Page 17 of Lucky Shot (Moonshot Hockey #1)

I don’t point out that those things aren’t easy for everyone.

“Morning, everyone,” the woman coach from yesterday skates in the middle of the rink. “We’re going to start in two minutes so get your gear on. We’re starting on the ice today.”

Nick looks to me as if prompting me to ask whatever I can in the short time we have left.

“Okay.” I look at my notebook. “Can you tell me what a week during the season looks like for you?”

“It varies by team and coaching preferences, but I get to the rink around nine and I’m here until one or two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“And is it all…” I wave my hand around. “Skating around with a puck?”

His lips twitch with a smile. “No.”

“Walk me through a day.” I find I’m curious to know more about him and not strictly for the book.

“I eat breakfast, then meetings, work out, get on the ice for drills or scrimmaging, then recovery—ice bath, red light therapy, a massage, something like that, then I head home to pick up Aidan from school.” While he speaks, he moves back and forth – pacing on the ice.

His stick moves in front of him, guiding a puck effortlessly.

It’s kind of distracting and a lot hot. Who knew hockey players were so sexy. Maybe my publisher was onto something.

“Meetings?” I try and fail to picture him in a stuffy boardroom.

“We’ll watch video from the last game or scope out the next team.”

“Research.”

“Exactly.”

I scribble down his words as I ask a few more follow-up questions about his daily routine.

His answers are short and concise, but I never feel like he’s holding back – more that he takes for granted how ingrained he is in the sport.

The more he talks, the more things I realize I don’t know, and when camp starts, I fight back a tinge of disappointment.

I close my notebook and slide my pen in the spiral binding.

Nick looks to me as kids swarm around him. “Are you sticking around?”

“Will you have time to chat more?”

“Yeah. I’ll make sure Travis can cover lunch.”

“Okay.” I stand quickly, making myself a little lightheaded in the process. I think I’m high on nice Nick vibes. “I guess I’ll see you then. Good luck.”

Good luck? I groan inwardly. I don’t know what it is about this guy, but now that he’s playing nice, I find myself reverting back to my teenage self and she was one hundred percent awkward.

“Thanks.” Nick offers me one last dimpled grin.

During lunch, he leads me down a hallway to a small office. Nick stands in the doorway and waves for me to enter.

I take a seat in front of the desk in one of two blue plastic chairs. Nick stands behind the desk, arms crossed over his chest and leaning against the wall.

“Okay. Should I…”

He nods. “Fire away.”

Before I can, Travis appears with two food containers.

“Sandwiches?” he asks Nick, then glances at me and smiles. “Ruby-Doo!”

“Hi.” I laugh at the nickname. “That’s a new one.”

Up close, he’s even cuter. Big brown eyes and long lashes and that smile is full of charm.

“Thanks,” Nick says, stepping forward and taking both containers of food. He holds one out to me.

“Oh. Thanks.” I hadn’t considered food for the day and my stomach is growling.

Travis walks farther into the room, ignoring the annoyed look Nick sends in his direction, and takes the seat next to me. He learns forward in his chair. The excitement splashed across his face has me reciprocating his smile.

“What kind of books do you write?”

“Romance. Mostly paranormal, but I’m branching out to contemporary.”

“Like werewolves and dragons?”

“Vampires, actually.”

Somehow his smile stretches wider. “What about historical? Dukes, viscounts, bodices, and long walks around gardens? I was obsessed with Bridgerton when it first came out. It was basically my entire personality.”

“No. I haven’t tried historical yet. Are you a big romance reader?”

“I’m more of a film guy.” He glances at Nick. “I get it now.”

“Trav,” Nick says in a low, warning tone.

“Get what?” My brows pinch together in confusion.

“You’re beautiful, and everyone knows Nick’s dad loves to set him up.” He tips his head toward Nick without looking at him. “His dad thinks a good woman will make him less grumpy.”

I glance over at Nick in time to catch an eye roll.

“Yes, I definitely feel less grumpy every time he sets me up with someone against my will.” Nick sits in the leather office chair on the other side of the desk.

There’s something I like about seeing him slightly off-kilter, a little exasperated.

It makes me feel like less of a mess for not having it all together, like he appears most of the time.

“Mike means well.” Travis waves it off.

“I don’t think that’s why Mike brought me here,” I say, mulling over the idea and immediately dismissing it.

“Maybe not. It could just be a happy coincidence that you’re beautiful.”

I’m blushing, which is ridiculous. Travis seems like the kind of guy who throws out compliments like confetti.

“Dude.” Nick winces then rubs his forehead with two fingers.

“What? She is.” He looks to me. “You are.”

“Thanks.”

He stands quickly. “How long are you in town?”

“I’m not sure,” I say because even though Nick has agreed to let me stay, it feels like he might still change his mind.

“We should grab dinner sometime.”

“Trav,” Nick says, sounding more exasperated. “She’s here to work.”

“Fine. Fine. Well, if you need any research help on the Victorian era, I’m your guy, but Nick is one of the smartest hockey players I know so you’re in good hands.”

“I appreciate it.”

He flashes me another giant smile, then slides his gaze to Nick. “Later, loser.”

As quickly as he waltzed in, he’s gone.

“Sorry about him,” Nick says with a heavy sigh.

“Don’t be. He’s funny. Have you been friends a long time?”

“Since I joined the team.”

“Two years ago,” I say, realizing too late that I’ve just admitted too much. I give him a sheepish smile. “I looked you up.”

Birthdate June twentieth. Drafted out of college. Played in Chicago, then Minnesota, and now here. And no social media as far as I could find.

“I looked you up too,” he says.

“Really?” I don’t even try to hide my surprise.

“You’re not just an author, you’re a bestselling author, translated in a bunch of different countries.”

My face flushes with embarrassment. Are you still a bestselling author if your last book flopped? I know the answer is yes, but it doesn’t feel that way.

I glance down as the heat continues to creep down my neck. I can’t even let myself think about what he might have read about me online. I’ve seen more than a few headlines about “disappointing sales numbers.”

He clears his throat and leans back in his chair as he pops open his lunch container, carefully avoiding my gaze.

I’m still wearing his sweatshirt. It’s light purple with Moonshot Hockey written across the front in white letters. His number is on the right shoulder, but in my case, it hangs down at elbow-length. I push the sleeves up and open my lunch, but I’m too jittery to eat.

“What other questions do you have for me?” he asks as he pulls out a sandwich.

I set my food aside and glance down at my notes, happy to have the distraction from thinking about my career.

“I have a couple game play scenarios. One where the hero needs to do something amazing and another where he screws up.”

“Something amazing?”

“The heroine is in the stands, and he wants to impress her,” I say, setting the scene. “Does that happen? Do you invite women and then try to impress them with your hockey skills?”

“No,” he says quickly as if the thought is absolutely ludicrous.

“Never?”

He pauses as if considering it, but only for a second. “Maybe in high school or early in my juniors’ career.”

I want to pick at that but keep myself in the professional zone. “Okay, well, what’s the most impressive thing you’ve done during a game?”

He grins but doesn’t answer immediately.

“Was it a hat trick or a slick deke move against a defender.” I don’t even know what I’m saying. I’ve read just enough hockey stuff over the past day to use a few terms, probably not the right way.

“Fans tend to be more impressed by goals than anything else, so I would go that route,” he says.

“Okay. Great. What does that look like? Play-by-play.”

He chuckles softly. “Usually people are critiquing my game, not asking for my interpretation of it.”

I smile back at him, waiting. He takes a moment to collect himself, then gives me the play like he’s a sportscaster. His face is more animated than I’ve seen it, and those dimples are continually on display.

I write it down word-for-word, pen moving fast over the paper. I feel giddy, like I was there for it. And I can’t stop smiling at him.

“And no girls were impressed?” I ask, disbelieving. I’m impressed now just hearing it. Sure, I don’t really know that much about hockey, but I could feel the passion of it. There’s no way the fans in the crowd didn’t feel it too.

“Maybe, but I don’t see a lot beyond what’s happening on the ice. The fans and the lights, the music…it all becomes background noise.”

“I guess that makes sense.” I chew on the end of my pen as I think. “What about a time when you screwed up?”

“How badly are we talking?” he asks, then adds, “Mistakes happen all the time. Missed shots or passes, penalties at the wrong time that shift momentum. Most of the time, I push past it and keep going. Lingering on it can cause cascading effects.”

I nod. “Something bad enough that you couldn’t shake it off.”

I want to know for the book, but I also want to know because it’s him and I find him fascinating.

“Last season during our final game, I had a breakaway in the first minute of play. Defenders were too far back to stop me. I flew down the ice. Just me and the goalie, this young kid, his first playoff appearance. I knew the pressure he was feeling. I remember what it was like, nothing really prepares you for it.”