Page 2 of Lucky Shot (Moonshot Hockey #1)

RUBY

“Six weeks.” Molly’s voice, filled with unwavering finality and a dash of hopefulness, comes through my headphones. “That should be plenty of time for you to interview him, get through edits, and still be able to enjoy a little summer fun at the lake.”

“Here’s hoping,” I reply as I make my way through the small Montana airport.

“You don’t need hope. You’ve got this.”

I can almost see her, sitting at her desk, covered in books and coffee mugs, pumping her fist into the air.

Fueled by too much caffeine and a competitive spirit.

She’s the single hardest working person I know and on top of it, somehow a constant ray of sunshine.

We’re a lot alike, actually. Only my optimism is on a temporary hiatus.

She’s one of the best agents in the business with more than fifteen years of experience in publishing.

It’s not a world for the faint of heart.

I’ve questioned if I’m cut out for it more times than I can count.

Including every second since I got on a plane in Arizona to fly thousands of miles to learn hockey and rewrite my book.

If it weren’t for Molly’s belief in me and the lure of hiding away to lick my wounds, I’d still be curled up on the couch in my apartment binge-watching another reality dating show. Instead, I’m in Montana, weaving through men in cowboy hats to find baggage claim.

“Ruby?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m here. I will get it done.”

“That’s the spirit! Did you look at the videos I sent you? He’s cuuuuute.”

It probably says something that my immediate reaction to a guy being cute is to wrinkle my nose. I’m having a hot girl summer, and a cute guy isn’t getting in the way of that.

“No, not yet. It’s on my to-do list.”

Fly to Moonshot ?

Meet Mike at the cabin I’m renting for the summer

Research the hockey expert I’ll be interviewing

Interview said hockey expert to learn sports puck stuff

Spend a week editing the hell out of my manuscript

Come up with new, fabulous book idea

Sell fabulous book idea

Easy peasy, lemon squeezy or whatever. I’ve got this.

“I better go,” I say as I swivel around, realizing I’ve walked the wrong way.

“You have Mike’s number?”

“Yes,” I confirm with more sureness than before. I’m hesitant about my ability to finish this book, but I distinctly remember putting Mike’s contact information in my phone. Plus, the dozens of emails Molly has sent over, confirming and reconfirming all the details.

Six weeks in Moonshot, an adorable lake town in Western Montana, working with a local expert to edit the book that will hopefully reignite my flailing career.

At worst, I’m going to spend my summer reading with a killer view.

But I don’t say that to Molly. She’d fly out here to hold my hand and that would be beyond pathetic.

I’m a grown-ass woman and I need to pull my shit together.

Just…not quite yet. I need to figure out how to write again first while editing a book I never thought would see the light of day.

I really must be desperate. And is hockey really all that different from baseball anyway?

I mean, I know they’re different. One has a bat, the other a stick.

Hmm…now that I think about it, aren’t those sort of the same thing?

I’ll add that to my list of questions to ask my hockey guru.

“Great!” Molly’s unending enthusiasm keeps me going. “I hope the cabin is as great of a find as it looked in the pictures.”

That makes two of us.

“I just know it’s going to inspire so many great, romantic stories. Who knows, you might get your next book idea while you’re there.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I say because dammit I can do this.

My steely resolve won’t let me throw in the towel, only toss it into the corner and let it collect dust. And isn’t that almost worse?

If I were the type of person who could walk away and get a different job, then I already would have done it.

I love putting words down, creating characters, and weaving stories.

I know that I can do this, but that fact doesn’t make it any easier to do the damn thing.

“Text me when you get there and send me the new first chapter at the end of the week.”

“Will do,” I say as my stomach dips. One chapter. Totally doable.

Probably.

Maybe.

Fingers crossed.

After saying goodbye and ending the call, I let out a long breath.

“As if the first chapter isn’t the most important,” I mutter quietly.

I try really hard not to go all tortured artist, locking myself away and existing on coffee and angst, but the first chapter is so important.

I usually save it for last. After I’ve written ‘The End’ I go back and rework it ad nauseam.

The idea of sending it to Molly and the publisher without knowing the new ending of the book is incomprehensible.

Unless I can somehow figure out how to work a grand slam victory kiss into the grand gesture of my hockey book.

It needs charm and excitement. Sparkle. Three things I’ve felt very little of lately.

My steps slow as I approach a bookstore. Like all airport bookstores, it has a table display in the very front with bestselling authors and popular books stacked artfully and strategically to drive people inside.

It’s an occupational hazard, noticing books everywhere I go. I love seeing what people are picking up on shelves or flipping through while they wait for their flight. The first time I saw someone reading one of mine, I hid like I’d been caught doing something terrible. It was so surreal.

I smile, pride zipping through me, when I see my friend Lily’s newest release stacked up on the far-left side of the table. I snap a picture and text it to her. Seeing friends’ books in the wild is way better than seeing your own somehow. Less debilitating imposter syndrome perhaps.

Before I’ve repocketed my phone, my gaze lands on another book.

One I’m far less happy to see. The familiar white cover with red foil details is impossible to miss, unfortunately.

Since the first edition of the book sold out, the second edition has the words, “An instant NYT Bestseller!” proudly stamped across the top, along with splashy praise from well-respected media.

Adjectives like "refreshing" and "genius.”

My stomach sinks and my cheeks warm with embarrassment or possibly rage. Yes, definitely the latter.

I turn on my heel, like fleeing as fast as possible will erase that book and that author from my mind. Unlikely.

In my haste, I nearly collide with a man walking in the opposite direction.

I screech and somehow manage to run over my own foot with my roller bag while he gracefully dodges me, sidestepping to the left as his brows rise in a confused, startled way.

Whether at my ear-piercing vocal range or the frazzled, clumsy reaction, I’m not sure.

I’m not known for my grace. Okay, fine, that is a gross understatement.

I’m easily the klutziest person that I know.

And the klutziest person that most anyone who knows me knows.

My sister Olivia blamed it on me being top-heavy once.

She was going through her preteen mean girl phase and was pissed that I got boobs before she did.

Regardless of intent, her words, stuck with me.

I often wonder if I would be less accident prone if I had smaller breasts or perhaps a bigger butt to even things out.

“Sorry,” I wheeze out as I lift my gaze to his face.

He’s taller than average, easily over six feet tall.

His hair is tussled, possibly from travel, although he has that look about him that suggests he’s always a little bit unkept.

It’s working for him. From the dark, wavy locks to the scruff on his face paired with black athletic pants and a gray T-shirt that hugs his broad chest and muscular arms. There’s something about his clothes or the way he stands that refuses to be categorized as disheveled.

It’s so annoying how men can roll out of bed and put on whatever clothes they find lying around and still look this hot.

I’m still staring at him when the backpack slung over my left shoulder slides off and throws me off-balance again. The heavy weight of it hits the ground next to me with a thunk , thankfully not on either of our feet. I packed way too much.

I flash an apologetic smile that I hope comes off cool and collected despite all other evidence. My hot girl summer is getting off to a shaky start.

Green eyes lock onto me. His lips are pressed in a distinctly annoyed line, but he lingers like his manners won’t let him walk off before assuring that I’m not a danger to myself. Fair, I suppose.

Slowly, he leans down and picks up my bag. His brows arch, possibly in surprise or judgment as he realizes how heavy it is.

“I promise it’s not a dead body,” I say with a nervous chuckle. “I mean, not that an entire body would fit.”

The way he stares at me is so impassive, like I could literally tell him anything and it wouldn’t faze him. It must be for that reason that I keep babbling.

“I guess it could be just the head, but I’m too squeamish for dismembering bodies, let alone transporting them through an airport. I’m more of a ‘plot your demise but never act on it’ kind of girl.”

Hmmm. There’s an idea.

“A woman flees thousands of miles from home with a head in her backpack,” I say like I’m pitching the story concept.

If this man were in charge of judging my idea, his face just told me “that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”