Page 7

Chapter Seven

Cam

Generally, the first time players are required to show for a team event is training camp. However, given that we’re an expansion team, the Donovans scheduled a Fan Day with a few of the better-known players and a charity ball to introduce the whole team to Austin (or at least those who could afford the tickets) and kick off the Tornadoes Foundation.

I ramp up personal ice time to hone my skills for training camp and to meet the rest of my team before the formal setting. That meant I needed to skip a couple of days dance practice. I hate not seeing her, and worse, I’ll need a week for training camp soon enough. On the other hand, I thought I caught a glimpse of disappointment in her face when I told her, which means I might have a chance at dinner—or more—one of these days. Feelings aside, hockey comes first. It’s my golden ticket to financial freedom.

The guys and I play a friendly scrimmage the morning of the dinner. Some of us head to the gym afterward while others leave to continue unpacking their new homes. Jack and I hit the gym after lunch. Afterwards I introduce him to a local juice and smoothie chain that makes delicious snack drinks with all sorts of protein-centric add-ins. At home, we lounge by the pool and throw the ball for his dog, King, until it’s time to go to the event.

“Tux?” he asks.

“Nah. Dark suit. Unless it’s required?”

“The invitation didn’t say black tie, and Austin is pretty casual by all accounts.”

“Cool. My suits are cut looser and have some give. You never know when there might be an opportunity to show off my dancing skills.” I figure I might as well lean into my ridiculous reindeer nickname.

“Man, I’d pay to see that,” he says with a grin.

We ride together, as he still hasn’t bought a car. I don’t mind playing chauffeur given that Texas is the oil and gas capital of the country, and gas is cheaper here than anywhere I’ve lived.

As we enter the ballroom, I spy a third of the team already clustered at one end of the bar. The PR Director whose name tag reads “Saylet” intercepts us and calls over her social media analyst. “Walk these two around please, make sure they don’t huddle with the other players in a corner?”

I schmooze with local elite, meeting University of Texas administrators, several members of the state congress, and a bunch of doctors, bankers, and lawyers.

I nod and answer the same questions over and over. I grew up in Indiana, I’ve played in the AHL but am definitely ready for the NHL. My save percentage is 0.920, highest in the AHL both seasons. I’m single.

That last one I try to avoid, and most are polite enough not to ask outright. They’ll resort to scanning my ring finger instead. But one woman, who I swear resembles a shark with silver hair and a pointy nose, kneads my bicep like it’s dough then asks the question as she presses her surgically enhanced boob against said bicep.

If my mother were still alive, she’d be within five years of this woman’s age, and I’m not sure whether she’d be younger or older. I repress a shudder and look over her shoulder and wave.

“Sorry, ma’am”—I’ve also noticed Austonians go with ma’am for anyone over thirty so I should be safe using that moniker—“one of my teammates is gesturing me over. If you’ll excuse me, it was great to meet you.”

Escaping to the bar, I sigh as Buzz and Gabe—unimaginatively dubbed Saint because his last name—snicker at my expression.

I ask them, “Did you have to run the gauntlet, too?”

“Oh yeah, Saylet is lying in wait for everyone.” Saint shrugs. “You get used to it. It’s part of the deal.”

“I suppose.” I lean toward the bartender and ask for a local bourbon I’d found driving around. He doesn’t have it but he seems pleased I requested it, pouring me something he said would be similar enough. It’ll be my one and only drink for the evening. No way am I getting drunk in front of the owners and management, especially until they pick the first line and starting goalie.

Kyle Scott, a defenseman acquired from the Anaheim Admirals, nudges Buzz and jerks his chin toward a woman across the room. “Do you know who that is? She’s hot AF.”

Buzz glances over. “Yeah. Her name is Off Limits . She’s a Donovan, dumbass. Didn’t you even Google the owners so you’d recognize them?”

“I was more focused on the coaches. And I met Greg Donovan via Zoom. He was involved in the interviews, although I’m not sure why,” Kyle admits.

I stay quiet, unwilling to admit that I had only Googled Greg Donovan as well. I figured the sisters were silent investors. But I guess if they live here, they might attend functions. Especially as the three are all under thirty-five and I heard at least one of them works for the organization as well.

“Shit. Can’t she be ugly or something then. I already hate this no fraternization rule and I haven’t even glimpsed the rest of the back office ladies,” Kyle jokes.

Jack replies, “Never fear. Austin is full of hot chicks waiting to become puck bunnies. You’ll be rolling in pussy in no time.”

Kyle rubs his hands together. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Greg Donovan ascends to the raised dais. He uses the microphone and podium to ask everyone to take their places at the tables.

Praying I don’t end up with Ms. Shark, I head toward my assigned table. My name card is at an eight-top with a French-Canadian left winger, Mathieu du Près, along with an assistant coach, our physical therapist, and six bigwigs. Thank fuck . The table is full.

Buzz and the other goalie, Dan somebody-or-other, who I’ve been avoiding, sit at the table behind us, choosing the seats closest to us.

Thankfully, Ms. Shark is at neither of our tables and instead sitting at Saint’s table. He’s married so he won’t have any trouble fending her off. Or not. Come to think of it, his wife isn’t here tonight. Although I’d never cheat, I try not to judge, and I’m still learning my teammates so I’m unable to guess what they’ll do.

We make it through Greg’s speech welcoming us and the three course meal with the required small talk. Then Saylet introduces our head coach, Michael Steele. He played before my time then coached college when the Tornadoes tagged him for this role.

“I hope everyone has had a chance to meet our players.” He pauses as everyone applauds. I calculate quickly: even if tickets were a hundred and fifty bucks a seat, and most season ticket holders would go for higher priced spots, then these folks are spending over six thousand dollars to attend our inaugural season. Sheesh .

Coach continues. “They’re young—two years younger than the NHL average. And they’re hungry.” Ever the goof, Jack holds his empty plate up. Ignoring him, Coach Steele continues, “We have guys on the team who’ve had a taste of the playoffs and want that Cup, and other guys who are eager to prove themselves coming up from the minors. In management’s view, this is the perfect combination to get a cohesive team in short order, and make a run for the Stanley Cup right from the start.”

The crowd stomps and roars, louder than I’d have expected from a bunch of big wigs. That’s promising.

As far as I’m concerned, my team is a contender for the Cup every damn game we’re out there, so I don’t need the pep talk. When my agent called me with the offer and told me their plan, I leaped at the chance to come here. Sure, getting to the NHL means better endorsements and more income sources, but every hockey player’s holy grail is the Stanley Cup. The trick will be getting the lines set and ensuring they gel as quickly as possible, like Coach said. As a goalie, I’ll offer pointers where I see gaps from my position.

A DJ starts playing music, starting with older stuff for the whales. He then shifts to country music and a number of couples take the floor to two-step. The four of us lounge in our seats, turned toward one another.

A woman with her back to me standing in a small cluster with Greg catches my eye. She looks familiar, but I can’t place the long medium-dark hair or what I can see of her figure in a dress with a flared skirt. Her legs are fantastic, though, long and toned.

She turns to smile at Greg when he says something and I almost fall off my chair.

Christina.

“Holy crap.” The other three guys turn around at my shocked tone. “My dance instructor is here.”

“Really? At a hockey-sponsored event?” Mathieu’s accent makes it “reeelly.”

“Where?” Buzz leans forward.

“Over there,” I say, gesturing with a tilt of my head. “In the gold dress in Greg’s group.”

He looks and his eyes go wide. “Dude. Are you serious? Am I the only one who knows who anyone is?”

“Who is she? A skater? A local celebrity or something?”

“Wait, your dance instructor?” Kyle interjects.

“Yeah, Prancer here ballroom dances in his spare time.” Buzz is snickering so hard he can barely speak. “Hey, Prancer. Go ask her to dance.”

“Who is she?”

“Apparently, your dance teacher. Come on. We want to see you strut your stuff. Hey guys,” he calls to a few more players lingering at the bar and gestures them over. “Prancer’s instructor is over there. Shouldn’t they dance for us?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“No question.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

I roll my eyes. This is not going to go away. I have no idea what I was thinking saying that out loud. But dancing could be an effective way to distinguish myself, maybe show Mr. Donovan I’m more than just a pretty face and good goalie statistics. Not that he necessarily cares about anything beyond my performance on the ice.

I stand.

The guys cheer, and Christina turns to face us.

I stride toward her.