Page 12 of Lucky Shot (Moonshot Hockey #1)

RUBY

“Hey, Champ,” a woman greets Nick as we enter the restaurant together. Her gaze goes to me and I get a far less enthusiastic, “Welcome in.”

We’re at a place down the street from the rink. It felt so good to walk outside in the sunshine I almost didn’t want to go inside another air-conditioned building, but it’s not nearly as chilly in here as the rink.

“Why did she call you Champ?”

He shrugs.

“Some kind of nickname?”

“Something like that.”

Is he embarrassed? It’s hard to read any emotion on his face.

“I can think of a lot worse nicknames than Champ,” I say, thinking of all the terrible things people called me over the years as we sit in a booth in the back corner.

He quirks a brow in a silent challenge. I sit forward and place my elbows on the table.

“Red, for starters.”

His lips quirk with a smile and one of his dimples peeks out.

“Then there’s Big Red, Carrot Top, Ginger, Firecracker?—”

“I like that one. Suits you.”

I don’t know if that’s a compliment or an insult and I don’t stop to think about it.

“Why are redheads the only ones tormented for their hair color?” I ask.

“I’m not sure.” His gaze flicks up to my hair, then slowly moves down as if truly examining my face for the first time.

Goosebumps dot my skin and I shiver but this time not because of the temperature.

“Still cold?” he asks, quirking that damn brow again like there might be something wrong with me.

I nod. “Since I arrived. Does it get warmer here later in the summer?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes.”

There are no straight answers with this guy.

The same woman who greeted us when we walked in arrives at the end of our table with two drinks and menus tucked under one arm. Her nametag reads Annie.

“Iced tea, no sugar,” she says as she sets one glass in front of Nick. Then she looks to me as she sets the other down. “Here’s a water. Do you want anything else?”

“Water is fine.” I’m afraid if I say yes, she might spit in it.

She nods and sets the menus down between us, looking back to Nick. I don’t know if she intends to hit on him, but her body language is solely focused on him. Angled so she basically has her back to me, jutting out one hip, and smiling. “The usual for you?”

“I think we need a minute,” he says as he picks up the top menu and hands it to me.

“Right.” Annie lingers another second before turning on her heel with flair. Nick is either clueless or purposely avoiding watching her dramatics to get his attention.

“What all is good here?” I ask as I scan the menu.

“The only thing that’s good here are the burgers.”

“Good thing there are so many options.” One entire side is dedicated to burgers – from double patties of beef to veggie.

“Stick with something simple.”

“Why did you pick this place if the food is bad?” I ask, smiling despite it all – this bizarre day, the reminders of Matt everywhere I turn, and now sitting across from this grumpy man.

“We come here a lot.”

“We?” I ask. “You and your girlfriend?”

He gives me a dry, apathetic look like the idea of him having a girlfriend is stupid. Maybe he’s not into women. “My teammates. It’s close to the rink and the atmosphere is nice.”

I glance around at the place. It has a real sports bar vibe.

TVs are mounted along the walls and behind the bar.

A variety of sports games are on. I smile when I see the Mustangs game on one.

They’re playing a Montana team in Arizona.

I pull out my phone to snap a picture of the TV. Olivia will get a kick out of it.

Nick swivels around to see what I’m taking a picture of.

“That’s my brother-in-law,” I say.

“Where?”

“The guy pitching on the TV.”

“Flynn Holland is your brother-in-law?” he asks with a hint of surprise and possibly interest.

Pride zips through me. “You know him?”

“Sure. Great pitcher.”

“He is,” I say proudly. “And great guy too.”

I send the picture to my sister and then tuck my phone back into my purse.

When Annie returns, Nick orders a cheeseburger and fries.

“Same for me,” I say.

He leans back in the booth when she’s gone. “Are you a baseball fan then?”

“I’m not sure I can answer that since we have a no personal questions rule in place.”

The dry look he gives me is so on par for him that it pulls a laugh from me.

“My grandfather works for the Mustangs, and Flynn plays so I sort of have to be, but otherwise, not really. I’m not very sporty.”

His right dimple appears as he flashes a half smile at me. It is…dazzling. Good thing he doesn’t smile more because sweet baby rhinos it’s a good look for him.

“You’re not sporty and you don’t know hockey. Why did you decide to write a book about hockey?”

At the mention of my job, I reach for my notebook and pen to jot down any notes because that’s what I’m doing here, not being dazzled because the grumpy hockey player has the ability to smile. “I didn’t. My publisher requested it.”

“They can do that?”

“They can when the author is desperate to publish another book,” I admit.

He gives me a pitying look and I think I may have said too much.

“Anyway.” I flip open my notebook. “You were going to walk me through a hockey game.”

His face scrunches up, pained. “Yeah, I thought about that. I can do that, if you want, but it might be easier to cover the rules and objectives. Then I can go over a few of the standard plays we run.”

“That would be great.” I fight the blush heating my cheeks. He’s being so amenable. Maybe he was just hangry. Though the food hasn’t arrived yet so I’m not sure that logic works.

For the next half hour, Nick talks hockey. I scribble furiously as I write down everything he says, nearly word for word. Half of it doesn’t make sense to me, and his answers to my follow-up questions don’t provide a lot of clarity.

Annie brought our food somewhere between his explanation of the different positions and rules of the game, but mine still sits untouched.

“Okay, let me see if I can summarize.” I pop a fry in my mouth and chew as I review my notes. Once I’m finished chewing, I say, “The game starts with a face-off at half-court.”

“Center ice,” he corrects.

“Right. That’s what I meant.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, revealing one of his dimples again.

“The disc is called a puck, and players try to shoot it into the other team’s goal.” Not basket. He already corrected me on that.

“Simple, right?”

I stifle a laugh. If that’s all there was to it, then sure. “I still don’t understand the rules or job of each player, but I’m not sure I need that level of detail for my book.”

“Well what position does he play?”

“He was a shortstop. Any chance you have one of those in hockey?”

Nick blanches. Guess not.

“What position are you?” I ask.

“I’m a forward. I’ve played wing but I’m primarily a center.”

“Which means?”

His body language has relaxed and his expression doesn’t seem to hold any annoyance at my complete stupidity on his profession. I think I’ve figured it out. It’s hockey that makes him less grumpy. In Nick Galaxy’s world, people are the worst. But hockey and children are okay.

“I play in the middle on a line.”

“Like the lines on the ice? Blue, red…” I try to remember if there are other colors. I stared at the ice for hours today but still can’t picture it.

“No.” He shakes his head, a little of his usual scowl returning. “The three forwards make up a line. There are four lines, typically, and we rotate in and out, so no one is out on the ice for too long.”

“How long is too long?”

“Depends on a lot of things.”

“I’m sensing everything in hockey depends on a lot of things.”

“That’s not too different from everything else. One decision has cascading effects.”

My mind automatically goes to Matt. If I had never met him, never let him into my life, never fallen in love with him, I could have avoided so many problems.

Most likely I wouldn’t be here right now.

“Are you okay?” Nick asks, voice gentle in his question but somehow still taking on a slightly annoyed tone.

I shake my head to clear the thoughts. “Sorry. I was…I get it.”

He looks like he wants to ask more but doesn’t. “Forty seconds.”

It takes me a beat to realize he’s answering my question from earlier. “That’s quick.”

“Doesn’t feel like it when you’re out there.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” I look down at my notes.

“Have you ever skated before?” he asks.

“Me?” I squeak. “No way. I can barely stay upright on solid ground.”

“Ice is solid.”

I huff a laugh, and we smile over our food. Nick glances away first, then picks up his burger to take another bite. For a few minutes we eat in silence while I try to figure out what else to ask him.

“What’s the season like?” I ask. “When do practices start? When are games? Championships? How long is the off-season?”

I think I remember Flynn saying that the hockey season wasn’t too different from baseball. Maybe all sports follow a schedule. A sports schedule? That could be a thing, right? Makes sense to me.

“We have training camp in mid-September. That kicks off practices, and regular season games begin in October.”

“Oh.” My brows furrow. That is not like baseball. There goes my sports schedule theory. “When is the season over?”

“June, if you’re lucky. Playoffs start in April. Elimination style.”

“Meaning?”

“Only the winning team from each series moves on. Loser starts vacation.”

“Not such a bad consolation prize.”

He lets out a hearty laugh that makes my stomach flip. “Nobody wants to start vacation before June.”

“So, assuming you win, you have July and August off? Can you go wherever? Do you have to check in with the coaches or anything?”

“For the first month, everyone spreads out. Guys travel to see their families or go on vacation. But by August most are back to training full-time.”

It tracks with what I know of Flynn’s schedule. He took a little bit of time after the end of the season last fall but then got right back into his routine well before Spring Training began.

“That’s a lot of hockey. Do you love it?”

He stares at me blankly, mouth slightly open.