Page 3 of The One Timer

Coach Spence returns his attention to Sabien. He looks like he’s been about to let out a gale-force shitstorm on him, but the scowl loses its hold, and he pauses for a beat as if he’s reconsidering. Maybe my wingman’s well-meaning message hit him. I don’t know. But without a word to Sabien, Coach turns back to me, his scowl now etched with concern.

“You were talking to your grandma? Is that true, Whittier?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why didn’t you say so? Is she okay?”

“Yes, sir.” I don’t go into details, and he doesn’t ask.

He nods and walks to the middle of the room now that he has everyone’s attention. He steps up onto a conveniently placed sturdy, low table and gestures for us to come in. Coach Nash joins him, staying on the floor, arms folded and looking plenty formidable without the benefit of the pedestal. Not that Coach Spencer Logan needs a pedestal either, but he’s the kind of guy who will take advantage of any advantage he can get.

And that killer instinct is why he’s successful. More importantly, it’s why the team respects him and would walk to the tundra and back for him.

That being said, I’ve heard the speech before, and when he gets going, I’m only half-listening and nudge Sabien’s elbow.

He turns and gives me a smug smile, almost ruining the solid he did me. I nod at him, and he nods back. He is, for better or worse, my best friend on the team, and since my life is all about hockey, all the time—except when it’s about family though that’s almost the same thing—that means Sabien Dumas, the rich as fuck asshole of the team, is my best friend period.

The stands are nearly full, and the Garden buzzes the way I remember it every time I’ve watched a game here. Except, this time, I’m on the ice. My eyes wander while we skate a circle at one end of the rink and the Brawlers warm up on the other end.

When I approach center ice, my gaze gravitates to the Whittier family seats—where the mystery woman was sitting. Surprise makes me do a double-take. Sabien bumps me from behind, and I pick up speed, tearing my eyes away.

She’s still there. Another woman is sitting with her—also, definitely not a Foster girl. Mystery girl number two is a short, stout young lady with red hair and the face of a mischief-making pixie. The ushers would have tossed her and her friend out of our family’s seats by now if she didn’t have the tickets.

She’s there legitimately. The Fosters must have given her the tickets. She must be a friend of theirs or someone from the neighborhood, not a stranger.

My mystery beauty watches the jumbotron, and then she lowers her gaze and watches me.

And just like that, as if I don’t already have enough to play for, some irrational urge has me wanting to impress her.

Chapter Two

EMERY

Oh my god, he’s adorable. Please forgive me, Mrs. Whittier, but your grandson has to be the hottest thing on ice. The crowd has filled in by the time the team comes out for pre-game drills. Unsure I’m allowed to take pictures, I sneak the phone from my bag and snap one as inconspicuously as I can when Chase Whittier, number 18, flies past on his way to the net. I get several shots of him in and realize no one cares. In fact, other fans are taking pics, too.

“Emery!” a familiar voice shouts over the incessant buzz of the growing crowd.

I jump to my feet and crane my head to see my best friend in the universe, the girl who should be my sister, who I’d claim as my sister if she didn’t already have two sisters and a whole big family around her. Meredith Pinzewski, aka Merry, has arrived and is racing down the steps towards me.

Waving at her, I shout back as she makes her way down to the best seats in the Garden, the Whittier family seats. When she reaches our row, she throws her arms around me in a tight, quick hug.

“I finally made it.” She looks around with her mouth hanging open, and I laugh. “These are amazing seats. I feel like we’re in an alternate universe— Look at that.” She points at the seats with one hand while she holds a gift bag with the other.

“These seats have WW embroidered into them. What’s with that?”

I pull her to sit down next to me. We’ve already made a spectacle of ourselves, and I feel conspicuous sitting in these seats as it is.

Leaning in, I whisper, “The WW is for Whittier Whiskey, the family’s company. They own the seats.”

“Right,” she drawls. No matter what I say, I can’t seem to convince her that Mrs. W is not a rich snob. In fact, she’s a sweetheart. “You better hope the old lady falls asleep before they show our gorgeous faces on the jumbotron for all the TV viewers at home.”

I blanch, and my stomach dips and rolls with existential fear, basically because I fear for my job, and no matter how sweet a lady Mrs. W is, surely, she’d fire me because I’ve stolen her tickets, and theft is theft.

“Shit.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I was just teasing. What are the chances?” She lifts the gift bag she was carrying and shoves it onto my lap. “Here—your birthday gift. Open it now.” Her grin beams—maybe too bright.

Peeking into the bag, I squint my eyes in suspicion, but when I reach in and pull out a Whalers T-shirt, I’m more than relieved. “Merry, this is an official NHL shirt. It must have cost a fortune. You didn’t have to⁠—”