Chapter 21
Present Day
Once we land, I hand off my luggage to Darcy and take a cab to an arena outside the city, where eight junior teams are battling for a tournament cup.
Then it’s time to navigate the stadium in search of the Legends’ two most senior scouts, Hank Butters and Peter Scorch.
They’re on the road so often that I’ve only met them on Zoom calls.
As I thread through the crowded arena corridor, I feel my cool factor rise exponentially every time someone eyes my Legends Scout ID badge and then looks up to memorize my face.
The stakes couldn’t be higher for these boys—a standout performance here could mean a life-changing draft pick. Although the majority of these elite players will never see the inside of a major league dressing room.
I buy a hot pretzel and make my way into section four, where I find Scorch and Butters. They’re both in their sixties, I guess, with graying hair and the paunch that comes from watching more hockey than you play. But they were both pro players at one point.
“Hi, guys.” I claim my empty seat. “How’s the field looking today?”
“Great,” says Scorch at the same time Butters says, “Miserable.”
I laugh. But after ten minutes of watching hockey with these guys, I realize their bickering is a deeply entrenched habit.
“Would you look at that kid on defense?” Scorch says. “Number 4. He’s got hands like a surgeon.”
“Not a good surgeon,” Butters grumbles. “His Corsi numbers are mediocre at best. We need more players who can drive possession.”
“Aw, come on. The kid’s got instincts. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Your bones said the same thing about that goalie from Saskatchewan last year. And look who was right.”
“Yeah, yeah. You never let me forget that one. But mark my words, Number 4’s going places.”
“Like straight back to the peewee league if he doesn’t improve his zone exits. Look at those turnover numbers!”
My head hurts, and I can’t hear myself think. After the first game, I sneak my noise-canceling earbuds into my ears and scribble away in my notebook. #14, center: Powerful first three strides from standstill. Edges need work. Loses speed on tight turns. Core strength?
I can do this job. I’m good at this job. And if I could only catch a break, people might realize that and be grateful.
Several hours later, though, my hand is cramping from making notes. It’s late, and I’m tired and hungry. ButterScorch, as I’ve taken to thinking of them, left an hour ago already. But they have more job security than I do. So I’ve stayed until the bitter end.
Eventually I shuffle out of the emptying arena and summon an Uber with the corporate card Darcy gave me.
While the car speeds toward the lights of Toronto, my stomach growls. But I’m also burning with curiosity. What happened today when Chase went to the chiropractor?
I pull out my phone to check my messages. There’s a text from Darcy. I’m in the hotel bar! Come find me when you get here. We’re roommates and I have your room key.
On my way now, I reply. Then I follow up with the second most pressing question on my mind. Do they have any food there?
While I wait for an answer, I scroll the rest of the messages on my phone. There’s one from my mother. What’s this video? All the girls at the rink are talking about it. And Bruce called! He needs to hear from you.
My ex called my mother? And she answered? That’s just rude. If I respond, I’ll lose my temper. So I keep scrolling instead.
There’s also a message from an unfamiliar 646 number. And it sounds like a come-on. What kind of champagne is your favorite? Brut? Extra dry?
I scroll past, but then I suddenly remember something Bess said at the rink when I was begging both her and Chase to get him a chiropractic appointment. Honey, I’ll buy you a bottle of expensive champagne if you’re right.
Oh my God. What if I was right?
Bess? What are you trying to say? I text back. But it’s almost ten, and if Chase’s agent has a more interesting life than mine, she probably isn’t staring at her phone right now.
So I hit Darcy’s number instead. It rings, and when she answers, the first thing that comes through the phone is the roar of a bar night in full swing. I hear laughter and testosterone dialed up to eleven. “Zoeeeee!” she shrieks. “It’s really loud here!”
“I’m getting that.”
“What? It’s so loud here! Not sure about the food thing, the kitchen might be closing! Didn’t you eat dinner?”
“No, but it’s fine!”
“Get over here! Everyone is talking about Chase’s pelvis! You fixed him!”
My heart does a triple flip. “Seriously?”
“SERIOUSLY!”
When the Uber pulls up to the Ritz-Carlton fifteen minutes later, a uniformed doorman steps forward. “Good evening, miss. Checking in?”
“Yes, thank you.” I sweep past him as if I’m someone important. As if I’m used to five-star hotels.
Although figure skaters usually stay at the Holiday Inn or the Best Western.
It’s never like this. I cross a chic lobby with marble floors and stylish furniture arranged on thick imported rugs.
I follow the low hum of voices toward the bar, where it’s easy enough to locate the hockey players.
You simply follow the pack of tall, loud guys with deep voices.
The weird thing is that I can tell at a glance that Chase isn’t among them. Even after all this time, just a glance shows me that none of those broad shoulders are his.
But as soon as I walk in, someone lets out a cheer. And then someone else starts a slow clap.
A moment later, the whole bar is applauding. My face is on fire as Eric Tremaine steps forward. “All hail the Pelvis Whisperer! Well done, Coach.”
I let out a snort of laughter. “You’re welcome? Back up, though. What did Chase tell you about his chiropractor visit?”
Weber, the rookie, speaks up. “I heard they needed two guys to hold him down and snap him into place. Bess says he yelled like an angry cat.”
“That sounds… painful.” I flinch. “So I basically sent him for some medieval torture?”
“No, you don’t understand,” Tremaine insists. “He told me that he felt immediate relief when they clicked him back into place.”
“The doctor wants to put his X-ray up on the wall of his office!” Weber hoots. “Dude said he never saw anything like it.”
“Oh.” I take the deepest breath I’ve had in a long time. “Okay, wow.”
Darcy emerges from the clot of hockey players to tug me toward the bar. “Step aside! This woman deserves a margarita.”
“She sure does,” Tremaine agrees, following us. “Coach Zoe, can you straighten out O’Connell’s taste in music next? He thinks Nickelback is a good band.”
The players roar.
“It is, you snob!” O’Connell yells from somewhere nearby.
The captain shakes his head. Then he taps the bar. “Could I please have two more of the imperial stout—plus whatever these two ladies feel like drinking?” He gestures at me and Darcy. “Thanks, man.”
“That’s nice of you,” I say.
“Only the best for Coach Zoe! I think you just saved the day.” He gives my arm a quick squeeze. “And Darcy does that every other day.”
I turn toward Darcy, who’s blushing and biting her lip. Interesting. I wait until Tremaine walks away before I poke her in the knee. “You have a thing for the captain?”
“No!” she yelps, her expression scandalized. “Be real. How about a margarita? Fair warning—they make them with blood orange juice. But it’s still our thing.”
“Sounds amazing,” I say as the bartender sets a coaster in front of each of us. “And could I possibly see a menu?”
“Two blood orange margaritas, coming up,” he says. “Is your name Zoe, by chance?”
I blink. It’s so odd that all the bartenders of North America seem to know my name. “Yes?”
“Oh good,” he says. “Because the kitchen just closed, but someone put in an order for you just at the last second.”
“For me?”
“One moment,” he says. “I’ll bet it’s ready.” He strides away.
“Darcy? Did you…?”
She shakes her head.
I roll my shoulders. “I just finished eight hours in a hockey arena watching sweaty nineteen-year-olds try to kill each other.”
“It’s too bad all-night nail salons aren’t a thing,” Darcy says. “But I found us a spot for tomorrow! And I got us eighth-row seats for the game.”
“The game,” I breathe. “I get an actual seat?” To watch Chase play? There have been moments over the last decade when I was sorely tempted to buy a ticket off StubHub and see him play. Not that I ever went through with it.
“Of course you do,” she says, draining her drink and setting aside the empty glass. “Oh—and O’Connell turned over his video clips to Steve Sailor, who’s having them professionally edited.”
I groan. “And to think I once believed professional hockey was a serious business.”
“Oh, it is, if you mean seriously weird. The PR department is going to milk that video. They’ll publish O’Connell’s thing, and then they’ll probably recut it with your old video. Like, Who wore it best?”
“Oh God.”
She elbows me. “The airport video is fun. And it’s nice to see the team rallying around Chase.”
“They are?”
“Of course they are. Zoe, they made a prank video of themselves dancing like goobers. That takes balls. What they didn’t do was post all over social media about their teammate shoving a fan in a bar. You get me? It’s pack behavior.”
“Oh,” I say slowly. “I never thought about it that way. I’ve never been part of a team.”
“Until now, you mean?”
I shake my head. “Not even now. I’m dispensable. Sharp practically told me to my face.”
“Then make yourself indispensable.” She shrugs, like that’s easy. “You’re the most cynical person I know, Zoe. It’s kind of impressive.”
“If you don’t expect much from anyone, they can’t let you down.”
She laughs as if I’m joking. But I’m not.
The bartender reappears, sliding a generous platter onto the bar in front of me. “Here we go. The special grilled flatbread pizza, no mushrooms, and a Caesar salad, for Zoe.”
“Um…”
“And here’s your drink.” He slides it onto the bar and then darts away.
I stare down at the plate. Pizza, no mushrooms. Wow. Is it weird to look at a pizza and feel weepy? Because I suddenly do.
“Who ordered that?” Darcy asks.
I glance past her. “Did you happen to see Chase in here tonight?”
“Sure,” she says easily. “When you called, he was just…” She cranes her neck around. “Hmm.”
“Hmm,” I echo. Then I pick up one quarter of the elegant little thin-crust pizza and take a bite. “Once upon a time, pizza was our love language. Maybe he ordered this as a thank-you.”
“Maybe,” she says. Her gaze lifts, and she opens her mouth to add something. But I’m on a roll.
“And maybe this pizza is a gesture that says I’m not mad at you for triggering a bully in that bar and making me look like a goon. Because that could have happened to anyone, although why does all the stupid shit happen to you when I’m around?”
“Well,” Darcy says, “you can—”
“And maybe it’s even bigger than that. Maybe this pizza says I was never mad at you for losing me a job when I was nineteen, because I forgot about you the second I left town.
We’re both grown-ups now, after all, even if one of us is a multimillionaire and the other one lives in squalor with credit card debt and an ex-husband who still thinks I owe him something. ”
Darcy cringes. And her gaze keeps flipping up to a spot above my shoulder.
Come to think of it, there’s a very specific wall of heat radiating toward my back. And I smell citrusy cologne and leather. “He’s right behind me, isn’t he?”