Page 43 of The Groupie

“One week and two days. Got it.”

“Good.” She ends the call, and I toss my phone.

Fuck. Maybe I am starting to feel like this is a relationship. Because what I feel right now is concern for her sick mother, her damn injury, and the consequences for her Olympic team status.

* * *

The coach worked our asses off, so I feel good about this game. We’re playing the Devils, and they aren’t the toughest opponent. I’m dressed and head to the hallway with some of the others to build up some energy for the game. We’re bouncing off each other, shouting, and generally getting rowdy.

“Let’s give these motherfuckers a Brawler’s lesson,” Nowicki shouts, and I almost laugh, but I shout back the requisite mean shit, manufacturing the necessary anger to pound some bodies into the board every time they touch the puck.

O’Rourke, the captain and a long-time veteran on the team, leads us through the tunnel to the ice for pre-game warm-ups. There’s a rumor this is his last year. The notion of anyone’s last anything doesn’t sit right with me, so I dismiss the thought.

Then I look into the stands for the antidote to all wrinkles in my life, the poster girl for feeling alive and living in the moment. My eyes scan the seats near the top of the first section looking for Rylee, when I hear tapping on the glass. I look down rink-side, and there she is.

I skate over, and when I get close, I notice what she’s wearing, and my chest tightens, my pulse going erratic before I let out a breath. She’s standing there at the glass with a half-smile and Sheila. And Rylee’s wearing a Brawlers jersey with my name on it. And fuck, it shouldn’t give me the kick that it does, but my big fat grin doesn’t lie, and some stupid kid inside me makes me pick up a puck and toss it over the glass to her. Then, going on instinct, I find myself touching the glass where she stands, staring at her, willing her to touch the other side.

Instead, Sheila touches the glass—and Rylee? She raises a brow and shakes her head. Then they disappear.

I watch her go, her limp more pronounced. Fuck. She’s wearing a Brawlers cap to blend in, and her hair looks different. But I don’t have any problem following her with my eyes. If she thinks no one will recognize her, she’d be mistaken. It’s her eyes that will give her away. They’re recognizable all day long. If the right person—that’s anyone who’s into watching snowboarding competitions or the pre-winter Olympics coverage—gets one look at her face, they’ll recognize her.

* * *

At the bench, Coach stops us just before we’re about to take the ice for the national anthem. “This game has to go better than the last one. No excuses.” He flicks his gaze to me and holds my stare for a couple of ticks too long. My motor is already revving, but now I lock in tight.

It doesn’t take long from the puck drop at center ice for me to check the Devils’ best player in open ice as he’s carrying the puck on a two-on-one. I steal the puck and pass it up to O’Rourke at the blue line, and he takes off. I follow, pushing myself to the max. We take control in the Devils end of the rink, and the puck gets passed around.

O’Rourke takes a hard wrist shot, and as the rebound bounces out, time slows down, and I surge forward, catching the puck on the tip of my stick and flicking it back toward the goal. Nowicki redirects it, and the goalie has no chance. As I collide with a defenseman, I don’t care about the pain in my hip as I hit the ice because the red goal light goes off.

Adrenaline takes over from that point, and the team huddles in celebration, backslapping and hugging. Sometimes, it only takes one play, and I know from that second we’ll win this game.

* * *

The siren sounds to end the game, and I skate full speed from the bench straight to the goal, along with the rest of the team, to congratulate Finn on the four-to-nothing shut-out.

“That was more like it,” he says as I tap him on the pads. “We were beasts tonight.”

“You were in the zone,” I tell him, and in truth, I felt like we both were because we were in synch and tough as bears in the defensive end.

In the locker room, I’m all business and get showered and dressed within twenty minutes. Rylee’s waiting for me outside, and I know there’s media lurking around, so I head straight for her as soon as I emerge from the locker room.

A reporter jogs after me as I reach Rylee. I turn to block her from view as she stiffens next to me. This reporter is from ESPN, and he has a camera following him. It’s Jonesy. Shit.

“Zak, can I have a word with you?”

I give him a big grin. “What’s up?”

“Your contract is expiring at the end of the season. Have you started negotiations?”

“I leave that kind of thing to my agent.”

“You want me to call your agent?”

“Sure. Let him earn his money.” Shit. I’d better warn Jett and hope he doesn’t poison my meal next time I see him.

Jonesy leans sideways and takes a look at Rylee.

“Who’s this lovely young lady.”