Page 19 of Lucky Shot (Moonshot Hockey #1)

RUBY

The next morning I am ready to go to the rink, appropriately dressed and prepared with new questions, fifteen minutes early.

I head out to my rental car with plans to stop by Café Moon on my way.

I want to be wide-eyed and bushy-tailed because I am capable.

I am a talented writer. I have a fantastic work ethic.

I’ve been given another chance. I am under deadline. And I can freaking do this.

I’ve been giving myself that same pep talk since yesterday afternoon when I closed my laptop for the day without writing a single word. I just need a little more information first. More hockey research, more time to let it all soak in.

“Morning.” Nick’s rough voice startles me.

He’s on the front porch, duffel slung over one shoulder, and two coffees – one in each hand.

My heart speeds up at the sight of him. He’s freshly shaved again this morning, and I take in those glorious dimples.

His face has so much character. It isn’t smooth and perfect.

It’s filled with a million interesting details like it was sculpted by an artist with an impeccable eye.

Perhaps that’s why his scowls feel so weighty.

All those details spark to life with his emotions.

“Good morning,” I reply, a little breathier than I’d like. I stop walking as he takes the steps and crosses the driveway toward me.

The wind brings his scent to me before he’s close, something clean and woodsy like he showered in the great outdoors. Now there’s a nice visual.

My face flushes as he holds out one of the coffees to me.

“For me?” I ask, a smile lifting the corners of my mouth.

His answer is a tiny nod.

“Thank you.”

“The coffee at the rink is awful,” he says as if that’s the only reason for the nice gesture. I can’t get a good read on him. He’s nice, considerate even, good with kids, successful, has at least one normal friend. What the hell does he have to be so moody about?

I mean besides the whole his dad invited me here without him knowing because admittedly that might make anyone grumpy. Still, that was days ago, we seem to have moved past it and yet, he still walks around like he has the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.

The screen door slams as Aidan walks out the front door. Nick steps back, opening his stance to his son.

“Got everything?” Nick asks him.

“Yeah,” Aidan replies with that distinct childish air of incredulity, like how dare you question my ability to pack a bag.

“Good.” Nick looks to me. “Meet you at the rink?”

“Yeah.”

We’re the first ones to arrive. Nick unlocks the door to let us in, then disappears to turn on the lights in the building. Aidan wastes no time getting dressed and heading out onto the ice. I wander down to the same spot on the bench where I sat yesterday.

After setting my stuff down, I peer over the ledge at the ice. A shiver makes my whole body jump.

Aidan steps out from the other side, smoothly gliding across the surface with his hockey stick in one hand. He tosses a puck down and starts doing a very complicated looking drill.

“How hard could it be?” I say to myself as I open the gate. I take one tentative step onto the ice. It feels solid enough. The cold seeps through the flimsy soles of my shoes as I step out with my other foot.

I feel wobbly, like a baby deer or a toddler attempting to stand. Greer was so stinking cute when she was at that stage.

Feeling a little more confident, I take another tentative step, this time farther from the gate.

“It’s easier with skates.” His deep voice startles me, and I swivel around, losing my balance in the process and going down hard on my butt.

It hurts. My pride hurts worse.

“Shit. Sorry.” He hurries out onto the ice to help me up. His big hands wrap around each of my wrists, and he pulls me to my feet. He looks me over as the cold radiates through my clothing.

“Are you all right?” His fingers hold me in place as he continues to stare at me with concern. His eyes spark a darker shade of green and up close that dimple in his chin is so tempting. I want to trace it with my finger…or maybe my tongue.

“Yes,” I say, reeling my thoughts in. I’m filled with a sudden embarrassment for daydreaming about licking his face and the sting in my butt. “You all make it look so easy.”

One side of his mouth lifts. “I could grab you a pair of skates from the back. What size are you?”

“Oh no.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to skate.”

He lifts a brow, calling my bluff since he just found me walking onto the ice.

“I had a momentary lapse in judgment, but I remember now why I don’t do sporty things.” I summon the use of my wobbly legs and carefully make my way back to the safety of the bench.

“So,” I say, composing myself in a professional way that hopefully wipes his memory of me flat on my ass. “Should we jump in?”

He hesitates a beat, perhaps surprised by my switch in topic, while I gingerly sit. Finally, he waves a hand, indicating I should continue.

My tailbone still aches, but I push it from my mind as I read the first question on my list, “What’s game day like?”

“Home or away?”

“Are they different?” I ask. “Aside from location, of course.”

“Not for everyone, maybe.”

“But it is for you?”

His jaw works back and forth. It’s not in the angry, annoyed way I’ve seen before, but in a more contemplative way as if he’s rethinking his answer or choosing his words carefully.

“Maybe you want to just walk me through both?” I ask, hoping to make it easier for him to explain.

It’s another few seconds of quiet, only Aidan’s skates and the sound of him hitting the puck in the background, before Nick speaks again.

“I do pretty much the same thing regardless of where I am once I get to the rink. I change clothes, set out my gear, then tape my stick. After that I have a protein shake and then chug some water so I’m hydrated.

Then I stretch, get treatment, if needed, go to meetings. ”

“More research meetings?”

“Before the game we have a team meeting to talk about power plays or any last-minute lineup changes on either team that are going to impact our style of play.”

“Strategy.”

“Yeah.” He bobs his head in agreement.

“How soon is that before the game?”

“About two hours before.”

“And then what do you do?” I’m sitting forward, the pain in my butt completely forgotten. It’s hard to pinpoint why I’m so intrigued—by him or the intricacies of hockey. My guess, based on a lifetime of disinterest in sports, it’s the former.

“Then it’s time to get loose and warmed up before we take the ice.”

“More stretching?”

“Some of the guys do that.”

“What do you do?”

A boyish grin lifts the corners of his mouth and a swarm of butterflies takes flight in my stomach.

“I kick a soccer ball around with Travis.”

“Soccer?”

“Yeah. It’s a thing a lot of hockey guys do. It’s a fun way to work out any nerves while getting the legs warm.”

“Makes sense.” I bring the pen to my lips as I think. I hadn’t expected this much detail in his game day routine, and I have a dozen more questions now. “It’s just you and Travis?”

“Yeah. Some of the younger guys have a big game going in the hallway, but Trav and I go to the training room, where it’s a little quieter.”

“Was it different at your last team?” I ask.

“It was similar enough.”

“Is switching teams hard?”

“Sometimes.”

“Was it for you?”

“No. It was the best thing for me and Aidan.” His tone leaves no room for debate, so I don’t pry but I am curious.

I saw a few news articles and fan discussion boards questioning his trade.

Some people think there was friction with his Wildcat teammates or coaches.

Others speculate that he wanted more money.

“So you and Travis go off, just the two of you, and…kick a soccer ball back and forth?”

He rests two hands on his stick and leans slightly. “Mhmm.”

“Is there music or conversation?”

“The guys in the hallway have music going which filters in to us.”

“And conversation?”

“Mostly Travis fills me in on his dating escapades.”

A surprised laugh bubbles up in my chest. “He’s that guy, huh?”

“Women love him.”

My gaze narrows. I wonder if he thinks women don’t like him. No. No way. That’d be crazy. There’s absolutely no world in which he doesn’t have women vying for his attention at every turn.

“What?” he asks.

I smooth out the questioning look on my face and smile. “Nothing.”

The weighty scowl he returns tells me he knows I’m holding back.

“What about before you go to the rink on game days?”

“If we’re out of town, then there’s a team breakfast and a morning skate, then a nap in the hotel.”

“And at home?” I prompt him.

“I still have breakfast and get to the rink for a skate, but the time at home varies on what else is going on.”

I must have a confused expression as I stare at him because he continues without prompting.

“Aidan might have stuff he needs to do, or my dad might have plans that interfere with my schedule.”

“Like inviting a stranger to stay on your property?” I ask, hoping we’re at the joking phase of the situation now.

“Yeah.” A rough, short laugh slips from his lips.

I smile back at him and for a moment it feels like we’re in on our own private joke. He looks away first and when he glances back, the grumpy version of him is back in full force.

I guide the conversation back to more easy questions about game day, before and after, then during. What’s it like being out on the ice? What are you thinking about? How do you decompress after the game?

“It depends” is his favorite answer. He never says it in a way that makes me think he’s trying to put me off, but more that he can’t seem to drill things down so simply. Maybe hockey really is that complex. It definitely feels that way as I try to make sense of the different penalties.

He’s listing them out for me. “Tripping, high-sticking, hooking?—”

“Hooking?” I ask, certain I heard him wrong.

He nods.

“It’s really called that?”

Another small smile pulls at one side of his mouth. “Yep. It’s a minor penalty.”

“Which means the player spends two minutes in the box?”

“That’s right.”

I breathe a sigh of relief that I’ve managed to remember one tiny detail.

“Have you ever had a hooking penalty?” I still can’t believe it’s called that, though I can’t seem to come up with a better name.

“Oh yeah.”

I quirk a brow. “So they’re common, then?”

He doesn’t strike me as someone who makes a lot of mistakes.

“Yeah. Minor penalties are more common than major, but they all happen. Emotions and adrenaline run high during games. And sometimes, guys just piss you off.”

“You get them on purpose?!”

His smile is even bigger, and those damn dimples are winking at me.

“Wow. I had no idea,” I say at the same time Aidan’s voice carries from the other side of the rink.

“Dammit,” Aidan curses quietly again, head hanging low.

Nick looks from his son back to me.

“Is he okay?” I ask.

Everything in his body language screams his desire to check on Aidan, but his words are calm. “He’s fine. Hockey can be frustrating.”

“At least that makes sense to me.”

“Writing is frustrating?”

“Sometimes.” Lately it’s more like always.

Nick glances back at his son. Even through the mask, I can tell Aidan is scowling like his father.

“Do you want to…?” I let the question hang because I’m not sure what one does in this situation.

When I’m frustrated over a bad writing day, I usually don’t want to talk about it.

I know that isn’t everyone’s preference though.

While I prefer to stew and mull over my plot issues, I’ve sat on calls with Lily for hours helping her get unstuck.

“Yeah, maybe I should check on him. I’ll be quick.”

“It’s okay.” I check the time on my phone. The time has gone fast, as usual, and the campers will be arriving soon.

“You’re leaving?”

“I think I have enough for now.”

“What will you do with the rest of your day?”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he cared how I was going to spend my day.

“Write.” Hopefully. “I have to turn in the new first chapter on Friday.”

He skates slowly backward, still staring at me.

“Thanks for your time.” I lift my cup. “And the coffee.”

“You’re welcome.”

I lift a hand in a wave before turning to leave.

I swear I feel his eyes on me, but when I turn around, he’s on the other side of the rink with Aidan.

Pausing at the door, I watch him. Aidan’s head is bowed and stare downcast as his dad talks to him.

Eventually, he nods, and Nick places a reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder.

I’m still watching when Nick looks up. His gaze goes to the bench where I was sitting, then scans the rink, almost as if looking for someone. Maybe me. I slip out of the door before he spots me.