Page 18 of Lucky Shot (Moonshot Hockey #1)
I nod along like I know. Maybe it’s like publishing your first book – that all-consuming fear and excitement. Everything feels like unlimited possibilities…and countless ways things could go wrong.
“What happened?” I ask, literally and figuratively on the edge of my seat. Adrenaline courses through me as I wait for him to finish the story.
“I had him. He was freaking out, watching me so intently, but a second behind my every move. I faked left and then went right…” He pauses, leaving me hanging for several long seconds as a bashful look crosses his face. “A wide-open look and I rung the pipe.”
“You missed?” I ask, genuinely surprised even though I knew this story was leading in that direction.
“Yep.” He shakes his head. “I was so certain I had him. I took my eye off the goal and…missed.”
I feel the embarrassment of the moment or at least the embarrassment I would feel. An entire stadium of fans watching you mess up. At least for me I can generally hide behind my keyboard. Every typo or poorly executed plot point is discovered miles away from me.
“How do you recover after something like that?” I ask because something tells me he doesn’t follow my method of eating ice cream and binge-watching reality television.
“There isn’t a lot of time to dwell on it in the moment. It’s usually after the game when I rehash it and think about what could have been.” He takes the last bite of his sandwich and then sits back in his chair. When he’s finished chewing, he asks, “Anything else before I head back out there?”
I’m still lost in his story, imagining how I can tweak it for the character in my book. Originally, I told it from the heroine’s point of view, but maybe I should do it from his. “No, I think this is good for now.”
I gather up my stuff and he throws away the trash.
“Can I read it when you’re done?” he asks as we head for the door.
“The game scene?” I nod. “Yeah, in fact, that’d be great.”
“The book.”
“All of it?” I pause. Per usual, the idea of someone reading the words I’m writing (and yes, I know that’s the point) makes me break out into a cool sweat.
“Yeah. I’m intrigued.”
“You don’t even know what it’s about.”
“I know it’s about a hockey player.”
“Are you a big reader?” I think of Flynn. He reads every single one of my books, but I think that’s mostly because Olivia gets a kick out of it.
“Eh.” He bobs his head. “I wouldn’t say I’m a big reader, no, but I always have something on hand during the season while we’re traveling a lot.”
“What genres do you like?” I have a very nice visual of him in some reading glasses with a hardback in his hands. Maybe he’s more my type than I originally gave him credit for.
“All sorts. Some nonfiction, sports biographies mostly, an occasional fiction book.”
“What’s the last fiction book you read?” I ask. I am fine-tuning my visual and…I like it. I like it a lot.
“I read that murder mystery about the guy who turns into a vampire after having bad sushi.” He snaps his fingers as he smiles. “Becoming…”
The blood drains from my face and I work to keep my expression schooled. My voice wavers slightly. “ Becoming Alaric ?”
“Yeah. You know it?”
“I’ve seen it.” I look away and step out of the small room into the hallway. It isn’t his fault that he read the most popular book published last year, but my visual is officially ruined.
“Are you sticking around this afternoon?” he asks as he catches up to me with his long strides.
“I think I have what I need to get started editing.”
“Okay.”
I want to flee before he sees something in my expression I’d rather he didn’t, but instead I meet his gaze. “Thank you for helping me.”
His mouth pulls into a half smile. “You’re welcome.”
“Oh.” I remember I’m wearing his sweatshirt and pull it off.
“Do you need a ride back?”
“No, thanks. I think I’ll catch a ride to a coffee shop. I saw a couple cute ones on our drive in.”
“I could ask my dad to pick you up and take you back to the cabin.”
“No, it’s fine.” I hand him his sweatshirt back.
“It doesn’t bother you to write with people and noise?”
“I like to write with silence but when I’m editing, the more noise the better. I usually blast music.”
“My dad would get a kick out of that.”
“I’ll keep it down,” I promise.
“We’re used to it.”
“Aidan?”
He seems a little young to blast music. I thought that was an angry teenager thing. Then again, I don’t have a lot of experience with kids. Just Greer, and everything she does is adorable.
“He’s learning to play the guitar.” Nick winces as if just talking about it has him shuddering. He gives me a sheepish grin as he holds the door open for me, leading to the ice. I brush past him and then pause in the hallway.
“Thanks again. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. If you have more questions, we can plan on getting to the rink earlier.” He pulls out his phone. “Let me give you my number.”
My stomach flutters in that way it does when you’re talking to someone and taking the next step to stay in touch.
“So we can coordinate,” he adds.
“Right.” Official business, not flirting with me. Fumbling, I pull out my phone. I add his number to my phone, then text him so he has mine.
Somewhere on the ice I can hear one of the coaches tell the kids lunchtime is over. Nick takes a step backward, flashing me those dimples. “If you need anything before tomorrow, just text me.”
“You’ve given me plenty for now.” I clutch my laptop to my chest.
He nods, turns on his heel, and jogs off.
Café Moon smells like dark roast beans and sweet sugar.
A rich, wood bar takes up half the counter space and there are tables along the windows and spaced out around the room.
It’s cozy and warm, and to my surprise, filled with more people than I thought were in all of Moonshot.
It’s bustling with people hurrying in and out.
Others sit with friends or dates, and a few have laptops in front of them, working like me.
After I settle into the booth by the window, I pull out my laptop and my notes.
Excitement courses through me as I read through Nick’s answers to all my questions.
He’s turning out to be different than I thought.
I think he might be a genuinely nice guy underneath his jerk exterior.
I like the way he lights up talking about hockey.
He transforms. Even in reading his thoughts to things like his daily schedule, I find myself grinning at the screen as I remember the way he was so animated as he told it.
Unfortunately, his excitement, and mine, doesn’t translate well. As soon as I switch over to my manuscript, the blinking cursor looms and I’m frozen, fingers poised over the keyboard. I take a deep breath, sit back and eat my scone, giving myself the mother of all pep talks.
You can do this. One word at a time. You’ve done it before. You can do it again. You have got this!
Except with my scone gone and coffee cup empty, I still haven’t made a single edit.
I grab my phone and swipe to read a new text from my sister.
Olivia
How is it going with the hot hockey player?
Chuckling, I tap out a reply.
Me
You can’t keep calling him that.
Olivia
Why not? He’s hot. Flynn agrees.
Me
Because I’m working with him.
And because I don’t need a reminder. Those dimples. Those eyes. Those muscles.
Olivia
Fine. How is it going with the hockey player (who is definitely hot)?
Me
Better than expected.
Olivia
That’s great news!
I can feel her hopefulness. She has always been my biggest cheerleader, and I don’t want to let her, or anyone else, down. I send a smiley face in reply and go back to staring at the cursor.
I can do this…