11. Chapter Eleven #2
“That’s the point.” At their curious looks, I added, “If they’re going to stare anyway, might as well give them something worth looking at.”
Understanding flickered across Theo’s face. He laid down his final card, effectively ending the round with an Exploding Kitten. “Smart strategy.”
The card game wrapped up, Novak and Theo wandering the cabin to find other people to torture with their good humor. Coach shifted in the empty seat beside me while the others dispersed, his expression thoughtful.
“That challenge call in Minnesota.” He settled back, hands linked over his stomach. “Walk me through your thought process.”
I traced the edge of my tablet, missing Joonie’s steady presence. “Rule sixty-nine, section two. Contact initiated by a defensive player pushing or shoving an attacking player into the goalie.”
He nodded. “You had no doubt?”
“The contact was clear.” I dug my fingers into the armrest. “Meade’s momentum, the way Landon’s skates lifted, the timing. It seemed clear as day to me.”
“Good eye.” He studied me for a long moment. “Wilson’s been doing this a long time. Has his own way of handling things.”
I smoothed my ponytail, professional smile firmly in place. I understood seniority. “I understand, Coach. It won’t happen again.”
“That’s not—” He sighed. “Look, having multiple perspectives in that booth isn’t a bad thing. Just remember you’re part of a system. A team. Both of you.”
From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Shep moving down the aisle. The woodsy scent of his cologne drifted past, mixing with recycled air and making my head spin. Again, not even a glance my way. I should be glad. I was. I was glad.
Dammit.
“Trust your instincts,” Coach continued, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “But respect the chain of command. Wilson may be set in his ways, but he knows his stuff, too.”
I nodded, filing away his advice while tracking Shep’s path toward the lavatory.
“Of course. Thank you for including me.”
He stood, lips quirking. “Fair warning. Landon and Zacha take their victories seriously.”
As Coach moved away, my gaze drifted forward again. Shep had returned to his seat, head bent close to Zacha’s over a phone screen. I’d won Ping-Pong, he’d won air hockey—though I could contest that one over interference. He’d also outmaneuvered me with Joonie possession… so far.
I understood competition.
I thrived on competition.
But winning wasn’t the reason my lips burned when I looked at the golden-haired hockey god. Competition wasn’t even on the radar.
What was on the radar? The feel of his sculpted back under my hand. The heat of his lips on mine. His fingers on my skin.
And there was no trace of that man in the figure slumping into his seat.
He’d obviously put our kiss out of his mind. No big deal.
Smart. I could do the same.
Put the man out of my mind.
I could.
Another twenty minutes until shuttle departure according to the team app—which I’d only checked three (okay, seven) times in the last five minutes. Not that I was nervous about my first away game or anything.
I smoothed my hands over today’s mood-lifting ensemble: a white dress splashed with cheerful yellow lemons, cinched at the waist with a perfectly tied satin, red bow.
The crinoline underneath gave the skirt just enough swish to make me feel confident.
Red patent leather Mary Janes with tiny white bows completed my “I absolutely have my life together” look.
Except I didn’t. Because a certain golden boy had my Pop.
In the hallway outside my hotel room, I pulled up the team app again, and checked room assignments… again. Ten thirteen. Of course. He wore a thirteen on his jersey. Did he ever consider the fact that thirteen was an unlucky number? Maybe he needed to swap jersey numbers and not steal my Pop.
Though after that kiss in the arena corridor, his luck seemed to be running just fine—
No. Bad brain. Analytics, not attraction.
My red Mary Janes carried me down the hall toward 1013, each step a mental calculation. Probability of Shep having a roommate? High. Chance of retrieving Joonie without embarrassing myself? Significantly lower.
The door swung open and—dang it. Not Shep. Instead, I faced the scowling mountain known as Bohdan Zacha. Four years of working with hockey players should have built up my immunity to physical intimidation. Should have.
“What?”
My sunshine-and-rainbows smile clicked into place. “I’m here for Landon.” There we go. Professional. Casual. Totally not here to steal back my stolen property.
“He’s out looking for food.” The door slammed with enough force to ruffle my carefully styled ponytail.
Wow, grouchy. With a messy side of “get lost”.
But if Shep was after food, he’d start in the lobby. No, this place had an on-site restaurant. He’d start there, though the place had limited hours.
The elevator dinged and I jabbed the lobby button, my fingers drumming against my phone case. A quick check of the time—again. Plenty of minutes before the shuttle departed. Time enough to track down my Pop and maybe figure out why my stomach fluttered every time I thought about that kiss.
Analytics, Merri. Focus on the mission.
The hotel restaurant’s security grille blocked any hope of finding Shep there. Too late for lunch, too early for dinner—figures. But the breakfast bar around the corner might still offer packaged snacks. Perfect bait for a hungry hockey player.
But I turned into the room to find no sign of him. Other guests sat amongst the tables, one woman with her laptop open, a couple of men on their phones, one family leaning over a puzzle.
Then I spotted a familiar face at the far end of the room. Wilson.
Dread crawled over my skin. But maybe it was better this way, better to talk to him here than in the video room where we’d be focused on work. Maybe a casual hello now was the perfect way to get past the awkwardness.
Though I would bet Shep’s cap that I was the only one feeling awkward.
I wove through the tables to reach Wilson’s side and slapped a smile on my face. “Hey! Mind if I sit?”
He grunted. He held a paperback book, something with a dark cover, as thick as my arm was round.
“What’re you reading?” Keep it light, keep it friendly. Mom’s voice echoed in my head: kill them with kindness.
He sighed, hefty and long, then gave me a stare across the table. “Nothing.”
I eyed the doorstop masquerading as a novel in his hands. “You have a book in your hand.”
“Can’t read and answer you at the same time, now can I?”
Oh. Yeah. My cheeks burned. “Sorry to interrupt, Wilson. I was hoping we could talk about our last game? That goalie call?”
“What about it?”
“I thought we had decided you would make the calls. When you didn’t, I was confused.” I twisted my fingers together under the table.
“Two minutes left, tied game. If they’d decided against you, you would have put our team at a huge disadvantage.”
“But it was so clearly not goalie interference.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. My analytical brain kicked into overdrive—Landon’s path to the net, the clear shot of Meade shoving him. Textbook.
He shrugged and disappeared behind his book. Dismissed. Like a rookie who’d questioned the starting lineup.