Page 5

CHAPTER 5

THE GREATEST TO HAVE EVER PLAYED

KAYDEN

I'm having a great day.

Unfortunately for Boston, that means they're having an awful one.

During the preseason, I would have held back, but this is opening day, and they're getting the full Kayden Bouchard. The way I'm seeing paths around the defenders and openings in the goalie's stance, the only thing stopping me from scoring a dozen is Coach trying to get more playing time for our third and fourth lines.

When I finally look up at the clock, I groan. Only two minutes left in the game. I've already got three goals. Most players would be thrilled. But I want four.

As my last shot crossed the goal line, giving me the hat trick, I chuckled under my breath and imagined Emory. Picturing the cute look of disgust on her face at the party when she found out what a hat trick is. Feeling the way her body pressed against mine in that cheap hotel room afterward.

For a split second, I wondered if she might just be my good luck charm, and I cursed myself for not getting her phone number. Then I remembered I don't need luck.

"One more shift, Coach?" He glances from his tablet out toward center ice before shaking his head. "Let me hang four on them. I know I've got another goal in me. Maybe even two." He doesn't even acknowledge me now, and no matter how much I bounce on the bench as the clock ticks toward zero, he doesn't change his mind.

As soon as the game is over, Brant lifts his mask and skates over to me. "Which Boston player pissed you off, and how can we get every team to do that to you this season?"

"It's the power of a positive attitude, Branny. I'm in a great mood, and it shows. I don't think it would be possible for anyone to piss me off, even if they tried."

He stops at the gate leading to the tunnel. "You have been in a good mood. All week."

I shrug him off and head toward the dressing room. "Have I? It's the start of the season. You're telling me you don't get excited for it too?"

"It's more than that. And whatever this is started right after Chloe's party on the fourth."

"Holy shit, you two were fire out there!" Sammy squeezes between us and throws his arms around our shoulders. "A hat trick for the best center in the league, and how many saves, Branny? At least fifty. Maybe there was something in Chloe's birthday cake."

"Something in the cake? Please." I elbow Sammy in the ribs. "There's a reason people call me the greatest to have ever played. It's skill, my dude. Besides, Poppy ate more cake than all of us combined, and it didn't do anything for his game." He's just in front of us, and we all burst into laughter when he flips me off.

"The only people who ever call you the greatest are the ones who live in your dreams. You know, maybe Chloe's party didn't have anything to do with this after all," Brant says. "You left a little early that night. Maybe something happened afterward to put you in this mood? Anything you want to share with the rest of us?"

Sammy oohs at his implication, as if we're high school freshmen, but I don't acknowledge it. It's just a coincidence that I've felt great since that night .

"Now that I think about it, Emory left the party a few minutes after you did." Brant obviously doesn't know when to quit. "That's strange, both of you leaving so soon after the other."

I stop outside the scratched metal door leading to the visitor's dressing room and flash him my most innocent smile. Thankfully, Sammy throws his gloves into the bin and keeps walking. "Not strange at all. I'm sure the party just wasn't the same without me there. You probably bored Emory to sleep. I bet she left and went straight to bed."

Brant nods and runs a hand along his jaw. "Is that what you think? She left the party to go to bed? Is that what you did too?"

"You know me, Branny." I flick the back of my hand against his chest. "Early to bed, early to rise."

He checks the hallway to make sure we're alone and then leans in."Yeah, I know you, and I love you like you're my brother. But remember what I said about Emory."

"Branny, there's nothing going on between me and Emory. Besides, she's in Denver. I'll probably never even see her again." Something shifts in my stomach as I say it. Just postgame indigestion, I'm sure.

Brant frowns for a few silent seconds, like he's debating whether to say more. Finally, he gives me a single nod before walking into the dressing room. "Right."

Music blasts us as we walk in. There's so much energy in the room I can feel it. Opening the season with a five-to-nothing win on the road will do that to a team. Even Branny is smiling again.

"So where we going tonight, Captain?"

Everyone in the room turns to me, as if they don't already know the answer. I pretend to think for a second until someone—I have no doubt it's Poppy—throws a sweat-soaked towel that slaps against the side of my face. "How about McQuinn's?" The boys erupt. Even Poppy drops his ruse and flashes me a smile, although I'm not sure why he would want to go to McQuinn's.

When we're at home, we stick to a quiet bar on the outskirts of town. It's the kind of place no one would ever expect to find a hockey team after a game. McQuinn's, however, is the complete opposite of that. I bet every team in the league goes there when they're in Boston. And every woman in Boston knows it.

The boys are still shouting as Coach walks into the room. One by one, we all go quiet as we notice him. "Would you look at these clowns?" Coach turns to his assistant, who just shakes his head. "I've been around hockey for a long time, and I've never seen such a nauseating game as that out there tonight. As a lifelong Boston fan, that is. As coach of the Salt Lake City Sting, however, hell of a game boys! Turn that garbage you're listening to up louder. You deserve to celebrate for one night."

Jonas doesn't hesitate. He turns it so loud our pads rattle in the stalls.

"Bouchard," Coach yells over the noise. He catches my eye and points to the left. I know exactly what he means, so I just nod. The press room is in that direction, and he wants me for postgame interviews. Naturally.

I hustle through my shower, pull my suit back on and run some gel through my still wet hair. Just enough to give it a sexy, messy style that looks like I just came from the shower. Which I did. So it's possible the gel isn't strictly necessary. But it's been a part of my ritual for years, so I'm not changing it now.

The press room is packed, and as soon as I walk in, reporters start shouting questions at me. I flash a smile for the cameras as I take the seat beside Coach. It should be obvious I'm not going to respond to any of the shouted questions—no one ever does—but they don't stop until the sports information director steps in front of them and holds up her hands.

Once they're finally quiet, I stand up. "Well, if no one has any questions for me, I guess I'll leave."

Laugher ripples through the room as I sit back down. Then we fall into the orderly pattern these pressers always take on. One by one, we go around the room. Usually, the reporters ask the same boring questions. On opening night, they always want to know about summer conditioning and how it feels to be back on the ice again.

Tonight, though, the first questions are all about my hat trick. Did I think tonight was going to be special before I even got onto the ice? Yes. How did it feel when the opposing fans booed me after my third goal? I don't pay attention to that. I'm just focused on the game and my teammates. Why didn't I score after the second period? Because it's not about personal stats, and since Coach is a Boston boy, I was afraid he wouldn't let me on the plane if I scored too many against his childhood team.

Almost everyone in the room chuckles, just like I expect them to. Except for one man in the back who I've never seen before. He has that air of forced detachment that I sometimes see in new reporters. The ones who have been around for a while usually give up that pretense once they get to know us and realize we're people just like them. But there are some who come into this job either wanting to make a name for themselves or resenting the athletes they cover. I'll never understand it, but it happens. And I get the feeling the man in the back of the room falls into one of those two categories.

When he finally gets the mic, his eyes glint, and I almost roll mine. "Bouche, Dave Williams from the Post." I want to groan, but I force a smile anyway. I hate when new reporters use my nickname before they even know me."The Sting have an off day tomorrow. Anything… special planned for tonight?"

"Other than heading back to the hotel and reading a book?" He laughs at my answer as if it's an obvious joke, so I chuckle too. Then I give him my default answer whenever a question like this comes up. "I love Boston and the people who live here, so I always make sure to go out and enjoy it every time I get the chance to visit."

Normally that satisfies reporters, even the sleazy ones who ask about my personal life, but not him. "Just one follow-up question. Everyone here knows your reputation." He pauses, like he's savoring the moment. "So, what type of enjoyment are you looking for tonight? Blonde, brunette, or both?" He actually has the audacity to smirk and nudge the man sitting next to him.

My elbows dig into the plastic table as I lean forward. He's right. People do know my reputation, and because of that, they think they know me. I let them keep that illusion as long as they don't cross the line, but this guy is toeing right up to it.

"Look, I'm twenty-six and single. I don't make apologies for who I am, but that has nothing to do with my performance on the ice. But you should apologize for the sexist way you just reduced women to something so superficial as hair color. Personally, I think what's under the hair is much more important and interesting."

With each word, Dave's face grows redder. I don't know him well enough to predict how he's going to respond, so I stand and try to leave the room before he gets a chance. I don't like situations where I'm in the dark.

But I don't make it.

"You don't think being one of the league's most notorious playboys is sexist?"

I don't know why I can't just walk away. Leaving without a comment is the right thing to do, but this guy is making me so angry I can't resist the temptation of one last jab.

"When you do it right, sex is about as far from sexism as you can get. Maybe you're just not doing it right." I wink at him and head back to the dressing room.