Page 80 of All Your Pucking Secrets

He rolls his eyes.

When we reach the top, the elevator opens onto a luxuriously appointed viewing room positioned above the rows of seats circling the stadium. The wall facing the stadium is entirely made of glass, providing a great view of the action on the field.

A bar is set into the other wall, and a bartender stands quietly behind it, ready to leap into action if we have any requests.

“Over here.” I gesture to our seats, which are black leather, comfortably padded, and adjacent to a round table upon which sits a platter of delicate hors d'oeuvres.

Ryan whistles. “This is insane.” He stands in front of the glass wall and peers out. “Wow. I thought it would be hard to see from here, but it’s not.”

I lower myself onto one of the seats. “Because we don’t have to fight to watch over everyone else’s heads.”

“But that’s part of the experience,” he protests.

“Heathen,” I tease.

“Trust fund baby,” he shoots back.

“Speaking of,” I say. “Order whatever you like from the bar. I’ll pick up the tab at the end.”

He grins for a moment, but then it fades. “Are you sure? I don’t mind paying for a drink or two.”

I suspect he’ll think differently once he sees the price tags.

“Just do it,” I tell him.

The grin returns. “If you insist.”

The strangest warm sensation fills my chest. Is this how it feels to do something nice for someone who doesn’t expect it? Damn. Perhaps I should have been a better person sooner.

We chat idly until the game begins. At that point, any chill Ryan had goes out the window. He shouts, waves his arms, and lectures the players as if they can hear him. I chuckle to myself as he goes off on the ref, attracting more than a few sideward glances.

I yell once or twice, just so he doesn’t feel out of place. Football isn’t really my thing, but I can appreciate the athleticism of it. An athlete is an athlete, whatever they play.

At half time, I get a beer for Ryan and a Coke for myself and start picking at some kind of vegetable curry wrapped in leaves that’s been placed in front of us in bite-sized portions.

“What is that?” Ryan asks, his nose wrinkling.

I shrug. “I dunno, but it tastes okay.”

He lifts a piece to his face, sniffs, and sets it down again. “I think I’ll stick with things I can identify.”

The elevator opens and a pair of middle-aged men enter. One of them is going on about draft picks. They pass behind us and move on.

Ryan turns to me. “Do you plan to enter the NHL draft?”

“Yeah.” Hockey is the only thing I know how to do. It’s the most straightforward option for me. “What about you? You’re aiming for the majors?”

He nods and drinks from his glass of beer. “I am. I have a couple of prospects, but if they don’t pan out, I’m confident I’ll at least be able to hit the minors and work my way up from there.”

“True.” I suppose he has that option in the same way I could enter the AHL. I have no intention of doing so though. I may not be the NHL’s number one draft pick, but I’ll be surprised if I’m not in the top ten.

My hatred of Dad fueled me the past few years, turning me into a machine on the ice—as did my desire to set up the best possible life I could for Echo. It was always clear to me that my best chance to be with her was to enter into an NHL contract with a large enough salary that I could afford to protect my family from Dad.

Not that he’s an issue anymore.

Perhaps I should feel bad about his death, but the miserable bastard got what he deserved. My occasional pangs of guilt are misplaced, and I do my best to ignore them.

“So…” Ryan says as the silence drags on between us. “What will you do if you and Echo get back together and then you’re drafted somewhere hundreds of miles away?”

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