Zero Pucks Given (San Antonio Surge #1)

Chapter 1

Josie

“Win a date with Grayson Steele, captain of your San Antonio Surge! Now’s your last chance to sign up before the winner is announced at the end of the second period tonight!”

I glanced at the television mounted on the wall, which flashed with lights and promotional graphics.

Grayson’s Steele’s chiseled face filled the screen, his blue-grey eyes staring back coldly.

He was hot, but in a robotic kind of way.

And he was a professional hockey player, which meant he was a douchebag of the highest order.

The next customer in line approached the counter and said, “Hi, I’ll take two large beers, a pretzel, and a bag of popcorn.”

“Coming right up,” I said, punching his order into the computer and then filling two plastic cups with beer.

I still had two hours left in my shift working at the Frost Bank Center, where the San Antonio Surge—the city’s newest sports team—played.

The arena was packed tonight, likely because they were announcing the winner of that stupid win-a-date competition.

My concession stand was underneath the upper deck, and the entire arena rumbled with cheers and groans every few seconds.

Being busy made the time go by faster, at least.

While grabbing a pretzel from the heating rack, my coworker and best friend Sharon leaned in and whispered, “Guy’s been staring at your ass since you turned around.”

“That’s pretty much every customer,” I replied with a chuckle.

“He’s cute, is all I’m saying.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not picking up a guy at work.”

“You never know! That’s how I met Kyle!”

“You’re the exception to the rule,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. “Besides, this guy’s wearing a wedding ring.”

I carried the pretzel back to the customer, who gave me a very suggestive smile before shoving a few bucks into the tip jar. His wedding ring shone in the light.

Creep.

I was used to it, of course. Being a not-ugly woman in the service industry meant suffering stares, flirts, and outright propositions from customers. It sucked… but the tips were good. My life could be worse.

That’s what I kept telling myself while taking orders and filling cups full of cheap beer.

“Josie!” my boss called from the corner. “Grab the beer backpack. I need you to cover section 118.”

I groaned. “I covered it last game. Tonight’s supposed to be Carter’s shift.”

“Carter’s back is injured. He can’t carry the pack. Hurry up, there’s still ten minutes left before the end of the period.”

I glanced at Carter, the college kid who was always late and full of excuses. He didn’t look like his back hurt. But my boss wasn’t the kind of man you argued with—it only made him dig in his heels stubbornly. Sharon and I had learned that the hard way working here.

“Fine,” I said, taking the heavy backpack of beer. “Hope you’re feeling better, Carter.”

“Thanks!” he replied, oblivious to my sarcasm.

Sharon gave me a sympathetic smile as I left the concession stand.

I pushed my way through the crowd in the concourse, then out the tunnel into the open arena.

The hockey rink below was illuminated brightly, the ice reflecting the surrounding lights and flashing colors from the scoreboard above.

Hockey players decked out in pads glided around the ice, the black puck passed between them with laser-accuracy.

The temperature immediately dropped twenty degrees. That was the main reason I hated selling beer out in the stands. The heavy backpack was another. I shifted the weight from one shoulder to the other, then began walking down the stairs.

“Cold beer! Get your cold beer!” I shouted.

My hatred for hockey went back to my teenage years, growing up in Minnesota.

I dated one of the guys on my high school hockey team for a month, and he walked around like he was a goddamn celebrity.

My hatred deepened when I went to the University of Minnesota and discovered that the school hockey team was revered as much as the football team.

Then I was paired up with one of the players for a group project in my marketing class, a project where he contributed approximately zero percent, yet when I complained about it to my professor she shrugged her shoulders and basically admitted that he got special treatment for being on the team.

I wasn’t a fan of the cold weather, so after college I moved down to Texas. I’d gladly take triple-digit summer days if it meant never being cold again. And I got a job working for the arena where the San Antonio Spurs played.

Then the unthinkable happened: a hockey team moved to San Antonio. And in the blink of an eye, half the games I worked at the arena were hockey. Now I had to freeze my ass off.

“Cold beer!” I repeated.

A customer raised their hand to get my attention. I lowered my backpack, opened two cans of beer, and poured them into plastic cups. If I’d known I would be working in the stands, I would have worn gloves.

Stupid Carter.

I moved throughout the stands, selling beer and fake-smiling at all the fans.

Eventually, the horn blared throughout the arena, announcing an end to the second period.

Fans immediately got up from their seats to use the bathroom or get more food during intermission, crowding the stairs where I was working.

I put down my backpack, grateful for the break.

While I had a moment, I pulled out my phone.

As a side-hustle, I reviewed make-up products and posted videos on TikTok and Instagram.

It earned me enough money to pay for groceries, which was better than most people I knew, but I was still holding out hope that one of my videos would go viral and I could quit my day job in this frozen arena.

Yeah, I know. Everyone wanted to be an influencer these days. Give me a break. A girl could dream.

“Now’s the time you’ve been waiting for!” a voice blasted through the speakers in the arena. “The contest to see which lucky fan will win a date with the Steele Wall, your San Antonio Surge captain, Grayson Steele!”

A few women in the stands eagerly stood up and stared at the screen, waiting to see the winner announced.

I tried not to roll my eyes. The women in this town had gone nuts over this promotion for the past month.

It was covered in newspapers, on the local TV station, and was all over social media. It was insane.

I hated the way professional athletes were worshipped. They were just normal people who were very good at one specific skill. But that dumb skill gave them millions of dollars, wide-reaching fame, and inflated egos.

“I’ll take a beer, sweetheart,” a man old enough to be my dad said nearby.

That fake smile appeared on my face automatically. “Twelve dollars.”

While I opened a beer and began pouring it into a plastic cup, a video flashed on the screen showing Grayson Steele’s dumb handsome face. His fake smile was a lot less convincing than mine. Going on a date with him would be about as fun as getting a root canal.

“The winner of a date with Grayson Steele…” The arena noise fell to an anticipatory hush.

“JOSIE HARPER!”

I was so shocked that I dropped the beer.