Page 20 of Penalty Shot

She leans over to touch Lily’s arm, probably to say where she’s heading. A wordless, telepathic message passes between the two of them before Elise tugs my wrist and pulls me deeper into the bar.

We slalom between people to navigate the crowd. Our hands are linked, but that doesn’t stop every guy we pass from giving her a glance. They’re checking out the hint of cleavage at the V of her dress and the absolute certainty that she isn’t wearing a bra. She should not have removed my jersey. Speaking of which, where is it?

Past the bathrooms, Elise pushes out the door of a back exit. It leads to a patio that will probably be open for business next weekend now that the weather is nice. Tonight, the chairs are stacked and we’re alone.

My restraint falls away the second the noise from the crowded bar is muffled by the shut door. I pull her to me and press my erection against her stomach. My hands massage up her back. She sighs like I unloaded a burden she’d been carrying all day.

We kiss the way I’d been wanting to for days, ever since I left her at that theater and realized I couldn’t even wait to remove my jacket before we had sex. My need is so strong, it’s insatiable. The only source of satisfaction is more of Elise, but more of her is exactly what makes me hungry.

These are all complicated thoughts that shut down once she sweeps her tongue in my mouth and grips my hair so hard it’s nearly painful. But as with everything with Elise, even the sting feels good.

When we come up for air, we’re both breathing hard. I walk us to a darker corner of the patio and cradle her smooth back with one arm, while my hand roams up her sides and cups a tender breast.

“Jesus, Elise, you gotta warn me when you wear a dress like this.”

“Why?”

“It drives me fucking crazy how beautiful you are. I can’t decide if I want to stare at you all night or cover you up so no one else sees you like this.”

“There’s a third option, you know,” she says teasingly.

“You mean the one where I rip it off so I can fuck you? I was too classy to mention that one.”

Her laughter tinkles in the night air. “You were amazing at the game. I don’t know much about hockey, but I know you made the difference. You won it for the team.”

“You in my jersey must be a lucky charm.”

“You don’t need any luck, Randall Haughland. You’re incredible all on your own.”

Something gets stuck in my throat at her words and the way she’s looking at me like I’m the best hockey player in the world. Here’s the thing: I’m not.

Fans watch and analyze the superstars. Commentators pay attention to the supporting cast. Coaches place their units according to need and talent. But between players, we assess each other against each other.

It isn’t some misplaced humility for me to say that the top players of the Mavericks are better in their role than I am in mine. And our goalie? Jeremy Lopez is bound to win the Vezina Trophy one day for the best goalie in the league. I’m replaceable. He’s not.

I’m probably the least important person on the team aside from the kid they pulled up from the minors because Simon,one of our veteran right wingers, is still recovering from knee surgery. Even the goon on the fourth line is more critical than I am. He only plays ten of a sixty-minute game, but when I’m not on net, that’s ten more minutes than me.

My point is, this girl who knows nothing about hockey is making me want to be better at it. To deserve a little of that adoration she’s handing out like candy on Halloween.

“Can I keep your jersey?” she asks hopefully. “As a memento of the game?”

“You’ll need the jersey. I expect you to wear it to every game from now on.”

Her mouth opens and nothing comes out. Then she does the last thing I expect. Elise wiggles out of my arms and steps back. I feel the night air swirl between us, colder than it was five minutes ago.

“C’mere, you’ll freeze.” Or I’ll freeze, because an icy tingle makes the hair on my forearms stand.

“I’m good. I brought you out here because I have to tell you something.”

“Sure,” I say casually, although there’s a tapering of her voice, a hesitation that I’ve never heard before.

“My play, I mean, a play I wrote—”

“You wrote a play?”

“Yeah; anyway, it was picked up by a local theater company. To be part of their summer program.”

“Congratulations!” I exclaim proudly. I reach out and hug her, which she allows before pulling away again.