Page 4 of From Fling to Ring

Thank fucking God.

“Ty, when was the last time you dated a woman for longer than a month or two?” Rake whispers.

“Oh my God, I’ve dated several women for longer than that.”

I run the names of the women I’ve dated over the last couple years through my mind like a grocery list. A long one.

He may have a point.

“I don’t see what the big deal is.”

Rake lowers his voice further since the crowd is quieting. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just that you can’t date anyone longer than a few weeks. It’s your fatal flaw.” He looks away, like the discussion is over.

“That’s BS,” I say.

Jonas raises his eyebrows at me. “Shall we make a bet then? A bet that you can’t date a woman for ninety days?”

God, he knows how to get my goat. That’s what happens when you’re friends with someone for years.

I roll my eyes. “Not necessary. I can date a woman for that long, no problem.”

He shrugs, a challenging gleam in his eye. “Okay. Yeah sure. Whatever you say, Ty.”

The team owner starts his speech, welcoming everyone and expressing his certainty about the strong season ahead of us. That familiar rush, that anything is possible on the ice, comes flooding back to me and I feel a fire surge through my veins.

I’m excited for the season. I’m ready.

I want to get on that fucking ice.

Even though the guys’ comment hit me like some kind of slapshot to the chest.

2

LUCY

I am feeling good. Yes I am.

I don’t know about all the other women out there, but a new haircut makes me feel like I’ve won the lottery of life. Like nothing can stop me, any and all opportunities are mine for the taking, and that I’m going to be a huge success someday, doing something.

Not sure what, but I can tackle that on my next haircut.

I touch the fresh ends of my newly-dyed ‘choppy bob’ as my hair dresser called it, rejoicing in the unspoiled tips of my hair that will, if I know myself, end up rough and ragged and split before I pony up the bucks for my next hair appointment.

Looking good ain’t cheap.

But today, I’m going to kick some serious ass.

I bust through the doors of San Francisco Freekly, the city’s free weekly paper that’s considered the insider’s bible to all city happenings, and clomp across the old wooden floor to my desk. I nod at the writer who sits across from me, Sarge, and as I settle in, I’m not even bothered by the blob of pigeon poop resting on my desk next to my wireless mouse. We’re in an old San Francisco building, allegedly a former salami factory, and birds occasionally make their way in through a hole on the roof to help themselves to a warm, dry night at our expense.

Nope, not gonna bother me. Not today, Satan.

I flip open my laptop and an instant message greeting flashes, catching my attention.

>

Those are words that strike fear in the hearts of most anyone with a job and a boss they have to answer to. I know this because every friend of mine who does, dreads the boss IM ‘inviting them’ to come to their office.

You know it’s not an invitation. It never is. You will show up, and right away. Or else.

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