Page 10 of Lucky Shot (Moonshot Hockey #1)

RUBY

I do not learn hockey by osmosis. At least not in the first hour.

I do turn into an ice block. It is so freaking cold in here. My arms and legs are covered in goosebumps. It’s not the first time I’ve suffered for my art, and certainly won’t be the last.

I’m seated a few rows up, off to the side of a group of moms. I thought maybe they’d chat hockey things that might be helpful in my research.

Instead, they’ve spent most of the sixty minutes or so I’ve been sitting here talking about their kids’ many summer activities.

Outside of hockey camp, there’s swim team, dance class, soccer, piano, karate – these moms are navigating CEO-level schedules.

I’m exhausted for them – the moms and the kids.

One woman sits by herself on my other side with a book in her lap.

She glances up occasionally to watch her child, then goes right back to reading.

Some dads are here too. They’re more intent on the action down on the ice.

They call out things like “Move your feet, Billy!” and “Two hands on the stick,” and “Shoot!” and the most confusing of all “Where’s the D?

” I’m not sure who or what ‘D’ is but one particular man is very adamant that his kid, Henry, find it.

I’ve been scribbling things into a notebook but most of it is nonsense. This was perhaps not my best laid plan. Maybe I should start with some basic edits, like changing the word baseball to hockey in all one hundred and seventy-three instances in the manuscript.

As I reach for my laptop, I glance down at the ice.

Nick glides across the rink, smooth and almost graceful.

He comes to a stop in front of a little girl with hair redder than mine sticking out around her helmet.

She’s standing next to the wall, inching around the perimeter, clutching on to a bright yellow walker-looking device that some of the kids are using to keep them upright.

Nick skates backward slowly as she inches forward. He bends his knees as he speaks to her, moving his hands around to punctuate whatever he’s saying.

She nods, then tries to mimic his actions.

It’s pretty cute, her not him, and makes me think about my niece Greer.

She’s about the same age as these kids, sassy and adorable, and one of my favorite humans ever.

The only good thing about possibly heading back to Arizona sooner than planned is seeing her.

It’s easier to stay in touch with my sister and the rest of the family when I travel, but Greer tends to get distracted on video or phone calls and the texts she sends from Olivia’s phone are ninety percent emojis.

While I do a find-and-replace in my book, I continually catch myself glancing back at the ice.

The kids are in two groups on either side of the rink.

The little ones are still learning to skate with Nick while Travis and a blond woman are with the older ones leading them through complicated looking drills.

Right now, they’re sprinting (is it still called sprinting when you’re wearing skates?) around orange cones and shooting discs into a large basket.

It’s impressive, but my attention keeps moving back to the littlest group. Or more specifically to Nick.

He’s back with the redheaded girl. She places her yellow walker next to the wall and slowly inches away from it.

She’s unsteady, waving her arms around for balance.

Nick offers her his hand and she lunges for him, taking it, then wrapping her little body around his right forearm.

It’s a miracle neither of them goes down.

Nick is patient as he allows her to regain her footing.

Once she does, he skates back, continuing to hold her hands while she gets the hang of it.

He lets go of one hand, then the other. She’s still wobbly but she’s grinning now.

At least until she falls. He doesn’t help her get up, but stays there, encouraging her.

I’d been trying to be nice when I told him he was a good coach, but it looks like I was right.

My phone pings loudly and I give the woman with the book an apologetic glance as I switch it to vibrate and then open the text from Molly.

This morning I filled her in on the situation – namely that our hockey expert was not expecting me.

I left out a lot of details, including that he was a jerk. It would only make her feel worse.

Molly

Hi! Checking in. How are you? I’m so sorry about all this. I’m making some calls to see if there’s anyone else available on short notice. It’s the off-season so a lot of players and coaches are on vacation. Hang tight. I will figure this out.

Poor Molly. The hot, grumpy hockey player has ruined her day too.

I thank her, then put my phone away and settle back in with my laptop.

I pull up my browser and do a search for hockey terms and rules.

A knot forms in my chest and I’m transported back to my college French class, helplessly deciphering words and phrases.

I feel hopeless and I really hate that feeling.

A whistle blows down on the ice and the kids are ushered off to benches where they drink water and eat snacks while the coaches talk with them. Nick stands next to the younger group while Travis and the blond woman demonstrate something.

Travis is cute. He has dark brown hair like Nick, but his is longer and wavier, and he’s continually pushing it out of his eyes. Everything about him is looser and more carefree. Even the way Nick stands, arms crossed over his chest, back rigid, screams grumpy and inaccessible.

The woman is tall and athletic. She’s in black leggings that show off toned legs and a butt that I’d kill for.

Her hair is pulled up into a high ponytail, ends curled, and she has on a headband that covers her ears.

She’s Sporty Spice. Gorgeous and athletic.

I watch Nick to see how he interacts with her.

I wonder if she’s his type. Sporty people dig other sporty people, right?

It makes sense. Book people tend to like other book people.

My last two boyfriends have been involved in the publishing world.

The first one was an editor for a young adult publisher that I met at a book signing.

He was wonderful but three months in, he accepted a job in Australia and the time difference became too hard.

One of us was always sleeping and a relationship can’t be sustained on texts alone—or at least ours couldn’t.

The second was a fellow author. Decidedly not wonderful. Biggest asshole in the world? Possibly. Now that I think about it, I might want to venture out of my usual type.

“Hi,” the woman with the book speaks quietly. “I’m so sorry to bother you.”

“It’s no problem.” I close my laptop to give her my attention. It’s then that I notice she’s closed her book as well. The front cover catches my eye, and all the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. White cover, with red foil details highlighting the title: Becoming Alaric.

My stare bounces around the familiar book cover, then lingers on the name—one that’s been prominent in news headlines across the globe for months. Matthew Rose.

His real name is Matthew Rosenthyme, but I’d known him as just Matt. Sometimes Matty.

We met at a writers conference. He’d just published his debut novel and was struggling to find his voice and his audience.

He was hungry to be successful but also had this confidence about him that I found dazzling.

Instead of ducking in corners and avoiding eye contact like most struggling authors, he had this unwavering belief in himself that he would get there. And I guess he was right.

I was coming off my biggest book yet and still felt like an imposter.

My friend Lily had to miss the event so I was alone and seriously regretting not opting for the virtual option where I could have been sitting at home in my pajamas.

I’m not a strict introvert, but I hate initiating conversations with people I don’t know in situations where it feels like everyone is already grouped off.

I noticed Matt within the first hour of arriving.

Tall, fit, a little preppy. He was alone too but looked perfectly at ease about it, flashing smiles and hellos everywhere he went.

On day two, our paths finally crossed. We were at the hotel bar after a long, boring talk on legal issues for authors—copyrights, non-disclosure agreements, and contracts.

All very important things but not particularly compelling.

Matt was funny and self-assured and that made me feel a little bit less like an imposter.

One article said he had the appeal of a Grisham or a Patterson and the looks of a Hemsworth or an Affleck. Proof that you shouldn’t trust a pretty face. That last part is mine, not the journalists, but only because they don’t know what an asshole he is in real life.

The woman with the book stares at me like she asked me a question. Shit. I blink away the memories and tamp back the uneasy feeling swirling in my gut as I force a smile back at her. “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I wondered if you know what time camp ends?”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t.”

I avert my gaze back to the ice and will myself to get it together. I feel her stare linger a moment before she turns back around and opens her book again. I’m sure she thinks I’m rude, but it’s all I can do to breathe and not cry.

Nick picks this particular moment to look up and we lock eyes. His expression instantly morphs into the glower. All the optimism and determination I walked in here with evaporates.

Fuck it. I don’t need this. I can google hockey shit in Arizona far away from this prick.

I pack up my laptop and notebook and head down the stairs. I’m rounding a corner when Nick calls out to me.

“Red!”