Page 34 of The Romance Line
“Called it,” he says.
We go inside where he spends the rest of the way to the locker room listing things he suspects I hate—stargazing, parks, movie nights with popcorn. Actually, that last one sounds surprisingly good.
“Wait. Was that a flicker of a smile?”
“Fuck you. No.”
“Dude, I like popcorn too,” Asher stage-whispers.
But as I move through my pre-game ritual—a light jog on the treadmill as I listen to one of my hard-rock playlists—my mind wanders back to his observation—the ridiculous idea that I’m trying to prolong spending time with Everly.Please.This makeover is already torture. No way would I try to drag it out. And no way will I pretend I like it. She knows the truth. She’d expect nothing less from me than who I’ve been.
But who you are is unapproachable, a voice whispers darkly in me.
My own voice from inside my fucking skull. Annoying voice.
It follows me as I text with my parents while I jog.Still thinking about those bagels from last week. A good son would send them every day,Dad teases. Mom replies withA great son would send my favorite Italian food for dinner.
I write back with one word:Done.
Then Mom says she was just kidding and tells me to kick butt tonight.
I always do, I reply then I finish my workout, put on my pads, and lace up. But the voice chases me as I hit the ice for warm-ups, stretching my hammies, hips, and inner thighs, then shuffling back and forth in the crease before my teammates take easy shots on goal.
I don’t smile as they shoot at me. Why would I? No one wants an approachable goalie. You don’t stop goals by being approachable. You stop them with grit, glower, determination, and absolute unapproachability.
That’s really what the team pays me for, and I intend to deliver that tonight. I dial up the unapproachability way past ten once the puck drops.
No one wants a nice guy guarding the net when we’re down a man in the second period when one of our defenseman, Hugo Bergstrand, winds up in the box for holding.
This is when Chicago will be hungriest. The second the power play begins, the Chicago center attacks the net, but I block the puck cleanly with my leg pad. It bounces sharply to their winger, who skates around the back of the net, and I track him like a hawk.
Just try me, fucker.
When he comes around again, he takes a shot, but it doesn’t stand a chance. I lunge for it, pushing off the postswhile scanning the action in the zone. There’s Ryker Samuels nearby, but down by center ice is Bryant.
Open. Ready. A long shot.
Fuck it.I go for it, slapping the puck and making a long pass to him. There’s barely a chance, but like the brilliant motherfucker he is, Bryant grabs it and tears down the ice, hell-bent on the visitors’ net, where he lifts his stick and holy shit.
He sends it rushing past their goalie. The lamp lights.
“Yes! Fucking yes,” I shout.
Asher flies by. “Nice assist!”
We go on to win the game, proving my point. Don’t need to be nice to get the job done. In the tunnel, I’m ripping off my helmet right as the beautiful blonde who I swear I am not trying to spend extra time with strides toward me.
“Did you know the average goalie scores zero to three assists in a season? A season, Lambert,” she says, sounding pleased with her research.
“That so?”
“It’s so rare when a goalie gets one, it’s the kind of thing that would be worth giving a quote to the press about.” Her voice pitches up with hope. Damn, she’s sexy when she’s hopeful. Which means she’s sexy all the time. She tilts her head, the sleek ponytail bobbing to the side. “You could even, say, gee, exactly what I just said to them. Just use my words. Easy-peasy.”
She’s sing-song, selling this talk-to-the-press idea to me.
Like I’d bend that easily that soon. Besides, Everly wouldn’t want me to. Everly expects the volley. She’d think I was an imposter if I didn’t give her a ferocious game of ping-pong. No way am I backing down so soon.
I flash her a smile as my teammates walk down the hall around us. “But wouldn’tyourather put a pic of me and my man Bryant on my social and say just that?” I drape an arm around my friend who nabbed the goal itself.