Chapter One #2
Trying to distract himself, he grabbed a magazine off of the top of the pile on the low table. Hockey Monthly. Steve Fillion on the cover. That annoying smirk plastered on his smug face. He tossed the magazine aside and picked up another one. This one focused on mixed martial arts. Much better.
The bell jingled and he looked up. A girl, probably about fourteen or fifteen, struggled to get inside.
She had a huge hockey bag on one shoulder, a pink backpack slung over the other, and a hockey stick clutched in her hand.
A purple cast was wrapped around her other wrist and she was using that arm to hold the door open.
“Here, let me help you.” He stood, his knee giving another twinge. Trying not to wince, he stepped over to her.
The girl looked up and opened her mouth, probably to say thank you, but nothing came out. She blinked a couple of times, and then her hazel eyes widened to comical proportions. “You’re Nick Sadler.”
“That’s what it says on my driver’s license.”
His attempt at humor sailed right over her head. She stared at him, letting the cold, wet outside air swirl through the doorway. He waited a few seconds, wondering if she’d give him her name or say something else. She didn’t.
“Here.” He grabbed the stick with one hand and the door with the other. “Let me help you.”
That seemed to snap her back to reality, and she ducked her head and came inside. The tips of her ears were red, but he didn’t know if it was because of the cold or because she was embarrassed. Maybe a bit of both.
She dropped her bags by the chairs. The hockey bag hit with a thud, the backpack a little quieter. She flung herself into one of the chairs and sighed.
The receptionist looked up and smiled. “Hey, Em.”
“Hey, Sabrina,” the girl said, grabbing the backpack and rifling through it.
“Here you go.” He walked over and held the stick out for her.
She looked up and gave him a small smile. “Thanks.” She placed the roll of tape she’d found in her bag on her knee and grabbed the stick. The pink in her cheeks darkened. Definitely embarrassment.
He sat down, leaving an empty seat between them, and glanced at his watch. Only quarter to three. One of the problems with being eager—and early. He picked up the MMA magazine again and flipped it open.
She leaned the stick against her knee so the blade stuck up toward the ceiling, balanced against her cast, and picked up the roll of tape with her free hand.
She juggled the tape for a second, seemingly trying to get a grip on the end of the roll.
Was she seriously going to try and re-tape that stick one handed?
He tossed the magazine on the table. “May I?”
She shrugged one shoulder, clearly aiming for casual, but her eyes gave her away. They were as round as pucks. “Sure.” She thrust the roll of tape out. The stick teetered for a second and then tipped over.
She gasped and scrambled to grab it with her injured hand, which didn’t work because she clearly didn’t have full range of motion in her fingers.
He grabbed the stick just before it clocked him in the head. That’s all he’d need. To get brained and sidelined by a teenage girl and her errant stick. Wouldn’t Trent and Mark have a field day with that?
“Oh, crap, I’m so sorry.” She leaped up and tripped over the backpack at her feet. She pitched forward with a flail and a squeal.
He reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her before she fell into his lap.
She got her footing and pulled herself up, ducking her head. Her cheeks were the same shade of red as her ears. She flopped back into the seat and rubbed her fingers over a patch of writing on her cast. “Sorry.” It was more a mumble than anything else, but he heard it.
“No worries. It’s fine.” Not wanting to embarrass her further, he laid the stick across his lap and started re-taping the blade.
“You might want to look into giving your blade a slightly deeper mid curve. Not only will it give you a better wrist shot from the heel, but it’ll also make stick handling easier.
Of course, if you’re looking for a better slapshot, you’ll want more of a heel curve. ”
He glanced up. She’d obviously gotten over her embarrassment because she was staring at him with her mouth open again. Did she do that a lot?
“It was just a suggestion.” He didn’t know what else to say. Talking to teenage girls was far from his normal.
“How do you know the stick is mine?”
He frowned. “Why wouldn’t it be yours?”
She shrugged again. “I’m a girl. Most people assume it’s, you know, like my b-boyfriend’s, or something.” She ducked her head again and scratched at her cheek.
He snorted. “Yeah, I’ve never had a girlfriend willing to cart around my funky gear.” He finished wrapping the blade and held the stick out to her. “Besides, it’s cut to your height.”
“Thanks.” She took the stick with her good hand.
“Mr. Sadler?”
Nick looked over. A tall blonde woman stood in front of the door next to the reception desk. She wore a pair of black yoga pants and a light blue, form-fitting hoodie with the clinic name and logo emblazoned on the left chest. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Casual, but professional.
“Hey, Mom.” Em bounded from her chair, jumping over her bags this time, and making a beeline for the woman.
Mom? There's no way that woman was Em’s mother. He’d eat his skate laces if she was any older than thirty.
The woman smiled, and it damn near felt like the sun bursting through the clouds.
Her features were on the plain side—her nose a touch too long, her jaw a tad too square—but that smile, that smile could light up any dreary, grey Seattle day.
“Honey, I thought you were going to head home after practice?”
“It’s not really practice if I have to sit in the stands and watch.”
“Well, whose fault is that?” She tapped the cast on Em’s wrist with her finger.
Em gave an exceptionally dramatic sigh, the kind that came with an arm across the forehead and a B-movie swoon. He snorted.
It only took a moment for Em to recover from the drama, and then she grabbed her mother's arm and dragged her across the room. “Do you know who this is?”
The woman stepped around the bags on the floor. “Yes, he’s my next appointment.” She gave Em a gentle nudge toward the chairs and held out her hand. “Mr. Sadler, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Alex Dumont.”
Alex held her hand out toward Nick. She was smiling, but it felt a little brittle.
The shock on his face would have been funny, if she wasn’t so darn nervous.
Most folks expected her to be a man, given the male-dominated nature of the strength and conditioning business.
Having an ambiguous nickname helped with the misogyny.
At least until they came face to face with her.
He shook her hand. His warm palm completely engulfed hers. Hopefully, hers wasn’t too sweaty. Boy, he was tall. She had to tip her head back a touch to look at him. He almost made her feel petite, which was impressive, given she was five-foot-nine.
“It’s nice to meet you, Alex.” He’d managed to wrangle his surprise under control, his expression smoothing into a neutral one. His emphasis on her name gave him away, though. Good. Maybe if she kept him off-kilter, he wouldn’t notice her nerves.
And he obviously didn’t recognize her. Which was fine, and totally didn’t cause a little seed of disappointment to sprout in her belly.
“You, as well, Mr. Sadler.” There, that sounded nice and professional.
“Please, call me Nick.”
“Alright then. Nick.”
Em coughed, which was so phony, it was beyond funny. Alex barely refrained from rolling her eyes. “And I assume you’ve met my daughter, Emily?”
He looked over at Em, who gave him a little wave. Her cheeks and ears were almost fuchsia. Oh, goodness. Was she crushing on him? Already? So not appropriate, although not surprising. He was one of her favorite players.
Alex had doubted—very highly—that the Nick Sadler in her calendar was the professional hockey player. People had the same names as famous people all the time.
Not that she’d told Em anything about the appointment, because that would be inappropriate. Apparently, she’d been wrong, though, because he was that Nick Sadler. Hockey-god extraordinaire.
Although, honestly, whatever was going on with Em right now—she wasn’t quite sure what it was—it was a nice change.
She didn’t know when a demon had taken possession of her sweet girl, but over the last few months, Em had become moody and quiet and just generally uncooperative.
This was the smiley-est she’d been in weeks.
“Yeah, she and I talked about the curve of her stick.”
“And, he taped it for me.” As if to prove the point, Em picked up the stick and held it out, waving the newly taped blade in Alex’s direction.
“I see that.” Alex pushed the stick out of her face and turned back to him. “Thank you so much. For your help, I mean.” She wiped her sweaty palms on her pants. “You know, with Em.”
Okay, Alex, time to shut up and act like a professional.
And get this wrecked train back on the tracks. “If you’ll come this way, Mr. Sadler, we can get started.” She turned and headed back through the door she’d just come through.
“Nick,” he said.
He was so close behind her she could feel the heat radiating off him against her back.
Goosebumps trickled down her spine, making her shiver.
There was a part of her that wanted to sink back into that heat and soak it in.
Which was ridiculous. It had been a long time since she’d felt so fuddled.
And she refused to acknowledge the fact she hadn’t felt like this since the last time she saw him.
Nick Sadler.
Long before he was a hockey legend, he’d been a shy teenager who’d needed a biology tutor.
Nope, not thinking about that right now.