” I smile. “Not anything crazy though. One of my teammates finished a game with a broken fibula. Another guy had a broken hand.” I shake my head.
“They’re crazy to play through that. My brother had broken ribs once and kept playing. It’s kind of a stupid culture.”
I lift an eyebrow. “And I thought you were a fan.”
Her slow smile makes my groin tighten. “I am a fan. I can still see what’s wrong with the sport, though.”
Now both my eyebrows go up. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Like fighting.”
“Phhht. That’s part of the game.”
“You’d get arrested for punching someone off the ice.”
“But note that we don’t, when it’s on the ice.”
She smiles as if she’s enjoying this. “Toxic masculinity.”
“Oh, please. We’re all modern guys now.”
“But you play hurt rather than admit to a weakness. It’s that toughness thing.”
Okay, she’s got me there. I already knew that, but this is fun.
“The whole sport is toxic masculinity. Violence, dominance, emotional illiteracy, sexual entitlement, and hostility to women.”
“Whoa. I see why you say that. But…” I stop.
A sly grin pulls at her pretty lips. “But… not all hockey players?”
“You got me.” My smile matches hers. “But you know that, don’t you?”
“I do.” She lifts one shoulder. “And you didn’t actually say it. You knew better.”
I’ll take that. “Yeah. I know that women don’t think all men are rapists or whatever. When they talk about, um… what was it?… sexual entitlement, violence, hostility to women… they’re talking about the men who are the problem.”
Interest sparks in her eyes.
Somehow everyone around us has fucked off and we’re standing alone at a high-top table. My gaze drops to her drink, which is empty. “Hey, you need another drink.” I hold up mine. “Me, too. Come on.”
She gives me a long look, then pushes away from the table she’s leaning on. I drop behind her to follow her to the bar. I shamelessly take advantage of being behind her to check out her ass, which is round and tight.
At the bar, I get the attention of one of the servers. “What are you having?” I ask Nikki.
“Whiskey sour.”
I order that and another beer for me, then turn back to her. “So do you want to lecture me about rape culture in hockey?”
“Not really.” Her lips pinch together briefly. “I know it exists, but it’s not a fun topic.”
“True. Before we change the subject, though, just know that I hate it, too.”
She eyes me. “Okay. And also, know that I really am a hockey fan. I love the sport.”
“Me, too.”
We share a brief bonding moment and then our drinks arrive.
We pick them up and turn away from the bar.
“I really am a fan of yours,” I tell her.
Those thick-soled boots make her a little taller but she’s pretty small.
I’m only six-one—“only,” I know, average height of NHL players is six-one, but a lot of players are bigger than that—and she’s about ten inches shorter than me.
“You weren’t just flattering me?”
“I’ll flatter you all night long.”
Her long eyelashes flutter.
“But not in an insincere way,” I hasten to add. “In a genuine way. Like, you’re a great singer. I like how your music has actual instruments…”
She smiles.
“And there’s real emotion in your voice. I think it shows your personality. And you’re really, really beautiful.”
Her chin dips and her lashes lower. Cute. But she must get compliments all the time.
“Your voice is amazing. I love that song, ‘You’re My World.’”
“Yeah? Thanks.”
“And ‘Time for Scars.’ That’s great, too. Different. I like the punk influence.”
“Yeah.” She beams.
“All your music is great.”
She looks genuinely pleased. “Thank you.”
“Tell me how you got into performing.”
She sips her drink. “I loved music my whole life. I loved Rory Wright. She was my idol as a kid, she’s amazing.
I started writing songs when I was a kid, and my parents thought I was pretty good so they made me take a bunch of music lessons—piano, guitar, composition.
When I was about fifteen I started releasing songs on SoundCloud.
One of my songs caught the attention of Realm Records—they’re an imprint of Sony—and I signed a contract with them and released an album.
” She wrinkles her nose. “It didn’t do all that great. ”
“How can that be?”
She chuckles. “I know, right? I should have been a massive success right out of the gate.”
“Definitely.”
“Well, it doesn’t always work like that.” Her mouth twists in a way that looks pained. “I took some time away to work on new songs and do some voice coaching. My second album did much better.”
“That must have been hard.”
She gives a tiny nod. “It was.” She pauses as if unsure whether to go on. “I almost quit.”
I watch her expressive face and nod. “I get that.”
“Were there times you wanted to quit hockey?”
“Yeah.” I think back to what happened when I was eighteen. I thought my hockey career was done. But I don’t like talking about that, because it’s a downer. “But it worked out.”
“Yeah, it did.”
“My family encouraged me,” I say truthfully.
“Family’s important.”
“It is.” I take a gulp of my drink and eye her over the rim. “If I said I’d like to score on you tonight, would you think I was being too forward?”
She laughs out loud. “Cute.”
I take her hand and tug her along with me as I head toward the exit of the bar.
“Um… where are we going?” she asks, although she’s not resisting.
“Somewhere quieter.”