Page 5 of Bombshells
“Yeah. I don’t know your name. But I found this on the ice.” I hold it out, and her eyes widen again.
“O-oh,” she stammers. “I didn’t…” She catches herself. “Never mind. thank you. I hope you didn’t trip on it.”
“Nah. No worries.”
She reaches out and takes the pin from me, brushing my palm with her fingertips. And just that small contact ripples through me like an electrical current. “Welcome to Brooklyn,” I hear myself say in a husky voice. “Was today your first practice?” That would explain the number of journalists.
“Yes,” she says with a quick smile that I feel right in the center of my chest. “Was it that obvious?”
“What? No.” I laugh. “I didn’t see any of it.”
Behind me, an assistant coach blows the whistle, calling for the first drills.
“But I’m about to have my own practice now,” I add.
“Well, good luck to you, then. I hope it goes better than mine.”
“Thank you.” Still, I linger a moment longer, staring into those soft brown eyes. “You have a nice day,” I say stupidly. Then I force myself to turn and skate away.
I didn’t even get her name.
Two
Like the Caribbean Sea
SYLVIE
It isn’t until he skates away that I remember to breathe. Everything about my encounter with the big, blond hockey player was strange.
In the first place, I didn’t know a man’s eyes could be that brilliant shade of turquoise-blue. I missed the first thing he said to me, because I was wondering how that color was possible.
And then there’s the hairpin. I don’t wear them, but my mother did. We had the same thick hair, which she wore in pretty up-dos, while I’m more of a ponytail girl.
My mother died a year ago, but since then, I’ve been finding hairpins everywhere. She leaves them for me to discover.
Yes, that sounds crazy, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Reality worked a little differently for my mother than it does for other people. She was a deeply spiritual, mystical person. She was dedicated to prayer, joy, and inner knowledge. And her intuition went well past the normal range and right into, well, freaky.
I’m convinced that her spirit was just stronger than everyone else’s. She was a cosmic force. And even though she’s left this earth, she’s still sending me frequent signs. Like a silver hairpin on the bathroom sink at home, where nobody has been but me. And a copper one in the pocket of the dress I wore to her funeral. There was even a hairpin with a tiny jewel on it that appeared on the windowsill one night when I was washing the dishes. I set down the sponge, and it was just there.
So the appearance of a hairpin just now at this rink, where I never expected to be, is just more proof of her divine powers. And her nosiness, too. Maman is trying to tell me that she’s still beside me, even though I’ve suddenly relocated five hundred miles from our home in Ontario.
Brooklyn was never part of my travel plans. Fifteen months ago I graduated from college. I had hoped to make the Canadian women’s team, but they already had a full bench of excellent goalies, and none of the women’s pro teams had knocked on my door.
There were only five teams in the league—that made for ten professional women goalies on a continent of millions.
Then, three months after graduation, my mother died, and I stopped thinking about hockey. Or anything, really. Mourning will do that to a girl.
So I was floored earlier this month when the phone had rung and someone had said, “Hi, Sylvie Hansen? This is Bess Beringer. I’m a sports agent, but I’m also in charge of recruitment for the Brooklyn Bombshells. I know this is last minute. But how do you feel about guarding the net for Brooklyn?”
For a moment, I’d honestly thought I was being pranked.
But Bess had been dead serious. “The season begins in ten days. I realize you probably weren’t planning to change your life today. But if it’s possible, we’d love to have you.”
“Would I be trying out?” I’d asked, still a little unsure that the conversation was real.
“I have tape from your final playoff game. And I just got off the phone with Sasha Marshall. We hired her, too. And she wants you in front of the net.”
“Sasha Marshall,” I’d whispered. Hearing my college coach’s name had made it real.
