Page 56 of Banter & Blushes #1

MIA

A fter lunch, I’m back behind the plexiglass, seated near the penalty box this time.

That puts me on the opposite side of the rink, across from the players’ bench.

I figured that would make it less obvious that I’m interested in McKennan.

A girl’s got to play hard to get even if she’s champing at the bit to be caught, you know.

Pretending to take random shots of the arena, I surreptitiously glance toward the bench where the players are sitting while their coach points to a board covered in black markings. Going over a play, I suppose, but I’m more interested in only one guy in that scenario.

What could his first name be? Is he a Mike or a Sam? You know, the most familiar kind of names. Or is he a Liam or an Eduardo? Hmmm, scratch that last one. I knew an exchange student by that name once back in high school. No, McKennan is definitely NOT that guy.

The coach nods, and the players take to the ice, but it looks like they’re done for the day. The team is filing out of the arena and heading down that thing Sophie called a tunnel—also one of the shots she asked me to get when we returned from lunch.

I try to call out to him, but the Zamboni is already running on the ice, drowning out my voice.

Great. I finally meet the hot hockey player of my dreams, and he’s about to skate out of my life for good.

Or, I suppose I could be like one of those ice bunnies and hang around the arena during games, hoping I’ll run into him.

But hockey season doesn’t start for weeks.

My window of opportunity is closing fast.

The Zamboni passes, then honks its horn, drawing my attention to the other side of the arena. McKennan lifts a gloved hand to the driver as if to thank him for waiting. As he skates to the plexiglass, I walk behind the penalty box to the other side.

Grinning, he stares at me, then says something, but between the Zamboni motor and someone testing the sound system—great timing, right?—I still can’t hear him.

What’s a girl to do? Then inspiration strikes—I’ll give him my phone number in a way he won’t forget it.

I grab my lipstick out of my purse, pluck off the top, and twist the stick upward.

A twinge of doubt hits me as I contemplate using my favorite shade in such a destructive manner, but the sacrifice will be worth it.

I scrawl the first digit of my phone number on the glass backward so he can read it.

I’ll probably get thrown out of the arena for this or piss someone off, but I’m not leaving my shot at McKennan to chance. Or fate.

The way his eyes widen along with his grin as I write the rest of my phone number on the glass emboldens me to continue.

The digits are large, as in a foot tall—larger than life.

And that’s the impression I want to leave with this guy because the minute I tell a date I’m a grade school teacher, their eyes glaze over, and I’m lucky if we make it through the appetizer.

Pat Benatar’s ‘Hit Me with Your Best Shot’ blares over the speakers as I finish the last digit. Kind of seems fitting, don’t you think?

McKennan turns around and points to his back, asking me for my name.

I write it with a flourish at the end, carrying the tail of the ‘a’ over the ‘i’ and making a heart shape for the dot. Over the top, I know, but I’ve got nothing to lose, right? We are talking about a very attractive hockey player here. I just hope he’s as sweet as he is cute.

He holds a finger up as if he’s telling me to wait and then dashes off the ice.

“What in the world?!?” Sophie’s voice hits me from behind again. The woman has a penchant for sneaking up on me.

I whirl around and giggle. “Just making sure he knows how to reach me.”

Mimicking me, Soph rolls her eyes in epic fashion. “We better leave before we get in trouble.”

“All done with your interview?” I glance toward the opposite side of the arena, searching for McKennan.

“Yep. All done. Now, I have to write the piece before my deadline. So let’s go.”

“Okay, I’m coming.” I throw a glance over my shoulder one last time as we climb the aisle .

McKennan stands on the threshold on the other side of the ice, phone in hand, taking pictures. I stop and wave.

He grins, points to himself, holds his hand to his head like a phone, then points at me.

Mission accomplished. Now we’ll see if he’s true to his word and actually uses my number.