Chapter 2
Gunnar
I stepped through the gate to the ice that one of the security guards opened for me and glided onto the rink with the ease of decades of practice.
While I didn’t enjoy schmoozing, it was good press for my organization and the charities involved tonight when I was seen with the league’s commissioner.
Plus, the locker room was likely a nightmare right now.
The celebrities my marketing department had brought in for this event were weenies who had little respect for the game and probably too high an opinion of themselves.
I pressed my lips together to keep from smirking—I knew what was coming.
This game might not have the professional hits and physicality of a typical one, but we were all going to work hard. Excitement fizzed in my belly.
The roar of the crowd was a familiar symphony I loved more than just about anything else in the world. I might not have played at a professional level, but I’d taken part in enough games during my youth and college years to appreciate all aspects of the sport.
Getting out on the ice where my brother and I used to spend hours a day reminded me of better times, and of what I missed most in my life: my older brother, Karl.
I still couldn’t believe he was gone. His loss tried to slam into my chest like a sledgehammer, but thoughts of the cola tsunami with Zaila—I’d caught her name as I tromped down the stairs—replayed in my mind, overriding the pain Karl’s passing always brought.
The pretty young woman, who hadn’t paid enough attention, had mentioned something about the Wildcatters to Naomi and Ida Jane.
Hopefully she was involved with my team.
We’d hired a new physiotherapist, and I wondered if it was Zaila, even if she handled cold beverages with the precision of a rookie goalie. I suppressed a chuckle.
Get it together, Gunnar. You’re the team owner, not a lovelorn teenager.
Thankfully, the puck dropped, pushing thoughts of the soda spiller and my absent brother from my consciousness.
I was off like a shot—with something to prove to the guys I paid millions, who tonight were sitting in the stands.
I felt spry, though I spent more time in a boardroom than on the rink.
I’d spent the last fifteen years juggling my business so I could focus on what I wanted most: a hockey team Karl would have been proud to play for.
And I’d achieved that goal faster and with more success than I could have hoped for.
In the process, I’d made community involvement and giving back to those in need a central part of the Wildcatters’ mission, which was why I was playing in this celebrity charity game tonight.
The money from the event went to the cause closest to my heart: hate-crime prevention.
I snatched a pass meant for an agile celebrity chef and began my offensive maneuver.
“Evaldson’s got the puck! Can he still bring the heat?” the announcer boomed, his voice laced with manufactured excitement. I rolled my eyes. “Twenty-five years ago, our owner was a force on the ice.”
I grinned, dodging a clumsy attempt at a check from reality star Tiffany Caraway, who skated with the grace of a newborn giraffe.
I threaded the needle through the other team’s defense, spotting my opportunity.
A quick feint, a subtle shift, and wham—the net vibrated, followed by the eruption of cheers from the crowd.
Oh yeah, baby. Just like that! This middle-aged man still could score.
High fives and backslaps came from my teammates, but my eyes drifted toward the stands. Was Zaila impressed by my display of athletic prowess? I hoped she’d noticed my skating technique… Focus on the game. You’re supposed to be a role model, not a man looking to score with a woman half your age.
Okay, so she probably wasn’t half my age, but she had to be at least fifteen years younger, and that stung.
I prided myself on delivering hard truths and taking the time not to react, but to process and decide.
There shouldn’t be any confusion here. Zaila was young.
She was beautiful and fresh and not for me.
Thankfully, the rest of the first period was a chaotic mix of flying pucks and near-misses. Then the Zamboni driver had to brake hard to keep from running over the celebrity chef when he headed back onto the ice too soon.
During a brief respite on the bench, I scanned the crowd yet again, pretending to adjust my helmet as I sought Zaila. The young woman had burrowed into my consciousness after a simple look into her sherry-colored eyes. Panic set in as I couldn’t find her. I wanted to talk to her again…more…
Stop it, Gunnar.
Back on the ice for the second period, I vowed to channel my inner hockey star and ignore all thoughts of the beautiful woman who’d spilled her drink on me.
But try as I might, Zaila kept popping into my head.
I wondered if she thought I was too forward.
Or maybe too friendly. I wasn’t known for my easy, chatty manner.
Perhaps the soda-stained jersey turned her off…
The whistle shrieked, jolting me back to the present.
Before I could react, a linebacker on skates—or, more accurately, Bradley Dunbar, who’d starred in a few subpar action movies back in the ‘90s—bore down on me with the force of a runaway freight train. I sidestepped just in time, avoiding a collision that would probably have sent me straight to the physical therapist’s office.
Oh wait, maybe Zaila was the team’s new physiotherapist. Maybe I should let Brad hit me.
“Close call for Evaldson,” the announcer boomed through the speakers. “Looks like he’s dodging more than just pucks tonight, folks.”
Embarrassment rose to my cheeks. The announcer had noted my lack of focus, which wasn’t like me. I always stayed ahead of the game. But Zaila had gotten to me, and I didn’t like that. At all.
That was the lie I continued to tell myself for the rest of the game.
As the clock ticked toward the end of the third period, the score was a nail-biting 3-3.
Every pass, every shot, every bodycheck was magnified by the pressure.
The air in the arena crackled with anticipation when I intercepted a desperate pass from Tiffany, who then cowered against the boards at the far end of the ice.
My lungs screamed as I propelled myself toward the net. Ten seconds left.
I ignored the burn in my legs and focused on the chance to redeem myself.
I wound up for a slap shot that would make Bobby Orr proud.
I forgot about sodas, sexy young women, and hockey wives.
This shot was all that mattered. As the puck rocketed off my stick, it turned into a blur of black against the bright white ice.
The goalie—some tech billionaire with questionable skills but an ego too big to see his lack of talent—made a lackluster attempt.
That guy was terrible at hockey and in life, and I hoped never to see the douche again.
Oh, that felt good. The buzzer blared as the puck nestled into the back of the net, Tech Bro threw off his helmet as he melted down on the ice. The crowd went ballistic. My team had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, just as we should have.
For you, big brother.
I brought my fingertips to my lips and lifted them upward. Karl was the reason I’d strapped on skates, the reason I’d worked my ass off to make enough money to buy a team, and the reason I’d created a team he would have loved playing for.
My teammates swarmed me, their celebratory yells echoing in my ears. I ignored their back pats and scanned the stands.
Zaila stood near her seat, clapping and cheering, a grin on her beautiful face.
When she caught my eye, her joy smoothed down into a small, shy smile that was just for me.
And in that moment, despite the cheering crowd and the adrenaline pumping through my veins, all I could think was: I’d let her spill soda on me again. Anytime she wants.