Page 29 of Puck Fest
In my car, I sit with the engine running, staring out the front windshield, images of Masterson goofing off with those kids, how bright his smile is, how the dimples in his cheeks make my pulse tick harder, how his eyes can sear my skin from a rink’s length away.
A couple of weeks ago, Danny Masterson was a PR problem. A reckless player who needed damage control and media training.
And I keep shutting him down.
Because that’s what I have to do.
The more I let him in, the more dangerous this becomes. The more I acknowledge what I’m feeling, the harder it will be to maintain the boundaries that keep both our careers intact.
So I’ll keep being cold. Keep being professional. Keep pretending that his attempts to connect don’t affect me.
Even though they do. More than I dare to admit.
Like he knows.
Like he can see exactly what I’m doing and why.
And maybe he can.
CHAPTER 9
DANNY
Two minutes leftand we’re up 4-3.
Vancouver’s pressing us hard. They pulled their goalie for the extra attacker. Now it’s six on five. The arena’s loud, fans screaming, trying to will their team to take the win.
I’m on the ice for defensive coverage. Tate’s in the net, crouched and ready. The puck slides around the boards as Vancouver tries to find an opening.
Their center gets it and makes a clean pass. Their defenseman winds up for a shot. I skate in front of it to make the block. The puck bounces off my shin pad and skitters toward the neutral zone.
Jack picks it up, flies toward their empty net, and fires from our blue line.
The puck slides down the ice in slow motion. I hold my breath as it hits the post then bounces in.
Empty netter. 5-3. The buzzer roars.
The Vancouver crowd groans. Our bench erupts with cheers. Jack’s got his arms up in a victory sign as he circles the ice.
I skate over to Tate and tap his pads with my stick.
“Nice saves tonight,” I say.
“Nice block,” he says with a grin. “That’s two assists for you tonight, right?”
“Yeah. And zero fucking penalties.”
“PR guy would be proud.”
I press my lips together. I don’t respond to that. Don’t want to think about Noah right now, two thousand miles away in Oakland, probably watching the game stats and making notes about my behavior on the ice.
In the locker room afterward, Coach gives his standard post-game speech. “Good effort. Solid win. Get some rest. Bus leaves at nine tomorrow.”
The second he’s gone, the mood shifts.
“There’s a place two blocks from the hotel,” Carter says, already pulling off his gear. “Good beer, decent wings, no tourists.”
“I’m in,” Jack says.
