Page 29 of Playing it Safe

"Oh shit." More clatter. A voice I don't recognize says something I can't make out — a woman, definitely not Ella. "That's brutal, man. I'm sorry."

"Can I take Howie's old room?"

A pause. The background noise shifts like he's walking into another room and closing a door. "Uh. The room is actually ... not available right now."

"Not available."

"It's a situation. I can't really get into it." The woman's voice again, muffled. Rookie covers the phone. I hear him say something brief, and then he's back, slightly out of breath. "Look, the room is spoken for."

I stare at Puck's orange face peeking out of my collar. "Rookie. I'm sitting in my car in a flood with a cat in my shirt."

"Mayhem." He says my name the way you'd talk to a child who can't find his shoes. "Why the hell don't you just go stay with your girlfriend?"

On the radio, the crowd at the Furnace erupts. The announcer's voice spikes: Beckett with the shot — scores! I hear Rookie cheer through the phone, the mystery woman whooping along with him.

"That's your girl! She just went top shelf!" Rookie is laughing. “I’m sure she’ll want some celebration action anyway.”

"It's not that simple."

“Sounds pretty obvious to me, but what do I know?” I hear him slurp at a drink.

Puck shifts inside my shirt and presses a paw against my collarbone. The radio announcer describes Briar's goal — a wrist shot from the high slot, her fourth of the season.

"I'll figure it out," I tell Rookie.

"You just did. Go to your girlfriend's house." He pauses. "Maybe lead with the cat. Women love a cat."

He hangs up.

I sit in my car in the dark, the rain hammering the roof, the game playing, and Puck's wet fur itching my chest. The announcer says Briar's name again, and hot shame moves through me alongside lust. I’m going to have to modify our fake dating arrangement.

Chapter 13

Briar

We made the playoffs.

I can’t believe it, but the pandemonium in the locker room makes it feel more real.

Ducky stands on the bench in her sports bra and compression shorts, spraying water from a bottle like champagne. Tate ducks, shrieks, and retaliates with a towel snap that connects with a crack, right against Ducky’s abs. Ashley still has her pads on, her mask pushed up on her forehead, grinning so wide I can see her mouthguard.

We made the playoffs.

The Pittsburgh Uprising clinched our first postseason berth by beating Philly, of all teams! The 5-1 smackdown is the exact opposite of the score the men drew earlier, and I am vibrating from the inside out. My body aches from blocking shots and throwing checks, and I don't care. I don't care about anything except the noise in this room and the women making it.

Joey Kwan has Hannah Randall in a headlock. Sara Randall is filming her wife from the corner, laughing. Carrie Kwan leans in the doorway, wearing her bedazzled WAG shirt, arms crossed, watching her wife in a victory haze.

"Playoffs, baby!" Ducky screams. Water arcs across the room. "We're in the fucking PLAYOFFS!"

Coach Digano appears, soaked from the Gatorade bath we gave him in the hall. He wipes his face with his tie and shakes his head. "I'm proud of every single one of you," he says, and his voice cracks on the word "proud." “But remember, we have a long way to go if we’re winning the cup.”

I'm sitting in my stall pulling tape off my shins when I hear a familiar voice above the chaos.

"Excuse me! Where are the hockey players?"

I look up. Tate catches my gaze and grins.

Deen arrives with Dominique, a staff member from her house, hovering behind her. "She insisted," Dominique says. "She told me she needed to see her sister immediately."