Page 37 of Bombshells
But Eric only throws back his head and laughs. “Sure, man. You do that. I’ll watch.”
Silas and I exchange a puzzled glance. Our questions are valid, though. We have years of practice playing together on a team, where the women only have six weeks. We have fifty pounds of muscle on them, too.
“The rules are going to have to change, though, right?” Silas presses. “There’s no hitting in women’s hockey.”
“Yeah, sure,” Eric says. “There’s no hitting in this game. There are a few more rule changes, though. I can’t tell you anymore.”
“Because Bess would remove your testicles?” Silas guesses.
“Sure. But also because this is going to be very entertaining.” Then he laughs.
That’s when I feel my first prickle of worry.
* * *
An hour later, my baffled teammates and I are assembled in all our gear, except for our skates. We’ve been summoned to the men’s weight room, where all the equipment has been moved aside to accommodate a meeting between both teams.
The Bombshells are also suited up and ready to play. And according to the clock on the wall, the puck drops in less than twenty minutes.
Bess climbs up on a weight bench to address the whole crew. “Okay, sports fans! The Battle of the Sexes starts in just ten minutes.”
“I thought we were just playing hockey,” Drake whines.
“There are several rule changes you need to know about. First of all, you can’t make any body checks. Absolutely no hits. And the ref will give you a five-minute penalty if you break this rule.”
“Got it. No hits,” Trevi says. “Wouldn’t want to hit a woman, anyway.”
“That’s what you think,” Castro breaks in. “But what if she steals your action figures and decapitates them?”
Fifty people turn and give him a weird look.
“What? I have two sisters.”
Bess goes on, ignoring him. “There are a few more rule changes you need to know about. We’ll play six games of ten minutes each. No shift changes during the game, but a full shift change for each new game, including goalies.”
I can’t help it. I glance over to the women’s side and spot Sylvie. She’s smiling ear to ear, her cheeks glowing. And I feel the same damn pull I always feel when I look at her.
It’s safe to say that we’ve become good friends. We run together all the time. We’re strangely well-paced for running together. It’s almost eerie. And I’ve never had so much fun sweating for ten miles, as Sylvie tells me about her childhood in Montreal, and I tell her all the dumb things that have happened while I’m traveling with the team.
Not all the dumb things. I tell her about missing the jet and how much teasing I took for that. But I don’t tell her about that stupid photo of me in bed with those women. That’s just too embarrassing, and I want Sylvie to think highly of me.
Yup. My crush rages on.
But my attention is snared by Bess, who’s now holding a remote control in her hand. “In a moment I’m going to show you a live view of the rink. You’ll notice several things—the first one being the thousands of fans on hand to watch. We’re raising almost a hundred thousand dollars for Brooklyn youth sports today. Also? Take a look at the ice, kids. It looks a little different.”
“Uh-oh,” Trevi grumbles.
“The moment I show you the ice, the fifteen-minute countdown to play begins. There will be no on-ice warmup. But you can consult with the members of your coaching and training staff to strategize. Since the Bruisers have more men on staff than the Bombshells have, we’re lending Heidi Jo to the women.”
“Oh shit,” whisper half the men around me, because Heidi is an ace at all kinds of games.
“And you won’t be using your regular sticks,” Bess says.
“Wait, what?” Castro bleats. “Not my lucky stick?”
“You’ll be fine, honeybunch,” Bess says cheerfully. “Now take a look at this.” She pushes a button, and the screen resolves to show our practice rink, where all the new seats are taken up by fans. It’s a sea of purple out there.
But spread all around the familiar ice are eight big purple… things.
